The Same Boiling Water Quotes

It slowly began to dawn on me that I had been staring at her for an impossible amount of time. Lost in my thoughts, lost in the sight of her. But her face didn't look offended or amused. It almost looked as if she were studying the lines of my face, almost as if she were waiting. I wanted to take her hand. I wanted to brush her cheek with my fingertips. I wanted to tell her that she was the first beautiful thing that I had seen in three years. The sight of her yawning to the back of her hand was enough to drive the breath from me. How I sometimes lost the sense of her words in the sweet fluting of her voice. I wanted to say that if she were with me then somehow nothing could ever be wrong for me again. In that breathless second I almost asked her. I felt the question boiling up from my chest. I remember drawing a breath then hesitating--what could I say? Come away with me? Stay with me? Come to the University? No. Sudden certainty tightened in my chest like a cold fist. What could I ask her? What could I offer? Nothing. Anything I said would sound foolish, a child's fantasy. I closed my mouth and looked across the water. Inches away, Denna did the same. I could feel the heat of her. She smelled like road dust, and honey, and the smell the air holds seconds before a heavy summer rain. Neither of us spoke. I closed my eyes. The closeness of her was the sweetest, sharpest thing I had ever known.

In metric, one milliliter of water occupies one cubic centimeter, weighs one gram, and requires one calorie of energy to heat up by one degree centigrade—which is 1 percent of the difference between its freezing point and its boiling point. An amount of hydrogen weighing the same amount has exactly one mole of atoms in it. Whereas in the American system, the answer to ‘How much energy does it take to boil a room-temperature gallon of water?’ is ‘Go fuck yourself,’ because you can’t directly relate any of those quantities.

...and maybe because of the boiling April sun, he thought about water and ice. Water and ice were made of the same thing. He thought most people were made of the same thing, too. He himself was probably a little different from the corrupt people around him. Ice was distinct from - and in his view, better than - what it was made of. He wanted to be better than what he was made of. In Mumbai's dirty water, he wanted to be ice. He wanted to have ideals.

While the melodrama of hucking crates of tea into Boston Harbor continues to inspire civic-minded hotheads to this day, it’s worth remembering the hordes of stoic colonial women who simply swore off tea and steeped basil leaves in boiling water to make the same point. What’s more valiant: littering from a wharf or years of doing chores and looking after children from dawn to dark without caffeine?

There’s an inherent limit to the stress that any material can bear. Water has its boiling point, metals their melting points. The elements of the spirit behave the same way. Happiness can reach a pitch so great that any further happiness can’t be felt. Pain, despair, humiliation, disgust, and fear are no different. Once the vessel is full, the world can’t add to it.

It is a well-known established fact throughout the many-dimensional worlds of the multiverse that most really great discoveries are owed to one brief moment of inspiration. There's a lot of spadework first, of course, but what clinches the whole thing is the sight of, say, a falling apple or a boiling kettle or the water slipping over the edge of the bath. Something goes click inside the observer's head and then everything falls into place. The shape of DNA, it is popularly said, owes its discovery to the chance sight of a spiral staircase when the scientist‘s mind was just at the right receptive temperature. Had he used the elevator, the whole science of genetics might have been a good deal different. This is thought of as somehow wonderful. It isn't. It is tragic. Little particles of inspiration sleet through the universe all the time traveling through the densest matter in the same way that a neutrino passes through a candyfloss haystack, and most of them miss. Even worse, most of the ones that hit the exact cerebral target, hit the wrong one. For example, the weird dream about a lead doughnut on a mile-high gantry, which in the right mind would have been the catalyst for the invention of repressed-gravitational electricity generation (a cheap and inexhaustible and totally non-polluting form of power which the world in question had been seeking for centuries, and for the lack of which it was plunged into a terrible and pointless war) was in fact had by a small and bewildered duck. By another stroke of bad luck, the sight of a herd of wild horses galloping through a field of wild hyacinths would have led a struggling composer to write the famous Flying God Suite, bringing succor and balm to the souls of millions, had he not been at home in bed with shingles. The inspiration thereby fell to a nearby frog, who was not in much of a position to make a startling contributing to the field of tone poetry. Many civilizations have recognized this shocking waste and tried various methods to prevent it, most of them involving enjoyable but illegal attempts to tune the mind into the right wavelength by the use of exotic herbage or yeast products. It never works properly.

The same boiling water that softens the potato hardens the egg. It's about what you're made of, not the circumstances.

They had chains which they fastened about the leg of the nearest hog, and the other end of the chain they hooked into one of the rings upon the wheel. So, as the wheel turned, a hog was suddenly jerked off his feet and borne aloft. At the same instant the ear was assailed by a most terrifying shriek; the visitors started in alarm, the women turned pale and shrank back. The shriek was followed by another, louder and yet more agonizing--for once started upon that journey, the hog never came back; at the top of the wheel he was shunted off upon a trolley and went sailing down the room. And meantime another was swung up, and then another, and another, until there was a double line of them, each dangling by a foot and kicking in frenzy--and squealing. The uproar was appalling, perilous to the ear-drums; one feared there was too much sound for the room to hold--that the walls must give way or the ceiling crack. There were high squeals and low squeals, grunts, and wails of agony; there would come a momentary lull, and then a fresh outburst, louder than ever, surging up to a deafening climax. It was too much for some of the visitors--the men would look at each other, laughing nervously, and the women would stand with hands clenched, and the blood rushing to their faces, and the tears starting in their eyes. Meantime, heedless of all these things, the men upon the floor were going about their work. Neither squeals of hogs nor tears of visitors made any difference to them; one by one they hooked up the hogs, and one by one with a swift stroke they slit their throats. There was a long line of hogs, with squeals and life-blood ebbing away together; until at last each started again, and vanished with a splash into a huge vat of boiling water. It was all so very businesslike that one watched it fascinated. It was pork-making by machinery, pork-making by applied mathematics. And yet somehow the most matter-of-fact person could not help thinking of the hogs; they were so innocent, they came so very trustingly; and they were so very human in their protests--and so perfectly within their rights! They had done nothing to deserve it; and it was adding insult to injury, as the thing was done here, swinging them up in this cold-blooded, impersonal way, without a pretence at apology, without the homage of a tear. Now and then a visitor wept, to be sure; but this slaughtering-machine ran on, visitors or no visitors. It was like some horrible crime committed in a dungeon, all unseen and unheeded, buried out of sight and of memory.

To summarize, the morning ritual is as follows: (1) wake up at the same time, (2) don’t check your phone, (3) boil some water and squeeze a quarter of a lemon into it, (4) meditate for five minutes, (5) read a positive affirmation that you’ve written on a Post-it note and repeat a few times throughout the day. Spending ten to fifteen minutes in the morning sets you up for an entirely different way of being and prevents cravings later in the day. Do the same thing every day for thirty to forty days to make this process automatic.

Then again, peasants and princesses all shit the same and have their courses the same, so I suppose it’s no surprise that babies all come out the same way, too. Having thus accidentally anticipated a few centuries’ worth of revolutionary political thought, Marra got down to the business of boiling water and making tea.

Our living quarters were in the same compound as the Eastern District administration. Government offices were mostly housed in large mansions which had been confiscated from Kuomintang officials and wealthy landlords. All government employees, even senior officials, lived at their office. They were not allowed to cook at home, and all ate in canteens. The canteen was also where everyone got their boiled water, which was fetched in thermos flasks. Saturday was the only day married couples were allowed to spend together. Among officials, the euphemism for making love was 'spending a Saturday." Gradually, this regimented life-style relaxed a bit and married couples were able to spend more time together, but almost all still lived and spent most of their time in their office compounds. My mother's department ran a very broad field of activities, including primary education, health, entertainment, and sounding out public opinion. At the age of twenty-two, my mother was in charge of all these activities for about a quarter of a million people. She was so busy we hardly ever saw her. The government wanted to establish a monopoly (known as 'unified purchasing and marketing') over trade in the basic commodities grain, cotton, edible o'fi, and meat. The idea was to get the peasants to sell these exclusively to the government, which would then ration them out to the urban population and to parts of the country where they were in short supply.

Before water generates steam, it must register two hundred and twelve degrees of heat. Two hundred degrees will not do it; two hundred and ten will not do it. The water must boil before it will generate enough steam to move an engine, to run a train. Lukewarm water will not run anything. A great many people are trying to move their life trains with lukewarm water—or water that is almost boiling—and they are wondering why they are stalled, why they cannot get ahead. They are trying to run a boiler with two hundred or two hundred and ten degrees of heat, and they cannot understand why they do not get anywhere.” Lukewarmness in his work stands in the same relation to man’s achievement as lukewarm water does to the locomotive boiler. No man can hope to accomplish anything great in this world until he throws his whole soul, flings his force to his whole life, into it.

What this says on a spiritual level is that we can never really know what direction life will take, what changes those small butterfly-flutters of intention and action might cause in our destiny. And at the same time, it also tells us that we can never truly know the mind of God. We can never fully understand the how, where, and when of anything, even something as simple as boiling water. We have to surrender to uncertainty, while appreciating its intricate beauty.

Under their feet was the ice, which was white also, and under that the river water, with its eddies and undertows, dark but unseen. This was how I pictured that time, the time before Laura and I were born – so blank, so innocent, so solid to all appearances, but thin ice all the same. Beneath the surfaces of things was the unsaid, boiling slowly.

Conspiracy theories proliferated: it was a religious thing, it was God's Gardeners, it was a plot to gain world control. Boil-water and don't-travel advisories were issued in the first week, handshaking was discouraged. In the same week there was a run on latex gloves and nose-cone filters. About as effective, Jimmy thought, as oranges stuck with cloves during the Black Death.

We are experiencing a cultural collapse. The very same collapse that was experienced by the Plains Indians when their way of life was destroyed and they were herded onto reservations. The very same collapse that was experiences by aboriginal people overrun by us in Africa, everywhere. For all of us, in just a few decades, shocking realities invalidated our vision of the world and made nonsense of a destiny that had always seemed self evident. The outcome: things fall apart. Order and purpose are replaced by chaos and bewilderment. People lose the will to live, become listless, violent, suicidal, addicted. The frog smiled for ten thousand years, as the water got hotter and hotter and hotter, but eventually when the water began to boil , the frog was dead.

Slight and ridiculous as the incident was, it made him appear such a little fiend, and withal such a keen and knowing one, that the old woman felt too much afraid of him to utter a single word, and suffered herself to be led with extraordinary politeness to the breakfast-table. Here he by no means diminished the impression he had just produced, for he ate hard eggs, shell and all, devoured gigantic prawns with the heads and tails on, chewed tobacco and water-cresses at the same time and with extraordinary greediness, drank boiling tea without winking, bit his fork and spoon till they bent again, and in short performed so many horrifying and uncommon acts that the women were nearly frightened out of their wits, and began to doubt if he were really a human creature.

when i left them, i painted myself burgundy and grey i stopped saying the words “please” and “i’m sorry” i walked into grocery stores and bought too many clementines, ordered too much Chinese, spent my last four dollars on over the counter sleeping pills that made my stomach bleed but my soul forget every time i wanted to tell you “i’m sorry”, i wrote you a poem instead, i said things like “i hope your mother calls you beautiful” to strangers and when boys with dry hands and broken eyes asked me on dates i didn’t hesitate no, didn’t even stop them when their hands grazed my breasts and when they moaned my name against my thighs i cried i opened the mail and didn’t tell anyone for a week that i got accepted into law school, i stopped watering the plants and filled the bathtub with roses and milk, when i got invited to parties, i wore blue jeans with white shirts, sat alone in some kitchen drinking hard liquor until some boys mouth made me feel like home i stopped answering the phone for a month, i didn’t like how my name tasted in his mouth but he was older and didn’t say things like “it doesn’t matter” and i think i went insane, my heart boiled blisters, i couldn’t understand why my bones felt like cages, i walked around art museums until closing, watched them lock up the gates and then open them up again the very same morning, i thought about clocks and how time was a deception of my fingertips, i had stars growing inside of me into constellations, and only when some man on the 9 AM bus asked me for the time did i realize that you cannot run from light igniting your lungs, you cannot run from yourself.

They [mountains] are portions of the heart of the earth that have escaped from the dungeon down below, and rushed up and out. For the heart of the earth is a great wallowing mass, not of blood, as in the hearts of men and animals, but of glowing hot melted metals and stones. And as our hearts keep us alive, so that great lump of heat keeps the earth alive: it is a huge power of buried sunlight—that is what it is. Now think: out of that caldron, where all the bubbles would be as big as the Alps if it could get room for its boiling, certain bubbles have bubbled out and escaped—up and away, and there they stand in the cool, cold sky—mountains. Think of the change, and you will no more wonder that there should be something awful about the very look of a mountain: from the darkness—for where the light has nothing to shine upon, it is much the same as darkness—from the heat, from the endless tumult of boiling unrest—up, with a sudden heavenward shoot, into the wind, and the cold, and the starshine, and a cloak of snow that lies like ermine above the blue-green mail of the glaciers; and the great sun, their grandfather, up there in the sky; and their little old cold aunt, the moon, that comes wandering about the house at night; and everlasting stillness, except for the wind that turns the rocks and caverns into a roaring organ for the young archangels that are studying how to let out the pent-up praises of their hearts, and the molten music of the streams, rushing ever from the bosoms of the glaciers fresh-born. Think too of the change in their own substance—no longer molten and soft, heaving and glowing, but hard and shining and cold. Think of the creatures scampering over and burrowing in it, and the birds building their nests upon it, and the trees growing out of its sides, like hair to clothe it, and the lovely grass in the valleys, and the gracious flowers even at the very edge of its armour of ice, like the rich embroidery of the garment below, and the rivers galloping down the valleys in a tumult of white and green! And along with all these, think of the terrible precipices down which the traveller may fall and be lost, and the frightful gulfs of blue air cracked in the glaciers, and the dark profound lakes, covered like little arctic oceans with floating lumps of ice. All this outside the mountain! But the inside, who shall tell what lies there? Caverns of awfullest solitude, their walls miles thick, sparkling with ores of gold or silver, copper or iron, tin or mercury, studded perhaps with precious stones—perhaps a brook, with eyeless fish in it, running, running ceaseless, cold and babbling, through banks crusted with carbuncles and golden topazes, or over a gravel of which some of the stones are rubies and emeralds, perhaps diamonds and sapphires—who can tell?—and whoever can't tell is free to think—all waiting to flash, waiting for millions of ages—ever since the earth flew off from the sun, a great blot of fire, and began to cool. Then there are caverns full of water, numbing cold, fiercely hot—hotter than any boiling water. From some of these the water cannot get out, and from others it runs in channels as the blood in the body: little veins bring it down from the ice above into the great caverns of the mountain's heart, whence the arteries let it out again, gushing in pipes and clefts and ducts of all shapes and kinds, through and through its bulk, until it springs newborn to the light, and rushes down the mountain side in torrents, and down the valleys in rivers—down, down, rejoicing, to the mighty lungs of the world, that is the sea, where it is tossed in storms and cyclones, heaved up in billows, twisted in waterspouts, dashed to mist upon rocks, beaten by millions of tails, and breathed by millions of gills, whence at last, melted into vapour by the sun, it is lifted up pure into the air, and borne by the servant winds back to the mountain tops and the snow, the solid ice, and the molten stream.

There’s one major shortcoming inherent to using this method of cooling. Unlike in a typical PWR, the water entering the reactor is the same water that passes through the cooling pumps and then as steam through the turbines, meaning highly irradiated water is present in all areas of the system. A PWR uses a heat exchanger to pass heat from the reactor water to clean, lower pressure water, allowing the turbines to remain free of contamination. This is better for safety, maintenance and disposal. A second problem is that steam is allowed to form in the core, making dangerous steam voids more likely, and further increasing the chances of a positive void coefficient. In ordinary boiling water reactors, which use water as both a coolant and moderator like in a PWR, this would not be such a problem, but it is in a graphite-moderated BWR.

PARTY CHOWDER Take a cod of ten pounds, well cleaned, leaving on the skin. Cut into pieces one and a half pounds thick, preserving the head whole. Take one and a half pounds of clear, fat salt pork, cut in thin slices. Do the same with twelve potatoes. Take the largest pot you have. Try out the pork first, then take out the pieces of pork, leaving in the drippings. Add to that three parts of water, a layer of fish, so as to cover the bottom of the pot; next a layer of potatoes, then two tablespoons of salt, I teaspoon of pepper, then the pork, another layer of fish, and the remainder of the potatoes. Fill the pot with water to cover the ingredients. Put over a good fire. Let the chowder boil twenty-five minutes. When this is done have a quart of boiling milk ready, and ten hard crackers split and dipped in cold water. Add milk and crackers. Let the whole boil five minutes. The chowder is then ready to be first-rate if you have followed the directions. An onion may be added if you like the flavor. This chowder is suitable for a large fishing

When Dr. Ramasamy first lectured to their class in the century-old Donovan Auditorium, even the murmuring backbenchers were silenced when the tall, confident woman in a short-sleeved lab coat floated in. She had launched right into inflammation, the body’s first response to any threat, the common denominator of all disease. In minutes she had drawn them into the thick of a battle: the invaders (typhoid bacteria) are spotted by the hilltop sentries (macrophages), who send signals back to the castle (the bone marrow and lymph nodes). The few aging veterans of previous battles with typhoid (memory T-lymphocytes) are roused from their beds, summoned to hastily teach untested conscripts the specific typhoid-grappling skills needed, and then to arm them with custom lances designed solely to latch onto and pierce the typhoid shield—in essence, the veterans clone their younger selves. The same veterans of prior typhoid campaigns also assemble a biological-warfare platoon (B lymphocytes) who hastily manufacture a one-of-a-kind boiling oil (antibodies) to pour over the castle wall; it will melt the typhoid intruders’ shields, while not harming others. Meanwhile, having heard the call to battle, the rogue mercenaries (neutrophils), armed to the teeth,

They stood around a bleeding stump of a man lying on the ground. His right arm and left leg had been chopped off. It was inconceivable how, with his remaining arm and leg, he had crawled to the camp. The chopped-off arm and leg were tied in terrible bleeding chunks onto his back with a small wooden board attached to them; a long inscription on it said, with many words of abuse, that the atrocity was in reprisal for similar atrocities perpetrated by such and such a Red unit—a unit that had no connection with the Forest Brotherhood. It also said that the same treatment would be meted out to all the partisans unless, by a given date, they submitted and gave up their arms to the representatives of General Vitsyn’s army corps. Fainting repeatedly from loss of blood, the dying man told them in a faltering voice of the tortures and atrocities perpetrated by Vitsyn’s investigating and punitive squads. His own sentence of death had been allegedly commuted; instead of hanging him, they had cut off his arm and leg in order to send him into the camp and strike terror among the partisans. They had carried him as far as the outposts of the camp, where they had put him down and ordered him to crawl, urging him on by shooting into the air. He could barely move his lips. To make out his almost unintelligible stammering, the crowd around him bent low. He was saying: “Be on your guard, comrades. He has broken through.” “Patrols have gone out in strength. There’s a big battle going on. We’ll hold him.” “There’s a gap. He wants to surprise you. I know. ... I can’t go on, men. I am spitting blood. I’ll die in a moment.” “Rest a bit. Keep quiet.—Can’t you see it’s bad for him, you heartless beasts!” The man started again: “He went to work on me, the devil. He said: You will bathe in your own blood until you tell me who you are. And how was I to tell him, a deserter is just what I am? I was running from him to you.” “You keep saying ‘he.’ Who was it that got to work on you?” “Let me just get my breath. ... I’ll tell you. Hetman, Bekeshin. Colonel, Strese. Vitsyn’s men. You don’t know out here what it’s like. The whole town is groaning. They boil people alive. They cut strips out of them. They take you by the scruff of the neck and push you inside, you don’t know where you are, it’s pitch black. You grope about—you are in a cage, inside a freight car. There are more than forty people in the cage, all in their underclothes. From time to time they open the door and grab whoever comes first—out he goes. As you grab a chicken to cut its throat. I swear to God. Some they hang, some they shoot, some they question. They beat you to shreds, they put salt on the wounds, they pour boiling water on you. When you vomit or relieve yourself they make you eat it. As for children and women—O God!” The unfortunate was at his last gasp. He cried out and died without finishing the sentence. Somehow they all knew it at once and took off their caps and crossed themselves. That night, the news of a far more terrible incident flew around the camp. Pamphil had been in the crowd surrounding the dying man. He had seen him, heard his words, and read the threatening inscription on the board. His constant fear for his family in the event of his own death rose to a new climax. In his imagination he saw them handed over to slow torture, watched their faces distorted by pain, and heard their groans and cries for help. In his desperate anguish—to forestall their future sufferings and to end his own—he killed them himself, felling his wife and three children with that same, razor-sharp ax that he had used to carve toys for the two small girls and the boy, who had been his favorite. The astonishing thing was that he did not kill himself immediately afterward.

Because of the extreme heat fission generates, the reactor core must be kept cool at all costs. This is particularly important with an RBMK, which operates at an, “astonishingly high temperature,” relative to other reactor types, of 500°C with hotspots of up to 700°C, according to British nuclear expert Dr. Eric Voice. A typical PWR has an operating temperature of about 275°C. A few different kinds of coolant are used in different reactors, from gas to air to liquid metal to salt, but Chernobyl’s uses the same as most other reactors: light water, meaning it is just regular water. The plant was originally going to be fitted with gas-cooled reactors, but this was eventually changed because of a shortage of the necessary equipment.75 Water is pumped into the bottom of the reactor at high pressure (1000psi, or 65 atmospheres), where it boils and passes up, out of the reactor and through a condensator that separates steam from water. All remaining water is pushed through another pump and fed back into the reactor. The steam, meanwhile, enters a steam turbine, which turns and generates electricity. Each RBMK reactor produces 5,800 tons of steam per hour.76 Having passed through this turbogenerator, the steam is condensed back into water and fed back to the pumps, where it begins its cycle again.

Sgt. Jack was a hard-ass teacher, but kids need hard-ass teachers sometimes. I know that might hurt your ears because things are different now. We are warned of the lasting effects of stress on children, and to compensate, parents strategize about how to make their children’s lives comfortable and easy. But is the real world always comfortable? Is it easy? Life is not G-rated. We must prepare kids for the world as it is. Our generation is training kids to become full-fledged members of Entitlement Nation, which ultimately makes them easy prey for the lions among us. Our ever-softening society doesn’t just affect children. Adults fall into the same trap. Even those of us who have achieved great things. Every single one of us is just another frog in the soon-to-be-boiling water that is our soft-ass culture. We take unforeseen obstacles personally. We are ready to be outraged at all times by the evil bullshit of the world. Believe me, I know all about evil and have dealt with more bullshit than most, but if you catalog your scars to use them as excuses or a bargaining chip to make life easier for yourself, you’ve missed an opportunity to become better and grow stronger. Sgt. Jack knew what awaited me as an adult. He was preparing me for the grip of life. Whether he knew it or not, the man was training me to be a savage.

I became expert at making myself invisible. I could linger two hours over a coffee, four over a meal, and hardly be noticed by the waitress. Though the janitors in Commons rousted me every night at closing time, I doubt they ever realized they spoke to the same boy twice. Sunday afternoons, my cloak of invisibility around my shoulders, I would sit in the infirmary for sometimes six hours at a time, placidly reading copies of Yankee magazine ('Clamming on Cuttyhunk') or Reader's Digest (Ten Ways to Help That Aching Back!'), my presence unremarked by receptionist, physician, and fellow sufferer alike. But, like the Invisible Man in H. G. Wells, I discovered that my gift had its price, which took the form of, in my case as in his, a sort of mental darkness. It seemed that people failed to meet my eye, made as if to walk through me; my superstitions began to transform themselves into something like mania. I became convinced that it was only a matter of time before one of the rickety iron steps that led to my room gave and I would fall and break my neck or, worse, a leg; I'd freeze or starve before Leo would assist me. Because one day, when I'd climbed the stairs successfully and without fear, I'd had an old Brian Eno song running through my head ('In New Delhi, 'And Hong Kong,' They all know that it won't be long...'), I now had to sing it to myself each trip up or down the stairs. And each time I crossed the footbridge over the river, twice a day, I had to stop and scoop around in the coffee-colored snow at the road's edge until I found a decent-sized rock. I would then lean over the icy railing and drop it into the rapid current that bubbled over the speckled dinosaur eggs of granite which made up its bed - a gift to the river-god, maybe, for safe crossing, or perhaps some attempt to prove to it that I, though invisible, did exist. The water ran so shallow and clear in places that sometimes I heard the dropped stone click as it hit the bed. Both hands on the icy rail, staring down at the water as it dashed white against the boulders, boiled thinly over the polished stones, I wondered what it would be like to fall and break my head open on one of those bright rocks: a wicked crack, a sudden limpness, then veins of red marbling the glassy water. If I threw myself off, I thought, who would find me in all that white silence? Might the river beat me downstream over the rocks until it spat me out in the quiet waters, down behind the dye factory, where some lady would catch me in the beam of her headlights when she pulled out of the parking lot at five in the afternoon? Or would I, like the pieces of Leo's mandolin, lodge stubbornly in some quiet place behind a boulder and wait, my clothes washing about me, for spring?

Using graphite as a moderator can be highly dangerous, as it means that the nuclear reaction will continue - or even increase - in the absence of cooling water or the presence of steam pockets (called ‘voids’). This is known as a positive void coefficient and its presence in a reactor is indicative of very poor design. Graphite moderated reactors were used in the USA in the 1950s for research and plutonium production, but the Americans soon realised their safety disadvantages. Almost all western nuclear plants now use either Pressurised Water Reactors (PWRs) or Boiling Water Reactors (BWRs), which both use water as a moderator and coolant. In these designs, the water that is pumped into the reactor as coolant is the same water that is enabling the chain reaction as a moderator. Thus, if the water supply is stopped, fission will cease because the chain reaction cannot be sustained; a much safer design. Few commercial reactor designs still use a graphite moderator. Other than the RBMK and its derivative, the EGP-6, Britain’s Advanced Gas-Cooled Reactor (AGR) design is the only other graphite-moderated reactor in current use. The AGR will soon be joined by a new type of experimental reactor at China’s Shidao Bay Nuclear Power Plant, which is currently under construction. The plant will house two graphite-moderated ‘High Temperature Reactor-Pebble-bed Modules’ reactors, the first of which is undergoing commissioning tests as of mid-2019.

A more complex example is a cooking recipe. An algorithm for preparing vegetable soup may tell us: 1.​Heat half a cup of oil in a pot. 2.​Finely chop four onions. 3.​Fry the onion until golden. 4.​Cut three potatoes into chunks and add to the pot. 5.​Slice a cabbage into strips and add to the pot. And so forth. You can follow the same algorithm dozens of times, each time using slightly different vegetables, and therefore getting a slightly different soup. But the algorithm remains the same. A recipe by itself cannot make soup. You need a person to read the recipe and follow the prescribed set of steps. But you can build a machine that embodies this algorithm and follows it automatically. Then you just need to provide the machine with water, electricity and vegetables – and it will prepare the soup by itself. There aren’t many soup machines around, but you are probably familiar with beverage vending machines. Such machines usually have a slot for coins, an opening for cups, and rows of buttons. The first row has buttons for coffee, tea and cocoa. The second row is marked: no sugar, one spoon of sugar, two spoons of sugar. The third row indicates milk, soya milk, no milk. A man approaches the machine, inserts a coin into the slot and presses the buttons marked ‘tea’, ‘one sugar’ and ‘milk’. The machine kicks into action, following a precise set of steps. It drops a tea bag into a cup, pours boiling water, adds a spoonful of sugar and milk, and ding! A nice cup of tea emerges. This is an algorithm.17

I sucked on a blade of grass and watched the millwheel turn. I was lying on my stomach on the stream's opposite bank, my head propped in my hands. There was a tiny rainbow in the mist above the froth and boil at the foot of the waterfall, and an occasional droplet found its way to me. The steady splashing and the sound of the wheel drowned out all other noises in the wood. The mill was deserted today, and I contemplated it because I had not seen its like in ages. Watching the wheel and listening to the water were more than just relaxing. It was somewhat hypnotic. … My head nodding with each creak of the wheel, I forced everything else from my mind and set about remembering the necessary texture of the sand, its coloration, the temperature, the winds, the touch of salt in the air, the clouds... I slept then and I dreamed, but not of the place that I sought. I regarded a big roulette wheel, and we were all of us on it-my brothers, my sisters, myself, and others whom I knew or had known-rising and falling, each with his allotted section. We were all shouting for it to stop for us and wailing as we passed the top and headed down once more. The wheel had begun to slow and I was on the rise. A fair-haired youth hung upside down before me, shouting pleas and warnings that were drowned in the cacophony of voices. His face darkened, writhed, became a horrible thing to behold, and I slashed at the cord that bound his ankle and he fell from sight. The wheel slowed even more as I neared the top, and I saw Lorraine then. She was gesturing, beckoning frantically, and calling my name. I leaned toward her, seeing her clearly, wanting her, wanting to help her. But as the wheel continued its turning she passed from my sight. “Corwin!” I tried to ignore her cry, for I was almost to the top. It came again, but I tensed myself and prepared to spring upward. If it did not stop for me, I was going to try gimmicking the damned thing, even though falling off would mean my total ruin. I readied myself for the leap. Another click... “Corwin!” It receded, returned, faded, and I was looking toward the water wheel again with my name echoing in my ears and mingling, merging, fading into the sound of the stream. … It plunged for over a thousand feet: a mighty cataract that smote the gray river like an anvil. The currents were rapid and strong, bearing bubbles and flecks of foam a great distance before they finally dissolved. Across from us, perhaps half a mile distant, partly screened by rainbow and mist, like an island slapped by a Titan, a gigantic wheel slowly rotated, ponderous and gleaming. High overhead, enormous birds rode like drifting crucifixes the currents of the air. We stood there for a fairly long while. Conversation was impossible, which was just as well. After a time, when she turned from it to look at me, narrow-eyed, speculative, I nodded and gestured with my eyes toward the wood. Turning then, we made our way back in the direction from which we had come. Our return was the same process in reverse, and I managed it with greater ease. When conversation became possible once more, Dara still kept her silence, apparently realizing by then that I was a part of the process of change going on around us. It was not until we stood beside our own stream once more, watching the small mill wheel in its turning, that she spoke.

Chicken Francese, or lamb chops, or plump spinach gnocchi that she'd roll out by hand and drop into boiling salt water. When her brothers came home for the holidays, she'd spend days in the kitchen, preparing airy latkes and sweet and sour brisket; roast turkey with chestnut stuffing; elaborately iced layer cakes. She'd stay in the kitchen for hours, cooking dish after dish, hoping that all the food would somehow conceal their father's absence; hoping that the meals would take the taste of grief out of their mouths. "After my father died, I think cooking saved me. It was the only thing that made me happy. Everything else felt so out of control. But if I followed a recipe, if I used the right amounts of the right ingredients and did everything I was supposed to do..." She tried to explain it- how repetitive motions of peeling and chopping felt like a meditation, the comfort of knowing that flour and yeast, oil and salt, combined in the correct proportions, would always yield a loaf of bread; the way that making a shopping list could refocus her mind, and how much she enjoyed the smells of fresh rosemary, of roasting chicken or baking cookies, the velvety feel of a ball of dough at the precise moment when it reached its proper elasticity and could be put into an oiled bowl, under a clean cloth, to rise in a warm spot in the kitchen, the same step that her mother's mother's mother would have followed to make the same kind of bread. She liked to watch popovers rising to lofty heights in the oven's heat, blooming out of their tins. She liked the sound of a hearty soup or grain-thickened stew, simmering gently on a low flame, the look of a beautifully set table, with place cards and candles and fine china. All of it pleased her.

pine nuts and toss gently again. Green Bean, Tuna, and Mushroom “Casserole” One of my favorite things from my Midwestern upbringing is the green bean and mushroom casserole at Thanksgiving—probably the same one that was on your holiday table, thanks to the canned-mushroom-soup marketing campaign. This is my grown-up version of that casserole, which has all the comfort appeal of the childhood dish, but way better flavor and nutritional value. Make it with a one-to-one ratio of mushrooms to green beans, and have some fun with the beans, if you like—you can grill them, slice them thin and use raw, use pickled green beans, or use a mix of all of the above. » Serves 4 Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper Extra-virgin olive oil 2 garlic cloves, smashed and peeled 1 pound wild mushrooms, wiped off and cut into bite-size pieces (about 6 cups) One 5-ounce can oil-packed tuna, drained 1 pound green beans, trimmed 1 cup heavy cream 1 teaspoon finely grated lemon zest 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice ⅓ cup Dried Breadcrumbs Bring a large pot of water to a boil and add salt until it tastes like the sea. Meanwhile, add ¼ cup olive oil to a skillet that’s large enough to hold all the mushrooms and beans and still have some room to stir the ingredients. Add the garlic and cook slowly over medium heat to toast the garlic so it’s very soft, fragrant, and nicely golden brown—but not burnt—about 5 minutes. Scoop out the garlic and set it aside so it doesn’t burn. Increase the heat to medium-high and add the mushrooms. Season generously with pepper and salt and sauté, tossing frequently, until the mushrooms are nicely browned around the edges, 5 to 7 minutes. Add the tuna and toss to incorporate. Keep this warm until the green beans are ready. Add the beans to the boiling water and boil until they are just a bit beyond crisp-tender, 4 to 7 minutes. Drain them thoroughly in a colander and then add them to the mushrooms and tuna. Add the cream, toss all the ingredients to coat, and simmer until the cream has reduced to a nice cloaking consistency and all the flavors are nicely blended, 6 to 9 minutes. Add the lemon zest and lemon juice and toss. Taste and adjust with more salt, pepper, or lemon juice. When the flavors are delicious, pile into a serving bowl and top with the breadcrumbs.

Sam was about to travel to Asia with her boyfriend and she was fretting about what her backers would think if she released some of her new songs while she was 'on vacation'. She was worried that posting pictures of herself sipping a Mai Tai was going to make her look like an asshole. What does it matter? I asked her, where you are whether you're drinking a coffee, a Mai Tai or a bottle of water? I mean, aren't they paying for your songs so that you can... live? Doesn't living include wandering and collecting emotions and drinking a Mai Tai, not just sitting in a room writing songs without ever leaving the house? I told Sam about another songwriter friend of mine, Kim Boekbinder, who runs her own direct support website through which her fans pay her monthly at levels from $5 to $1,000. She also has a running online wishlist of musical gear and costumes kindof like a wedding registry, to which her fans can contribute money anytime they want. Kim had told me a few days before that she doesn't mind charging her backers during what she calls her 'staring at the wall time'. She thinks this is essential before she can write a new batch of songs. And her fans don't complain, they trust her process. These are new forms of patronage, there are no rules and it's messy, the artists and the patrons they are making the rules as they go along, but whether these artists are using crowdfunding (which is basically, front me some money so I can make a thing) or subscription services (which is more like pay me some money every month so that I can make things) or Patreon, which is like pay per piece of content pledge service (that basically means pay me some money every time I make a thing). It doesn't matter, the fundamental building block of all of these relationships boils down to the same simple thing: trust. If you're asking your fans to support you, the artist, it shouldn't matter what your choices are, as long as you're delivering your side of the bargain. You may be spending the money on guitar picks, Mai Tais, baby formula, college loans, gas for the car or coffee to fuel your all-night writing sessions. As long as art is coming out the other side, and you're making your patrons happy, the money you need to live (and need to live is hard to define) is almost indistinguishable from the money you need to make art. ... (6:06:57) ... When she posts a photo of herself in a vintage dress that she just bought, no one scolds her for spending money on something other than effects pedals. It's not like her fan's money is an allowance with nosy and critical strings attached, it's a gift in the form of money in exchange for her gift, in the form of music. The relative values are... messy. But if we accept the messiness we're all okay. If Beck needs to moisturize his cuticles with truffle oil in order to play guitar tracks on his crowdfunded record, I don't care that the money I fronted him isn't going towards two turntables or a microphone; just as long as the art gets made, I get the album and Beck doesn't die in the process.

Herbs to use for a good sleep bath and no rash. My grandma on my father’s side was a biologist and botanist. She gave us herb baths all the time because she had a whole garden of medicinal plants and knew how to use them. My other grandmother, who was a nurse, did the same. It is a very common practice to wash a baby with a tea blend made from chamomile/calendula and beggar ticks (also called as Bidens, bur marigold or Spanish needle) in Russia and Central Asia. The last one is the most essential to cure diathesis, prickly heat and other dermatological problems. I take just 1 tablespoon of each herb and mix into 3 cups of boiled hot water, let it sit for an hour or so, and add to a small basin so that it makes a very weak solution. Daniella’s skin becomes very soft and clean after it. She has not had eczema or any kind of rash. I think it is mostly due to the use of the herbs. When I told a friend about the Bidens and she tried it with her newborn, her daughter slept longer by an hour or two.

Saturday afternoon she deboned chicken breasts and put the raw meat aside; then she simmered the bones with green onions and squashed garlic and ginger. She mixed ground pork with diced water chestnuts and green onions and soy sauce and sherry, stuffed the wonton skins with this mixture, and froze them to be boiled the next day. Then she made the stuffing for Richard's favorite egg rolls. It was poor menu planning- Vivian would never have served wontons and egg rolls at the same meal- but she felt sorry for Richard, living on hot dogs as he'd been. Anyway they all liked her egg rolls, even Aunt Barbara. Sunday morning she stayed home from church and started the tea eggs simmering (another source of soy sauce for Annie). She slivered the raw chicken breast left from yesterday- dangling the occasional tidbit for J.C., who sat on her stool and cried "Yeow!" whenever she felt neglected- and slivered carrots and bamboo shoots and Napa cabbage and more green onions and set it all aside to stir-fry at the last minute with rice stick noodles. This was her favorite dish, simple though it was, and Aunt Rubina's favorite; it had been Vivian's favorite of Olivia's recipes, too. (Vivian had never dabbled much in Chinese cooking herself.) Then she sliced the beef and asparagus and chopped the fermented black beans for her father's favorite dish.

I’ve found a few helpful strategies for addressing difficulties with planning and problem solving: •Mindfulness. In this case, mindfulness isn’t some complex life practice. It’s just a matter of realizing, “Oh, wait, I’m doing that thing again, which means I need to go get the vacuum/sponge/scissors and take care of this little annoyance that will only take a minute to fix and, oh, think how good I’ll feel afterward.” •Routines. In the same way that routines can be helpful for getting everyday tasks done, they can work for problem solving too. For example, if I’m waiting for Sang to get ready to go out, I’ll walk around our home, intentionally looking for little problems to take care of. Inevitably there will be a pile of clean laundry that needs folding or dishes that need to be picked up. This same routine works in the kitchen while waiting for something to boil or in the bathroom while waiting for the shower water to warm up. •Reminder software or apps. There are many apps that will send you an email or phone alert for recurring household tasks. I have one that reminds me to wash the sheets every two weeks, trim the dog’s toenails once a week and clean my car every three months. If there are some problems that occur regularly, try preempting them with scheduled reminders. •Strategic reminders. Like the reminder apps, strategically placing visual reminders around the house can nudge you into acting on common problems. Leaving the vacuum in a high-traffic area not only reminds you to vacuum more often, but it makes it easier to get the job done because the tool you need is handy. •Use chunking. If a problem gets to the point where you recognize that something needs to be done but the size of the task is now overwhelming, try breaking it into smaller parts. For example, instead of “cleaning your bedroom” start with a goal of getting everything off the floor or collecting the dirty laundry and washing it. As you tackle these smaller tasks, it will become more obvious what else is left to be done.

Are we all in the same pot of slowly boiling water?

It stands across a gentle slope up from the main house, separated by a glade of trees through which the sun rises into our windows every morning; and the sun sets, through those same trees, in the evenings into the windows of the second place. Those windows go from the floor to the ceiling, so that the huge horizontal bar of the marsh and its drama – its sweeping passages of colour and light, the brewing of its distant storms, the great drifts of seabirds that float or settle over its pelt in white flecks, the sea that sometimes lies roaring at the very furthest line of the horizon in a boiling white foam and sometimes advances gleaming and silent until it has covered everything in a glassy sheet of water – seem to be right there in the room with you.

Refer to the following chart for liquid-to-grain ratios and remember the rule of thumb, 1 cup of uncooked rice will serve 2 to 3 people. Simply bring your chosen liquid—water, stock, and coconut milk all work well—to a boil, season it generously with salt, and add the rice (or quinoa, which I like to cook the same way). Reduce to a very gentle simmer, cover, and cook until the liquid has all been absorbed and the grains are tender. Let it rest covered for 10 minutes after you turn off the heat. And, apart from risotto—which is an entirely different story—never, ever stir rice while it’s cooking. Just fluff it with a fork before serving.

most really great discoveries are owed to one brief moment of inspiration. There’s a lot of spadework first, of course, but what clinches the whole thing is the sight of, say, a falling apple or a boiling kettle or the water slopping over the edge of the bath. Something goes click inside the observer’s head and then everything falls into place. The shape of DNA, it is popularly said, owes its discovery to the chance sight of a spiral staircase when the scientist’s mind was just at the right receptive temperature. Had he used the lift, the whole science of genetics might have been a good deal different.16 This is thought of as somehow wonderful. It isn’t. It is tragic. Little particles of inspiration sleet through the universe all the time travelling through the densest matter in the same way that a neutrino passes through a candyfloss haystack, and most of them miss. Even worse, most of the ones that hit the exact cerebral target hit the wrong one.

At Lachalang, at a height of over 15,000 feet, I noted a solar temperature of 152 degrees, only 35 degrees below the boiling point of water in the same region, which is about 187 degrees. To make up for this, the mercury falls below the freezing point every night of the year, even in August the difference of temperature in twelve hours often exceeding 120 degrees! The Rupchu nomads, however,

Dad used to make me tea at night during the pregnancy whenever I was feeling sick.” “Really?” I removed her hands from my stomach. “He did that?” “Yup. He even bought me a bunch of different flavors so I wouldn’t get bored with any of them. He’d bring me a steaming cup in bed and tell me to close my eyes, see if I could guess the flavor.” It was hard to picture this. Him putting water in a pot, boiling it, steeping a mug with Earl Grey, English Breakfast, chamomile. I couldn’t even picture him in the checkout lane at the grocery store with anything other than Miller Lite and jelly beans. That man bringing tea to his pregnant wife wasn’t the same as the one who once picked me up from school two hours late, with crushed Miller Lite cans and gum wrappers covering the floor of his car, the front of his gray gym shorts soaked in piss, shouting over and over, “Get in, we’re going to Disneyland.” I thought about telling Mom this memory, reminding her of that other man. “Or is it something else?” she asked. “What can I do?” She would never be able to help me. Her loyalties would always lie with him, this dead man who showed her sides he never showed to me.

The same is becoming true with the spread of transgenderism. Ten years ago, few people knew what the word meant. Currently, the latest hellish idea we’re expected to embrace is that children have the right to take drugs to permanently stop puberty and to destroy their bodies under the false premise that they can alter their gender. Here is the point. Once we accept an idea that contradicts the Bible and violates our beliefs and morals, then anything thrown at us will become easier to accept over time. By the time the water is already boiling, it’s too late for the frog to jump out.

Human beings are the most adaptable animals on Earth. Human beings are the most intelligent animal, but there are a number of events that could wipe us out. Our vast intellect may not be enough to counter meteors, plagues,  weather changes, radiation, etc. One animal has survived all of these – the tardigrade. The tardigrade is a half-millimeter sized microorganism. So what makes the tardigrade so special? It’s the only animal to survive ALL five mass extinctions. It existed the same time as trilobites hundreds of millions of years ago and it’s still alive today. So how does it survive? To understand why it’s so strong, you need to understand what makes it weak. A tardigrade needs water. Lots of water.  If it stops drinking water for even a few minutes, it goes into a coma. When it’s in a coma, it’s practically indestructible. It’s so hard, you could smash it with a sledgehammer (and scientists have) and it didn’t leave a dent. It can withstand boiling heat, one degree above absolute zero, pressure six times stronger than the bottom of the ocean, meteor strikes, and radioactive fallout. It can even survive the depths of space. No one knows how long it can survive in this coma for but it’s been documented to last at least seventy years. If you give it a drop of water, it will come out of its coma within seconds and revert back to normal.

like boiling a frog. If we put everything about S&S into a CTA somewhere and ask people to join us, we’d surely overwhelm them — the frog dropped into boiling water and hence hopping right out in this metaphor. Autoresponders bring that same boil a degree at a time, letting people digest all we do like a frog slowly getting used to ever hotter water.

In a sudden and desperate move, she grabbed at the handle on the door and furiously tried to open it. She looked around for a lock, pushing on the door at the same time, but it wouldn’t give. She popped the little button on the door next to the window—up and down, up and down, moving the handle, pushing. Nothing. Her upper arm was gripped hard and she turned her watering, terrified eyes toward Wes. He scowled blackly, then his frown dissolved into mean grin. “Jammed, Paige. How stupid do you think I am?” She swallowed hard and asked, “Do you plan to leave our son without a mother?” “Absolutely,” he said with terrifying calm. “But not until I’m sure I’m leaving him without a potential stepfather.” “God,” she whispered weakly. “Why, Wes? John hasn’t done anything to you!” “No?” he asked. “Only took my family away from me. Got my family to turn against me.” “No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, that’s not what happened, Wes. I ran from you.” “Sure you did, Paige. And if it wasn’t for that guy, you’d still be running. Running and running, and I would find you and find you. But what you did—ending it forever and sending me to fucking prison, that was his doing. We both know you don’t have the guts for that.” He turned his head toward her and grinned meanly. “He’ll come after you, you know he will.” I’m bait, she thought. Nothing but bait. “I wouldn’t mind a piece of that other one, either,” he said. “Sheridan.” Something came over Paige. It seemed to rise within her from her core. You don’t have the guts for that.... The thought that this dangerous lunatic would ruthlessly, without conscience, hurt John and his own son sizzled inside her like boiling oil. Her fear slowly gave way to rage. “You’re going to burn in hell,” she whispered. But he couldn’t hear her above the noise of the old pickup. *

You can try the same thing, and use the juice of purple cabbage instead (which you get by boiling several cabbage leaves in 3–4 cups of water for about 15 minutes). We recall that in the experiment at the end of Chapter 4, vinegar was an acid, reacting with baking soda. Baking soda was a base (or alkali, as it is sometimes called). If you put a few drops of purple cabbage juice into some vinegar, and a few drops into a solution of baking soda and water, you will find that the vinegar turns red, and the baking soda solution turns green. Scientists use this test today, and it is called a litmus test. Litmus paper is soaked in a vegetable dye derived from lichens, and then dried. When the paper is dipped in acid, it turns from pink to red, and when dipped in a base, turns blue. (Thus, we normally think of blue as the test color for bases, but as we see from the cabbage juice, different chemicals can cause different test colors.) He

tea was drunk with boiled water, which killed off disease-carrying bacteria. Tea also possesses, in tannin, an antiseptic agent which made mothers’ breast milk the healthiest it had ever been. No other nation drank tea on the same scale as the British. This, according to Macfarlane, was the key to why the Industrial Revolution was born here instead of somewhere else.

There is a well-known joke—at least well known in mathematics—about how mathematicians work. A mathematician and a Starbucks barista are each placed in front of a stove with a kettle and a nearby faucet and told to make boiling water. Both do the same thing. They fill the kettle with water from the faucet, light the stove with a match, and place the water-filled kettle on the stove. Mission accomplished. The mathematician and the Starbucks barista are next placed in front of a stove with a kettle that they are told is filled with clean water and told to make boiling water yet again. The barista lifts the kettle off the stove for a moment, lights the stove, and puts the kettle back on. The mathematician lifts the kettle off the stove, pours out the water into a sink, puts the newly emptied kettle back on the stove and says, “The problem has been reduced to the previously solved case. Q.E.D.

Suddenly—so suddenly it scared him—there was light ahead, around a corner. Not the light of a rainy evening in the city, but paler, less certain. They rounded the corner. He noticed the flashlight bulb starting to flicker; lost the alligator momentarily. Then turned the corner and found a wide space like the nave of a church, an arched roof overhead, a phosphorescent light coming off walls whose exact arrangement was indistinct. “Wha,” he said out loud. Backwash from the river? Sea water shines in the dark sometimes; in the wake of a ship you see the same uncomfortable radiance. But not here. The alligator had turned to face him. It was a clear, easy shot. He waited. He was waiting for something to happen. Something otherworldly, of course. He was sentimental and superstitious. Surely the alligator would receive the gift of tongues, the body of Father Fairing be resurrected, the sexy V. tempt him away from murder. He felt about to levitate and at a loss to say where, really, he was. In a bonecellar, a sepulchre. “Ah, schlemihl,” he whispered into the phosphorescence. Accident prone, schlimazzel. The gun would blow up in his hands. The alligator’s heart would tick on, his own would burst, mainspring and escapement rust in this shindeep sewage, in this unholy light. “Can I let you just go?” Bung the foreman knew he was after a sure thing. It was down on the clipboard. And then he saw the alligator couldn’t go any further. Had settled down on its haunches to wait, knowing damn well it was going to be blasted. In Independence Hall in Philly, when the floor was rebuilt, they left part of the original, a foot square, to show the tourists. “Maybe,” the guide would tell you, “Benjamin Franklin stood right there, or even George Washington.” Profane on an eighth-grade class trip had been suitably impressed. He got that feeling now. Here in this room an old man had killed and boiled a catechumen, had committed sodomy with a rat, had discussed a rodent nunhood with V., a future saint—depending which story you listened to. “I’m sorry,” he told the alligator. He was always saying he was sorry. It was a schlemihl’s stock line. He raised the repeater to his shoulder, flicked off the safety. “Sorry,” he said again. Father Fairing talked to rats. Profane talked to alligators. He fired. The alligator jerked, did a backflip, thrashed briefly, was still. Blood began to seep out amoebalike to form shifting patterns with the weak glow of the water. Abruptly, the flashlight went out.

Consider the safety of nuclear reactors. General Electric marketed the Mark 1 boiling-water reactors that were used in Japan’s Fukushima Daiichi plant as cheaper to build than other reactors because they used a smaller and less expensive containment structure. The same design is used in twenty-three American nuclear reactors at sixteen plants. In the mid-1980s, Harold Denton, then an official with the Nuclear Regulatory Commission (NRC), said Mark 1 reactors had a 90 percent probability of bursting should the fuel rods overheat and melt in an accident. But so far, the NRC has done nothing.

brewed green tea SERVES 4 RYOKUCHA 4 tablespoons (12 g) loose Japanese green tea (ryokucha) Fill a large teapot with cold filtered water and bring to a boil. Fill a smallish teapot for brewing the tea with about 1¾ cups (400 cc) boiling water and leave the large teapot off of the heat. The 194°F (90°C) water should have dropped to 176°F (80°C). Now fill 4 small cups (the portion size per person is usually a scant ½ cup/100 cc) with the water from the smallish teapot. This will heat the cups and cool the water another 50°F (10°C). Measure the tea into the smallish teapot and pour the water in the cups over the leaves. Let steep for 20 seconds and pour out evenly in each cup. It is important to pour in short bursts, a little at a time, and to use up all of the water in the pot. For the second round, pour water directly from the large teapot (which now should have cooled to about 176°F/80°C). Set the lid back on the smallish teapot, but crack it a bit to let steam escape. Steep for 10 seconds and pour out again in the same fashion. Always pour all of the tea out of the pot before adding water. The tea will become weaker and weaker until it is almost clear. This changing quality is part of the appeal.

The grandfather of this brilliant madness was Austrian physicist Ludwig Boltzmann, whose proof that gas molecules disperse in proportion to their temperature was foundational to all that followed. Boltzmann showed that molecular movement is simply determined by probability, which results in concentrations of molecules dispersing until they reach equilibrium with their environment. If you pour a potful of boiling water into a cold bath, hot water molecules spread out until they are evenly distributed and have slightly raised the overall bath temperature. Time cannot go backward for the same reason that boiling water can’t re-form in one corner of a cold bath and the dead cannot return to life: random probability will never re-concentrate those molecules back into their original form. The branch of physics pioneered by Boltzmann was called statistical mechanics, and it explained one of the fundamental laws of nature: the Second Law of Thermodynamics, also known as entropy.

There is no rule that says that a potential X has the same value as an X or has all the rights of an X. There are many examples that show just the contrary. To pull out a sprouting acorn is not the same as cutting down a venerable oak. To drop a fertile egg into a pot of boiling water is very different from doing the same to a live chicken. Prince Charles is (at the time of writing) a potential King of England, but he does not now have the rights of a king.

Honus took out his healing kit, and set a pot of water to boil. “When the water’s ready,” he said, “I’ll tend your wound.”   Yim touched the cut on her chin. “Is it bad?”   Honus peered at it in the firelight. “No, but you’ll have a scar.”   Yim smiled wryly. “I’m catching up with your collection.”   “I’m keeping apace with you,” replied Honus.   For the first time, Yim noticed that Honus’s shirtsleeve was torn and blood-soaked. She gasped. “Honus! Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”   “I didn’t wish to trouble you. Besides, it’s not deep.” He rolled up his right sleeve to reveal a bloody gash on his forearm.   When the water boiled, Honus poured some into a wooden bowl and added powder from a vial in his healing kit. After cleaning the blood from Yim’s face, he wetted a cloth with the solution in the bowl. “This will sting,” he said.   “I remember,” replied Yim. She winced as the solution foamed inside her cut. Glimpsing the concern in Honus’s eyes, she tried to hide her pain. She took a deep breath and said, “I’m glad that’s over.”   Honus cleaned the gash on his arm with the same solution, then asked, “Would you stitch my wound closed? I’d rather not do it left-handed.”   “I’ll try,” said Yim, “but I’ve never done the like before.”   “It’s not hard, and I’m certain your dainty fingers will do finer work than Theodus’s thick ones ever managed.”   “Before you malign his stitching, you should compare it to mine,” said Yim. “As a girl, I was more adept with goats than needlework.”   “Then pretend I’m a goat.”   Honus took out a curved needle and a strand of gut from his kit and dipped them in the cleansin g solution. He declined Yim’s suggestion to prepare a brew for his pain, stating he wanted to stay alert. When Yim nervously sewed his wound, he was absolutely stoic. He guided her stitching calmly, tensing only slightly each time the needle pierced his flesh. The only evidence of his pain was the deep breath he took when Yim was done. Honus gazed at his stitches and smiled. “You underestimate your skill.”   “I’m glad you’re so easily pleased,” Yim replied. “The woman who raised me would’ve made me tear out the seam and restitch it.”   Honus winced. “Let’s talk of food, instead,” he said quickly. “Perhaps this would be a good night to have that cheese we were saving.”   “To celebrate our new scars?’   “To celebrate we’re both alive.

To summarize, the morning ritual is as follows: (1) wake up at the same time, (2) don’t check your phone, (3) boil some water and squeeze a quarter of a lemon into it, (4) meditate for five minutes, (5) read a positive affirmation that you’ve written on a Post-it note and repeat a few times throughout the day. Spending ten

The labor went very much the same way that Kania's had, which seemed strange to Marra. Then again, peasants and princesses all shit the same and have their courses the same, so I suppose it's no surprise that babies all come out the same way, too. Having thus accidentally anticipated a few centuries' worth of revolutionary political thought, Marra got down to the business of boiling water and making tea. It went more quickly than Kania's, at least, but it was still a long, tense, tedious stretch. Marra nodded off more than once and sometimes came to with the lamp in her hand and the Sister Apothecary crouching between the mother's legs, wondering if she was really awake or if she was having a strange sort of dream. Dawn had passed and it was most of the way to morning when the baby emerged into the world, looked around and burst into tears. "You get used to it," the Sister told the infant, and handed the child to Marra, who stared at it with intense horror. It was bloody and wrinkly and reddish gray and looked like the sort of thing you would drive back to hell with holy water. "Um," said Marra. "Is it ... Is ..." The mother was panting and could hardly breathe. "It cried. It's alive right?" "Oh yes," said Marra hurriedly. "Very alive." She stared at it, trying to find something else to say. "Has arms and legs. And, uh ... a head ..." "That's good," said the mother, and began giggling with high, hysterical laughter. "Oh, that's good. You want them to have heads." "Lady of Grackles have mercy," muttered the Sister Apothecary, but as she was saying this directly into the birth canal, no one but Marra heard.

On his visits to England he had experienced great difficulty in getting enough to eat. Except that the English boiled eggs passably, and that the hot water in Britain was about the same as he got at home, they did not seem to him to have the slightest idea how to cook anything.

Solar power is the king of modularity. It is also the lowest-risk project type of any I’ve tested in terms of cost and schedule. That’s no coincidence. Wind power? Also extremely modular. Modern windmills consist of four basic factory-built elements assembled on-site: a base, a tower, the “head” (nacelle) that houses the generator, and the blades that spin. Snap them together, and you have one windmill. Repeat this process again and again, and you have a wind farm. Fossil thermal power? Look inside a coal-burning power plant, say, and you’ll find that they’re pretty simple, consisting of a few basic factory-built elements assembled to make a big pot of water boil and run a turbine. They’re modular, much as a modern truck is modular. The same goes for oil- and gas-fired plants. Electricity transmission? Parts made in a factory are assembled into a tower, and factory-made wires are strung along them. Repeat. Or manufactured cables are dug into the ground, section by section. Repeat again.

Frankincense and Myrrh Lotion This homemade body lotion made from a mixture of frankincense and myrrh is a fantastic recipe. Not only does it alleviate anxiety symptoms but it also hydrates the skin with essential nutrients and vitamins. Ingredients ¼ cup of olive oil ¼ cup of coconut oil ¼ cup of beeswax ¼ cup of shea butter 2 tablespoons of vitamin E 20 drops of frankincense essential oil 20 drops of myrrh essential oil Plastic lotion dispenser bottles Directions Combine shea butter, beeswax, coconut oil and olive oil in a bowl. Add some water to a large saucepan and heat over a medium temperature until the water starts to boil. Place the bowl into the saucepan and heat the ingredients at the same time as stirring the mixture. Remove the bowl from the stove and place it in the fridge for an hour until it becomes solid. Remove the mixture from the fridge and use an electric hand mixer to whisk the ingredients until fluffy. Combine the vitamin E and the essential oils and continue to mix. Add to the plastic lotion dispenser bottles and store in a cool place. Lavender Soap Homemade Bar This homemade bar of lavender soap not only provides relief from anxiety but is also extremely beneficial for the skin. It’s simple to make, free from chemicals and easy on the pocket. Ingredients 20-30 drops of lavender essential oil Soap base 3 drops of vitamin E Decorative soap mold or oval bar molds Directions Add water to a large pan and heat it over a medium temperature until it starts to boil. Add the soap base to a glass bowl and then place the bowl in the saucepan until the base has melted. Take the bowl out of the saucepan and allow it to cool down. Add the vitamin E and the lavender and stir together thoroughly. Transfer the mixture into a soap mold and allow it to cool down and become completely solid before removing it from the soap mold. Store the soap at room temperature.

These bodies must not be cremated,” he said. “They must be prepared and their skeletons sent to the Anthropological Museum in Berlin. What systems do you know for the preparation of skeletons?” “There are two methods,” I said. “The first consists of immersing the bodies in lime chloride, which consumes all the soft parts in about two weeks’ time. Then the bodies are immersed in a gasoline bath, which dissolves all the fat and makes the skeletons dry, odorless and white. Then there’s a second method: by cooking. What you do there is boil the bodies in water until the flesh can easily be stripped from the bones. Then the same gasoline bath is applied.” Dr. Mengele ordered me to use the quickest method: by cooking.

He subscribed to the medieval policy of polypharmacy – chucking in sometimes dozens of ingredients on the principle that some of them were bound to do you good, ignoring the possibility that some of them might be toxic. As well as ‘fistfuls’ and ‘half-handfuls’ of miscellaneous greenery, ivory shavings cropped up quite often, sometimes having been burned first. The genitals of a cockerel might come in useful, if you could find them. Breast milk should be drunk ‘from the breast by sucking, and if this be loathsome to the patient [regardless of the feelings of the donor] let him take it as hot as possible’. Cat lovers would be horrified by Gaddesden’s recommendation of an ‘astringent bath: take young cats, cut their entrails out, and put their extremities [paws and tail?] with [various herbs], boil in water and bathe the sick man in it’. Another feline recipe: put ‘the lard’ of a black cat, and of a dog, into the belly of a previously eviscerated and flayed black cat, and roast it; collect the ‘juice’ and rub it on the sick limb. ‘The comfort derived therefrom is marvellous.’ A specific for nervous disease is the brain of a hare. If the hunting party kills a fox instead, they could boil it up and use the resulting broth for a massage. Treatment for a paralysed tongue sounds more cheerful: rub it with what the translator called ‘usquebaugh’, i.e. whisky; ‘it restores the speech, as has been proved on many people’. Animal and avian droppings found many uses, such as peacocks’ droppings for a boil. A cowpat made a good poultice, with added herbs. For those who could afford them, gold and silver and pearls, both bored and unbored, were bound to increase the efficacy of the medicine. Gaddesden recommended his own electuary, using eighteen ingredients including burnt ivory and unbored pearls, with a pound of (very expensive) sugar; ‘I have often proved its goodness myself.’ In a final flourish, he suggests putting the heart of a robin redbreast round the neck of a ‘lethargic’ patient, to keep him awake, or hanging the same heart, with an owl’s heart, above an amnesiac patient; it will ‘give [his memory] back to him’. Even better, the heart of a swallow cooked in honey ‘compels him who eats it to tell all things that happened’ in the past, and to predict the future.

Anesthesiologist,” I tell him. “Sì.” He smiles at me. It’s a goofy, toothy grin. His nose is large and his ears stick out, but I like how his thick black hair gets in his eyes when he tilts his head to bite into the pear. He runs a hand through it to push it back, but it doesn’t help. There is a snap as he bites through the pear’s skin, into the flesh, peeling it with his teeth. I watch his throat work as he eats. A bit of juice disappears beneath the collar of his shirt. His mother huffs, pretending exasperation, and gets him a napkin. This is Paul and Hannah’s apartment—Donato and his parents live one building over—but I can tell by how he stretches across the living room couch, how his mother directs my brother-in-law in the kitchen, that they might as well live here too. “Marie’s teaching me how to make a proper cacio e pepe,” Paul calls to me from the stove. The pot of boiling water is making the room muggy. Marie goes to prop open the front door. “You have not seen Hannah since her mamma’s funeral?” Donato asks, watching me from the couch. He has very light brown eyes, fringed with thick lashes and full, almost feminine lips that are slick and shiny from the pear juice. I can feel him assessing me. Taking in the box-dye job, the blunt haircut I managed to fit in between visits to the nursing home and my red-eye flight. It’s shorter than I wanted and feels uneven. It looks exactly the same, Guy assured me before dropping me off at the airport. “Over a year now,” I say, trying not to fidget. He raises an eyebrow, still enjoying that pear. I refuse to feel guilty. Paul had left for Italy soon after the funeral, taking Hannah with him. And I had my mother to think of, her grief was insurmountable. It affected everything. She did not want to go outside, she did not want to eat.

Between the Stamp Act of 1765 and Lexington a decade later, one of the colonists’ most widespread tools of resistance against arbitrary taxation without representation was boycotting British imports, particularly luxury items. While the melodrama of hucking crates of tea into Boston Harbor continues to inspire civic-minded hotheads to this day, it’s worth remembering the hordes of stoic colonial women who simply swore off tea and steeped basil leaves in boiling water to make the same point. What’s more valiant: littering from a wharf or years of doing chores and looking after

DAWN TREADER SOUP When Caspian, King of Narnia, in the company of Reepicheep the mouse knight, Lucy, Edmund, and Eustace, decides to go in search of the lost Lords of Narnia, he sets sail on a ship called the Dawn Treader. The crew experiences many adventures at sea and on land, and have to live off the food on board and what they can find around them. This soup was a particular favorite of Eustace…. At least, until he turned into a dragon! This recipe can easily be made on board a ship, using produce from the sea and supplies from the hold. INGREDIENTS • serves 4 1 lb 2 oz clams 2 3/4 oz smoked bacon 1 shallot 1 1/2 oz butter 3 sprigs thyme 1 bay leaf 1 T flour 2 cooked potatoes, chopped into chunks 1 3/4 oz crème fraîche or sour cream Salt and pepper PREPARATION TIME • 15 mins COOKING TIME • 25 mins Collect the clams on the island of Felimath, rinse them carefully, and place in a cauldron with about 4 oz of water. Boil them for 2 minutes, until the clams open, and discard any that remain closed. Drain the clams, saving the juices, and remove them from their shells. Strain and reserve the juices through a piece of cheesecloth. Chop the bacon and let it brown for a few minutes in a nonstick frying pan. Drain off the excess fat and set the bacon aside on paper towels. Peel the shallot, sauté it for 5 minutes in the butter without browning, then add the bacon, thyme, and bay leaf before the ship reaches the Dark Island. Sprinkle with the flour and let the shallot and bacon cook for 1 minute, stirring constantly. Slowly add the clam juice, stirring at the same time to prevent lumps forming, then add the potato chunks and simmer for 10 minutes. Remove bay leaf and purée with a blender until the soup is quite smooth. Add the clams and the crème fraîche or sour cream, reheat for 2 minutes, season with salt and pepper, and serve. Note: Reepicheep likes to add a handful of samphire to nibble with this soup.

perfect boiled eggs Serves 2 Prep time: 5 minutes Cook time: 7 to 10 minutes Total time: 12 to 15 minutes 4 eggs, large This technique and cook times are the same whether you boil 2 eggs or a dozen. We like boiling a large amount at once for on-the-go protein or to include in a Protein Salad. Prepare a small bowl half-full with ice water. Fill a small saucepan halfway with water. Bring the water to a rolling boil, then add the eggs by sliding them gently into the pan with a wooden spoon. For soft-boiled eggs, cook on high heat for 7 minutes. (This will leave your eggs truly soft-boiled, with very runny yolks.) For soft but not runny yolks, cook for 9 minutes. For true hard-boiled eggs, cook for 11 minutes. Remove the pan from the heat, and immediately transfer them to a bowl of ice water for 5 minutes to prevent them from cooking further and make them easier to peel. To peel your eggs, crack the shell at the very bottom of the egg. Then, peel under cool running water, using the shell membrane to guide the removal of the shell pieces.

Lemon Pancakes with Blueberry Compote FOR THE LEMON PANCAKES: 3 cups almond flour 1 ½ cups unsweetened almond milk ½ teaspoon baking soda 3 eggs 1 teaspoon lemon zest 1 teaspoon lemon juice FOR THE BLUEBERRY COMPOTE: 1 pint blueberries 1 tablespoon agave nectar 1 teaspoon arrowroot powder ½ cup water To make the pancakes: Mix all of the ingredients in a medium bowl. Spray a skillet with cooking spray and make sure it is hot for your first batch. Drop in a large spoonful of batter and cook until you see bubbles forming. Flip and do the same on the other side. To make the compote: Bring all of the ingredients to a boil, stirring continuously and smashing the blueberries as you go. Reduce the heat and simmer for 5 minutes. Refrigerate or use immediately. To serve: Top the pancakes with blueberry compote.

OYAKI Vegetable bun Serves 4–6 (makes about 20 buns) Preparation time: 2½ hrs Cooking time: 15 mins For the dough 300g (10½ oz) wholemeal flour 50g (1¾ oz) cake/self-raising flour 250ml (8½ fl oz) water For the filling 2kg (4 lb 6 oz) mixed shredded cabbage, finely cut daikon (white radish) and carrot 160g (5½ oz) yellow miso 40g (1½ oz) sugar 4 tbsp vegetable oil 1 tbsp basic dashi or water Vegetable and sweet miso 1 aubergine or daikon, finely sliced For the sweet miso sauce 300g (10½ oz) yellow miso 100g (3½ oz) sugar 50ml (1½ fl oz) vegetable oil 1 tbsp basic dashi or water Sweet potato with sweet red bean paste 2 sweet potatoes, peeled and thinly sliced into rounds 225g (8 oz) red bean paste, sweetened to taste salt, for seasoning 1 Working the dough correctly is key. Combine the two flours in a large bowl and then add the water slowly, mixing with chopsticks, just until combined. Cover with cling film and allow the dough to stand for 2 hours. 2 Meanwhile, prepare the filling. Steam the vegetables in a steamer until just tender but still retaining a bit of bite. Remove, allow to cool, then squeeze out excess liquid. Put the steamed vegetables in a large bowl. 3 In a bowl, combine the miso, sugar, vegetable oil and dashi. Pour the mixture into the bowl with the steamed vegetables and mix well. 4 Divide the vegetable filling into 20 portions and form into balls. Do the same with the dough. 5 To make the buns, take one ball of dough and place on a lightly floured surface. Use the palm of one hand to flatten (or use a rolling pin) into a small circle about 10cm (4 in) in diameter and about 2mm (1/12 in) thick. Try to make the centre of the dough slightly thicker than the edges. 6 Place a ball of filling in the centre. Fold over the dough and shape into a ball, pressing the edges firmly to seal. 7 Steam the oyaki in a metal steamer lined with a damp cloth for 13 minutes, until the dough looks opaque and the centre is cooked through. 8 Once steamed, serve at once. Alternatively you can fry them in a non-stick pan over medium heat for 1–2 minutes, or until each side is lightly golden. For the vegetable and sweet miso 1 Bring a saucepan of water to the boil and blanch the aubergine for a few minutes, until softened. Remove and drain. 2 To make the sweet miso sauce, combine the miso, sugar, vegetable oil, and dashi in a bowl. Spread the miso sauce between two slices of the thinly sliced vegetables like a miso sandwich. For the sweet potato with sweet red bean paste 1 Season the sweet potatoes with salt. 2 Spread red bean paste between two slices of sweet potato, like a miso sandwich.

Chapter 5 Eyebright For Eye Strain The other night, I took a break from writing and went for a walk. It was dark, but the moon was bright giving me the light I needed to see my way up the road and back. When I returned I could see a few lights on in the house, but what really stood out was my laptop that I had left open; it’s bright white light standing out. I thought, “man, I stare at that light for hours at a time!” No wonder my eyes feel tired so often. Many people do this for eight or more hours every day. When we are viewing the screens of our devices, we blink less than normal which can cause dryness and soreness. The intense focus can also be the root of headaches and other eye related symptoms. Relief can be achieved by taking frequent ‘eye breaks’ which involve looking at something in the distance every twenty minutes or so (there are even apps to remind you!), and making sure your screen is just below eye level. But the reality is many of us are spending a lot of time focusing intently on electronic devices and straining our eyes. Symptoms of eye strain range from dry, sore, or itchy eyes, to headaches, light sensitivity and blurred vision. Mother Nature in her infinite wisdom has provided us with a wild herb that works directly to reduce the discomforts of eye strain and many other eye issues. Eyebright, a tiny flowered, weedy looking herb found wild in Europe, Asia and North America can be used to treat all eye disorders. Eyebright’s tannin content, which acts as an astringent, and its anti-inflammatory and antibacterial properties, combine to make the perfect eye wash. Its 3 major antioxidant vitamins bring in eye-specific support as well:  Vitamin C, in conjunction with Eyebright’s high content of Quercetin, assists in reducing swelled and runny eyes; Vitamin E has been shown to help improve visual sharpness; and Vitamin A protects the cornea and prevents dry eyes. Eyebright is the perfect solution for eyestrain symptoms, but it can also be used for many other eye disorders including conjunctivitis and itchy or runny eyes caused by allergies. Traditionally it has been used to improve memory and treat vertigo and epilepsy. Harvesting and drying Eyebright is easy. The high tannin content makes it a fast-drying herb. Simply cut the flowering tops of the plant and dry for a day or two in an oven with just the pilot light on, or in an airy spot out of the sun for several days. The dried herb will have retained its colors, though the flowers will have diminished considerably in size. How To Use Eyebright How to make an eye bath:   Boil 2 cups of water and pour over 1 cup of dried or fresh herb and let sit for 20 minutes or more. Strain well using cheesecloth or an unbleached coffee filter, store in a sterile glass jar (just dip in the boiling water before adding the herbs and let stand, open side up), cool, lid tightly and place in refrigerator for up to a week. When you wash your face in the morning or evening, use a sterile eyecup or other small sterile container to ‘wash’ your eyes with this herbal extract. If you are experiencing a painful eye condition, it is better to warm the eye bath liquid slightly before use. You can also dip cotton balls in the solution and press one on each eye (with lid closed) as a compress. Eyebright Tea: Using the same method for making an eye bath, simply drink the tea for relief of eye symptoms due to eyestrain, colds and allergies.

Then there’s a second method: by cooking. What you do there is boil the bodies in water until the flesh can easily be stripped from the bones. Then the same gasoline bath is applied.’ Dr Mengele ordered me to use the quickest method: by cooking.

Guys, I’m not in labor. I just moved too quickly, OK?’’ Aisling said. ‘‘Take your hands off her,’’ Drake said in a low voice that sounded very much like a growl. Jim sucked in its breath, sitting up to watch. ‘‘I’m not hurting her,’’ Gabriel answered, bending over her belly as he continued to gently prod her. ‘‘I’m simply trying to ascertain if she’s in labor or not. Aisling, is the pain sharp or dull?’’ The door opened, and Gabriel’s two bodyguards, Tipene and Maata, entered. Behind them came one of Drake’s men, a thick-necked, redheaded man named István. The latter picked up on Gabriel’s question. ‘‘Aisling is in pain? She is having the baby?’’ ‘‘I should examine you more fully,’’ Gabriel said, smiling at Aisling as he took her hand. ‘‘Do not worry, Aisling. I have delivered many dragons over the centuries. My mother is a very good midwifeand has taught me well.’’ Drake snatched up her other hand. ‘‘You will not examine my mate any further! We have an excellent green-dragon midwife who is attending her. Now, get away from her before I have you removed!’’ Aisling looked perfectly fine to me. She rolled her eyes, casting a pleading look skyward. I might not have experience in this area, but it was clear to me that she was not in labor. I shot a glare at Gabriel, grinding my teeth just a little at the stupidity of what was normally such a bright man, my fingers itching to pry his hand from Aisling’s. ‘‘I will tell you once more—remove your hands from her!’’ Drake’s voice got even more menacing. ‘‘Gabriel, I think she would know if she was in labor,’’ I said, nudging the dragon of mydreams a bit more forcefully. ‘‘A voice of reason at last,’’ Aisling said, giving me a smile. ‘‘Guys, I’m not—’’ István turned in the doorway and bellowed out of it. ‘‘Pál! Call the midwife! Aisling is in labor! I will call Nora and Rene. They wish to be here, yes? Should I boil water?’’ He evidently asked the last bit of Maata, who, as the female member of Gabriel’s attendants, was obviously expected to know the answer. Maata looked surprised. ‘‘Would it make you feel better to boil water?’’ she asked. István nodded his head vigorously. ‘‘It is done, is it not? The boiling of water? It is important. I saw it in a movie.’’ ‘‘Then, by all means, boil water,’’ she answered. István nodded again, announced to the room in general, ‘‘I boil water!’’ and rushed out to suit action to word. Pál, the second of Drake’s two redheaded bodyguards, slammed into István as he was leaving, scattering apologies as he dashed into the room, a cell phone in his hand. ‘‘The midwife’s phone is busy!’’ he said, offering the phone to Drake as proof. ‘‘Oh, man, if there’s going to be baby juice and blood and guck, I’m getting out of here,’’ Jim said, sidling around the clutch of people that surrounded Aisling. ‘‘I’m going to Amelie’s to be with Cecile. Someone tell me when it’s all over.’’ ‘‘Hello, can anyone hear me? I’m not in labor!’’ Aisling said. ‘‘What should I do?’’ Pál asked Drake, shaking the phone at him. ‘‘It is busy! Busy! How can it be busy?’’ A little wisp of smoke escaped Drake’s nose as he glared at the phone. ‘‘It should not be busy. Go fetch her. There is no business she can have as important as this.’’ Pál didn’t stop to answer; he just bolted from the room. ‘‘Oh, for the love of Pete! I’m not in pain! And unless dragons have some sort ofpainless labor, a notion your mother vehemently says is false, then I’m not having the baby,’’ Aisling said, but was drowned out by Maata asking if Gabriel needed help at the same time Tipene offered to take overmidwife phone duty.

She straightened her shoulders. "Sisy, are the ducks ready?" "All plucked and cleaned." Roxannah sautéed more onions and garlic with turmeric, adding roughly chopped walnuts to the sizzling butter before transferring them into a large mortar. Halpa gently removed the pestle from her hand. "I'll do this. You see to the duck." She cut the ducks into large pieces, trying to plan her next steps as she worked. The usual recipe required the duck to cook in water. Boiling made the meat tender. But it also meant that most of its flavor leached into the sauce, leaving the flesh of the fowl tasteless and stringy. She could roast the duck. But that would leave the sauce bland. Besides, roasted meat was never as fall-off-the-bone soft as boiled. It seemed stupid to try something new tonight of all nights. God, give me wisdom! Give me counsel so I know how to proceed. She waited for a moment, head bent low, trying to discern what to do. She felt a release, a sense of rightness about going forward with her risky plan. Nodding to herself, she added a dollop more butter to the same pan where she had fried the garlic and onions, which still held their lingering aroma. Sprinkling the duck with salt, she set it carefully into the sizzling pan. Halpa held the mortar under her nose. "Is this the consistency you want?" "Perfect." She fetched the jar of pomegranate molasses she had brought from home and added a heaping tablespoon to Halpa's paste, seasoning it with salt and a dash of turmeric, cinnamon, and cardamom. In the pan, she flipped the pieces of duck. Their skin had turned the color of bright copper, gleaming with melted butter. By now, the whole kitchen staff had gathered around to watch her. Even the Immortal craned his neck for a better view. She ignored them, keeping her attention on the duck. When both sides had fried evenly, she removed some of the excess fat, remembering Amestris's crack about the king's sleepless night. Pomegranate juice and a rich, gelatinous broth made from chicken bones would enrich the duck's flavor. She hoped the fried skin would seal in enough of the juices that simmering the fowl in liquid would not rob its flavor. Finally, she spooned in the paste from Halpa's mortar. Covering the pan, she lifted it over the fire to reduce the heat. It would simmer gently and, hopefully, be ready just in time for dinner.

The same boiling water that softens the potato hardens the egg. It’s what you’re made of. Not the circumstances.

Likewise, says Polkinghorne, the simple act of boiling water gives us a parable of what scientists call a “phase change.” At 100 degrees Centigrade a very small amount of water becomes a very large amount of steam as H2O moves from the liquid regime to the gaseous one. While the liquid and the gas behave in different ways, they remain the same substance. The laws of nature have not changed; only their consequences have. When Polkinghorne considers the mystery of Christ’s death and resurrection, what he sees is a phase change. Jesus was the first puff of steam in a new regime, which some of us call the kingdom of God. As a physicist, Polkinghorne knows that a new regime is accompanied by new phenomena.