Tin Cup Quotes

Either way, he figured a cup of coffee would hit the spot. For what is more versatile? As at home in tin as it is in Limoges, coffee can energize the industrious at dawn, calm the reflective at noon, or raise the spirits of the beleagured in the middle of the night.

You know,” OreSeur muttered quietly, obviously counting on her tin to let Vin hear him, “it seems that these meetings would be more productive if someone forgot to invite those two.” Vin smiled. “They’re not that bad,” she whispered. OreSeur raised an eyebrow. “Okay,” Vin said. “They do distract us a little bit.” “I could always eat on of them, if you wish,” OreSeur said. “That might speed things up.” Vin paused. OreSeur, however had a strange little smile on his lips. “Kandra humor, Mistress. I apologize. We can be a bit grim.” Vin smiled. “They probably wouldn’t taste very good anyway. Ham’s far too stringy, and you don’t want to know the kinds of things that Breeze spends his time eating….” “I’m not sure,” OreSeur said. “One is, after all, named ‘Ham.’ As for the other…” He nodded to the cup of wine in Breeze’s hand. “He does seem quite fond of marinating himself.

to me a mountain is a buddha. think of the patience, hundreds of thousands of years just sittin there bein perfectly perfectly silent and like praying for all living creatures in that silence and just waitin for us to stop all our frettin and foolin." japhy got out the tea, chinese tea, and sprinkled some in the tin pot, and had the fire going meanwhile...and pretty soon the water was boiling and he poured it out steaming into the tin pot and we had cups of tea with our tin cups... "remember that book i told you about the first sip is joy and the second is gladness, the third is serenity, the fourth is madness, the fifth is ecstasy.

Once in camp I put a log on a fire and it was full of ants. As it commenced to burn, the ants swarmed out and went first toward the center where the fire was; then turned back and ran toward the end. When there were enough on the end they fell off into the fire. Some got out, their bodies burnt and flattened, and went off not knowing where they were going. But most of them went toward the fire and then back toward the end and swarmed on the cool end and finally fell off into the fire. I remember thinking at the time that it was the end of the world and a splendid chance to be a messiah and lift the log off the fire and throw it out where the ants could get off onto the ground. But I did not do anything but throw a tin cup of water on the log, so that I would have the cup empty to put whiskey in before I added water to it. I think the cup of water on the burning log only steamed the ants.

Bedtime makes you realize how completely incapable you are of being in charge of another human being. My children act like they’ve never been to sleep before. “Bed? What’s that? No, I’m not doing that.” They never want to go to bed. This is another thing that I will never have in common with my children. Every morning when I wake up, my first thought is, “When can I come back here?” It’s the carrot that keeps me motivated. Sometimes going to bed feels like the highlight of my day. Ironically, to my children, bedtime is a punishment that violates their basic rights as human beings. Once the lights are out, you can expect at least an hour of inmates clanging their tin cups on the cell bars.

Three pairs of socks, one pair of trousers, an extra shirt. One canteen. A tin cup and plate. A cylindrical slide rule, a chronometer, a jar of spruce sap, my collection of anticorrosives -” “You were only supposed to pack what you need.” David gave an empathetic nod. “Exactly.” “Please tell me you didn’t bring all of Morozova’s journals,” I said. “Of course I did.” I rolled my eyes. There had to be at least fifteen leather-bound books. “Maybe they’ll make good kindling.” “Is she kidding?” David asked, looking concerned. “I can never tell if she’s kidding.

I envy the table its scars, the scorch marks caused by the hot bread tins. I envy its calm sense of time, and I wish I could say: I did this five years ago. I made this mark, this ring caused by a wet coffee cup, this cigarette burn, this ladder of cuts against the wood’s coarse grain. This is where Anouk carved her initials, the year she was six years old, this secret place behind the table leg. I did this on a warm day seven summers ago with the carving knife. Do you remember? Do you remember the summer the river ran dry? Do you remember? I envy the table’s calm sense of place. It has been here a long time. It belongs.

Dylan's friend Linus Millberg appears out of the crowd with a cup of beer and shouts, 'Dorothy is John Lennon, the Scarecrow is Paul McCartney, the Tin Woodman is George Harrison, the Lion's Ringo.' 'Star Trek,' commands Dylan over the lousy twangy country CB's is playing between sets. 'Easy,' Linus shouts back. "Kirk's John, Spock's Paul, Bones is George, Scotty is Ringo. Or Chekov, after the first season. Doesn't matter, it's like a Scotty-Chekov-combination Ringo. Spare parts are always surplus Georges or Ringos.' 'But isn't Spock-lacks-a-heart and McCoy-lacks-a-brain like Woodman and Scarecrow? So Dorothy's Kirk?' 'You don't get it. That's just a superficial coincidence. The Beatle thing is an archetype, it's like the basic human formation. Everything naturally forms into a Beatles, people can't help it.' 'Say the types again.' 'Responsible-parent genius-parent genius-child clown-child.' 'Okay, do Star Wars.' 'Luke Paul, Han Solo John, Chewbacca George, the robots Ringo.' 'Tonight Show.' 'Uh, Johnny Carson Paul, the guest John, Ed McMahon Ringo, whatisname George.' 'Doc Severinson.' 'Yeah, right. See, everything revolves around John, even Paul. That's why John's the guest.' 'And Severinson's quiet but talented, like a Wookie.' 'You begin to understand.

Halla rolled her eyes at him, licking bacon grease off her fingers. Sarkis’s gaze locked on her mouth, and it took her a moment to think why. Oh. Uh. Licking my fingers. Yes. Men get very interested in that. Should I try to flirt? Or am I supposed to lick something else? She was out of bacon and probably nobody found licking a tin cup sexy. Licking the wagon was right out. Dammit, I’m bad at this.

Ironically, to my children, bedtime is a punishment that violates their basic rights as human beings. Once the lights are out, you can expect at least an hour of inmates clanging their tin cups on the cell bars.

Cup of tea?' Lupin said, looking around for his kettle. 'I was just thinking of making one.' 'All right,' said Harry, awkwardly. Lupin tapped the kettle with his wand and a blast of steam issued suddenly from the spout. 'Sit down,' said Lupin, taking the lid off a dusty tin. 'I've only got teabags, I'm afraid-but I daresay you've had enough of tea leaves?' Harry looked at him. Lupin's eyes were twinkling. 'How did you know that?' Harry asked. 'Professor McGonagall told me,' said Lupin, passing Harry a chipped mug of tea. 'You're not worried, are you?

She remembered how Billy always picked the first apple blossoms and put them into a tin cup for her. They made the house smell like springtime. Billy said apple trees were a double blessing, first for the blossoms and then the apples.

They were taken from Anacortes on a train to a transit camp—the horse stables at the Puyallup fairgrounds. They lived in the horse stalls and slept on canvas army cots; at nine p.m. they were confined to their stalls; at ten p.m. they were made to turn out their lights, one bare bulb for each family. The cold in the stalls worked into their bones, and when it rained that night they moved their cots because of the leaks in the roof. The next morning, at six A.M., they slogged through mud to the transit camp mess hall and ate canned figs and white bread from pie tins and drank coffee out of tin cups.

Why are you so hard on yourself? I love you just the way you are, with your withered coat and wet scarf dangling like a spotless chandelier. The snow banks in Montreal are high, but I can see your trace, and silent grace and tin cup through the paned window. The precipitation melts your face, distorting your expression through the aged glass; broken, when I threw ancient stones to get your attention as a child. I wanted a friend. The honest kind.

That strong, grassy smell, raw milk in a tin cup.

Okay, Croaker. What the hell happened?” “I don't know. The falling sickness?” “Give him some of his own soup,” somebody suggested. “Serve him right.” A tin cup appeared. We forced its contents down his throat. His eye clicked open. “What are you trying to do? Poison me? Feh! What was that? Boiled sewage?” “Your soup,” I told him.

We were doing the best we could with what we had left, and more and more it was like Diogenes tossing away the tin cup because he could drink with his hands. It turns out there is no end to learning what you can do without.

I will have no claim to make except that I need you so much. And that I love you. I told you once not to consider it. Now I'll use it as a tin cup.

My dad may consider putting into a tin cup in his basement a good form of practice, but unless he’s consciously challenging himself and monitoring his performance—reviewing, responding, rethinking, rejiggering—it’s never going to make him appreciably better. Regular practice simply isn’t enough. To improve, we must watch ourselves fail, and learn from our mistakes.

This was Confection, land of the culinary art become miracle; land of lonely children whose hands itched for pie tins or rolling pins, for the comfortable predictability of timers and sugar scoops and heaping cups of flour. This was a land where perfectly measured ingredients created nonsensical towers of whimsy and wonder - and maybe that was why they could be here, logical creatures that they were, without feeling assaulted by the world around them.

he figured a cup of coffee would hit the spot. For what is more versatile? As at home in tin as it is in Limoges, coffee can energize the industrious at dawn, calm the reflective at noon, or raise the spirits of the beleaguered in the middle of the night.

As if, at every meal, the cadets fill their tin cups not with the cold mineralized water of Schulpforta but with a spirit that leaves them glazed and dazzled, as if they ward off a vast and inevitable tidal wave of anguish only by staying forever drunk on rigor and exercise and gleaming boot leather.

They agreed they neither gave two hoots now as to how marriages were normally conducted. They would do as they pleased and run their lives by the roll of the seasons. In autumn the apple trees would be bright and heavy with apples and they would hunt birds together, since Ada had proved so successful with the turkeys. They would not hunt with the gaudy Italian piece of Monroe's but with fine simple shotguns they would order from England. In summer they would catch trout with tackle from the same sporting country. They would grow old together measuring time by the life spans of a succession of speckled bird dogs. At some point, well past midlife, they might take up painting and get little tin fieldboxes of watercolors, likewise from England. Go on country walks, and when they saw a scene that pleased them, stop and dip cups of water from a creek and form the lines and tints on paper for future reference.

You think we’ll be able to hear each other? You know, since you’re a mile away from me?” I point at the chair next to me. “Wouldn’t this seat work better?” A shrug comes from her. “This one’s just fine.” I mutter under my breath. “What did you say?” I look up, grin, and cup my mouth. “I said, SHOULD HAVE BROUGHT TWO TIN CANS AND A PIECE OF STRING!

His fingers brush over the letters of his name, as hers must have a hundred times before, and then he bends his head and weeps for the childhood he lost, for the mother who never stopped loving him, who kept what she could of him no matter what. This is what she had to her name when she died: a tin cup, a kerchief, and her son’s name written in his book.

At the beginning of the semester, Ulla wanted to pose only for the 'new trends' - a flea that Meiter, her Easter egg painter had put in her ear; his engagement present to her had been a vocabulary which she tried out in conversations with me. She spoke of relationships, constellations, actions, perspectives, granular structures, processes of fusion, phenomena of erosion. She, whose daily fare consisted exclusively of bananas and tomato juice, spoke of proto-cells, color atoms which in their dynamic flat trajectories found their natural positions in their fields of forces, but did not stop there; no, they went on and on... This was the tone of the conversation with me during our rest periods or when we went out for an occasional cup of coffee in Ratinger-Strasse. Even when her engagement to the dynamic painter of Easter eggs had ceased to be, even when after a brief episode with a Lesbian she took up with one of Kuchen's students and returned to the objective world, she retained this vocabulary which so strained her little face that two sharp, rather fanatical creases formed on either side of her mouth.

Hold on," Marjan said, reaching behind a tin of pistachio nougats. She found the bottle, unscrewing the cap as her back was turned to her sisters. She upended it, letting the rosewater, the priceless tears of that queen of blossoms, pool in her cupped hand. She turned back to Bahar and smiled. "Better late than never," she said, showering her sister with a brand-new day.

You have two choices, [Plouffe] told Obama. You can stay in the Senate, enjoy your weekends at home, take regular vacations, and have a lovely time with your family. Or you can run for president, have your whole life poked at and pried into, almost never see your family, travel incessantly, bang your tin cup for donations like some street-corner beggar, lead a lonely, miserable life.

Any meal at the front was an exercise in war-time ingenuity and devotion of the lower classes for their officers. The Petite Marmite a la Thermit was from beef-broth cubes, the tinned Canadian salmon was called Saumon de Tin A & Q Sauce. The Epaule d'Agneau Wellington, N.Z. was army ration lamb, and the terrine of foie gras aux truffes was a can of foie gras that I had bought from the French commanding general. There was a salad of fresh lettuce from somewhere (no one asked in what or whose fertilizer it had been grown in since we would all soon be dead anyway) and the Macedoine de Fruits a la Quatre Bas was a can of mixed fruit. Then fresh strawberries soaked in Cognac. All the usual wines starting with an amontillado, Pommery Extra Sec, Chateau Steenworde Claret, Graham's Five Crowns Port, Bisquit Dubouche Grande Champagne Cognac, Brandy and a Waterloo Cup.

Rose Caramels 2 1/2 cups sweet milk 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 2 teaspoons chopped dried rose petals 1/2 c up molasses 1 cup granulated sugar Heat milk, vanilla, and rose petals in a small saucepan and simmer for 5 minutes. Strain petals and cool milk mixture. Then in separate saucepan boil molasses, sugar, and milk mixture for 15 to 20 minutes. Pour mixture into greased tin and cut into small squares once cooled. An excellent hostess gift!

Rose Caramels 2 1/2 cups sweet milk 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 2 teaspoons chopped dried rose petals 1/2 c up molasses 1 cup granulated sugar Heat milk, vanilla, and rose petals in a small saucepan and simmer for 5 minutes. Strain petals and cool milk mixture. Then in separate saucepan boil molasses, sugar, and milk mixture for 15 to 20 minutes. Poor mixture into greased tin and cut into small squares once cooled. An excellent hostess gift!

but here is the best peach pie we made: Put 1 ¼ cups flour, ½ teaspoon salt, ½ cup butter and 2 tablespoons sour cream into a Cuisinart and blend until they form a ball. Pat out into a buttered pie tin, and bake 10 minutes at 425°. Beat 3 egg yolks slightly and combine with 1 cup sugar, 2 tablespoons flour and ⅓ cup sour cream. Pour over 3 peeled, sliced peaches arranged in the crust. Cover with foil. Reduce the oven to 350° and bake 35 minutes. Remove the foil and bake 10 minutes more, or until the filling is set.

But as their journey progressed such interruptions came to seem more and more unreal to Andrews. The reality of their journey lay in the routine detail of bedding down at night, arising in the morning, drinking black coffee from hot tin cups, packing bedrolls upon gradually wearying horses, the monotonous and numbing movement over the prairie that never changed its aspect, the watering of the horses and oxen at noon, the eating of hard biscuit and dried fruit, the resumption of the journey, the fumbling setting up of camp in the darkness, the tasteless quantities of beans and bacon gulped savagely in the flickering darkness, the coffee again, and the bedding down. This came to be a ritual, more and more meaningless as it was repeated, but a ritual which nevertheless gave his life the only shape it now had. It seemed to him that he moved forward laboriously, inch by inch, over the space of the vast prairie; but it seemed that he did not move through time at all, that rather time moved with him, an invisible cloud that hovered about him and clung to him as he went forward.

Marie-Neige was on the shore, near the light, a tin outline. She lifted the lamp above her head and called out his name and he said Yes and she turned. She could see the ribs on his body as he came into more and more light. She placed the lamp on the grass and picked up her cotton dress and began drying her hair, so it was no longer plastered around her face, then came nearer to him and rubbed his hair dry with the dress. So now they looked as they did in a room, or across a table, no longer appearing as strangers to each other. On his knees, behind her, he pulled her thighs back to him in a slow rocking, as if he wanted her now to search for him, the heat of her cave onto his coldness, missing each other, and she said his name again and he moved into her, her softness and the unknown warmth. How many stories were read between them in which they had discovered the codes of eventual love and said nothing in their shyness. She’d barely been touched by him—his cupped hands once on her shoulders, his hard grip when she pulled the splinter out of his eye, his holding her small hands across a table. It was as if they had both known what all this would be like, these doorways and reflections of each other, this cautious modesty and the secrets of herself she had hidden from others. All that witnessed them was a lamp in the grass. She moved back onto his lap so she could control their movement, slow him into more intimacy, so his hands could hold the quiver in her stomach and there could be an equal pleasure. They heard nothing, not the sterile thunder or the mock of the bird or the million insects carelessly yelling. Just their breath, as if they were dying beside each other.

Harriet turned round, and we both saw a girl walking towards us. She was dark-skinned and thin, not veiled but dressed in a sitara, a brightly coloured robe of greens and pinks, and she wore a headscarf of a deep rose colour. In that barren place the vividness of her dress was all the more striking. On her head she balanced a pitcher and in her hand she carried something. As we watched her approach, I saw that she had come from a small house, not much more than a cave, which had been built into the side of the mountain wall that formed the far boundary of the gravel plateau we were standing on. I now saw that the side of the mountain had been terraced in places and that there were a few rows of crops growing on the terraces. Small black and brown goats stepped up and down amongst the rocks with acrobatic grace, chewing the tops of the thorn bushes. As the girl approached she gave a shy smile and said, ‘Salaam alaikum, ’ and we replied, ‘Wa alaikum as salaam, ’ as the sheikh had taught us. She took the pitcher from where it was balanced on her head, kneeled on the ground, and gestured to us to sit. She poured water from the pitcher into two small tin cups, and handed them to us. Then she reached into her robe and drew out a flat package of greaseproof paper from which she withdrew a thin, round piece of bread, almost like a large flat biscuit. She broke off two pieces, and handed one to each of us, and gestured to us to eat and drink. The water and the bread were both delicious. We smiled and mimed our thanks until I remembered the Arabic word, ‘Shukran.’ So we sat together for a while, strangers who could speak no word of each other’s languages, and I marvelled at her simple act. She had seen two people walking in the heat, and so she laid down whatever she had been doing and came to render us a service. Because it was the custom, because her faith told her it was right to do so, because her action was as natural to her as the water that she poured for us. When we declined any further refreshment after a second cup of water she rose to her feet, murmured some word of farewell, and turned and went back to the house she had come from. Harriet and I looked at each other as the girl walked back to her house. ‘That was so…biblical,’ said Harriet. ‘Can you imagine that ever happening at home?’ I asked. She shook her head. ‘That was charity. Giving water to strangers in the desert, where water is so scarce. That was true charity, the charity of poor people giving to the rich.’ In Britain a stranger offering a drink to a thirsty man in a lonely place would be regarded with suspicion. If someone had approached us like that at home, we would probably have assumed they were a little touched or we were going to be asked for money. We might have protected ourselves by being stiff and unfriendly, evasive or even rude.

Sleep would not come so easily to me. I tried to settle my nerves. I slipped out and made myself a cup of chamomile, only I couldn’t tell if I had used the wrong tin, or if now that I was the Seer, chamomile really did taste like riding a hot air balloon in the mist on a nondescript Saturday afternoon.

On this bald hill the new year hones its edge. Faceless and pale as china The round sky goes on minding its business. Your absence is inconspicuous; Nobody can tell what I lack. Gulls have threaded the river’s mud bed back To this crest of grass. Inland, they argue, Settling and stirring like blown paper Or the hands of an invalid. The wan Sun manages to strike such tin glints From the linked ponds that my eyes wince And brim; the city melts like sugar. A crocodile of small girls Knotting and stopping, ill-assorted, in blue uniforms, Opens to swallow me. I’m a stone, a stick, One child drops a carrette of pink plastic; None of them seem to notice. Their shrill, gravelly gossip’s funneled off. Now silence after silence offers itself. The wind stops my breath like a bandage. Southward, over Kentish Town, an ashen smudge Swaddles roof and tree. It could be a snowfield or a cloudbank. I suppose it’s pointless to think of you at all. Already your doll grip lets go. The tumulus, even at noon, guargs its black shadow: You know me less constant, Ghost of a leaf, ghost of a bird. I circle the writhen trees. I am too happy. These faithful dark-boughed cypresses Brood, rooted in their heaped losses. Your cry fades like the cry of a gnat. I lose sight of you on your blind journey, While the heath grass glitters and the spindling rivulets Unpool and spend themselves. My mind runs with them, Pooling in heel-prints, fumbling pebble and stem. The day empties its images Like a cup of a room. The moon’s crook whitens, Thin as the skin seaming a scar. Now, on the nursery wall, The blue night plants, the little pale blue hill In your sister’s birthday picture start to glow. The orange pompons, the Egyptian papyrus Light up. Each rabbit-eared Blue shrub behind the glass Exhales an indigo nimbus, A sort of cellophane balloon. The old dregs, the old difficulties take me to wife. Gulls stiffen to their chill vigil in the drafty half-light; I enter the lit house.

Another innovation on Franks Wild Years is the prevalence of the bullhorn, which Waits sings through on at least four cuts. “Well, I tried to obtain that same sound in other ways,” he explains, “by using broken microphones, singing into tin cans, cupping my hands around the microphone, putting the vocal through an Auratone speaker, which is like a car radio speaker, and then miking that. Practically even considered at one point making a record and then broadcasting the record through like a radio station and then having it come out of the car and then mike the car … and then it just became too complicated, you know? So a bullhorn seemed to be the answer to it all.

I take a shower, then make tomato soup from scratch for lunch. As I puree tomatoes in a blender, Mom leans on the counter, sipping her tea. “You know that comes ready-made in a tin,” she points out. “Canned soup isn’t made with love,” I say. “Love is messy.” she points to the tomato-splashed spoons, pots, and measuring cups in the sink. “Worth it,” I reply.

Coconut Muffins Makes 6 Muffins If you know you’ll be on the run, keep these candida-safe muffins on hand. Some of the varieties in this book are extra eggy and hearty, but these are light and sweet. Take advantage of the variety. • 2 tablespoons coconut oil, melted into liquid form, plus more for greasing muffin tin • 3 eggs • Coconut milk and liquid stevia to make up ¼ cup total • ¼ teaspoon sea salt • ¼ cup sifted coconut flour • ¼ teaspoon baking powder • 3 tablespoons shredded, unsweetened coconut 1. Preheat oven to 400°F. Grease a 6-muffin tin with coconut oil or use paper muffin cups. Set aside. 2. In a small bowl beat eggs, coconut oil, milk and stevia mixture, and salt. Combine coconut flour and baking powder, and whisk into batter until smooth. 3. Fill muffin cups half full with batter and sprinkle with shredded coconut. Bake in preheated oven for 15 to 20 minutes.

I'll have a cup of coffee and one of your blueberry muffins." She sighed and looked at me. "Your grandmother was such a good cook. Her blueberry muffins were extraordinary." "Yes, they were," I said, and I was back on Steiner Street again, Gran and I taking muffins from her tins and placing them on a wire rack to cool, the smell of baked sugar hanging in the oven-warmed air, the muffin tops covered with rivers of blue where the berries had melted from the heat.

With orchards and gardens bursting with delicious Kentish apples, now is the time to fetch out those favourite recipes. Spiced Apple Cake is simple to make and a nice change from a pie. It works well served warm with custard, or cold with a cup of tea in place of a traditional fruit cake. 3 apples, peeled, cored and sliced 2 tsp golden syrup 1 tbsp butter 1 tsp ground cinnamon Sponge mix: 4 oz butter 2 tbsp golden syrup 4 oz caster sugar 2 eggs 4 oz self-raising flour 1 tbsp milk Simmer the apples with the syrup, butter and cinnamon for a few minutes until tender but not mushy. To prepare the topping, soften the butter and golden syrup in a bowl over a basin of hot water. Remove from the heat and beat in the sugar and eggs. Fold in the flour, adding milk to give the consistency of lightly whipped cream. Place the apple chunks in a greased tin or ovenproof dish and pour over the topping. Bake at Gas Mark 4 for 25 to 30 minutes until the sponge is golden brown and springy to touch.

1¾ cups flour 2 teaspoons cinnamon 1 teaspoon nutmeg ½ teaspoon ginger 1 teaspoon baking powder ½ teaspoon baking soda 2 eggs ¾ cup honey 4 tablespoons melted butter ¼ cup oil (vegetable or canola) 1 cup milk (buttermilk can also be used) 1½ teaspoons vanilla Preheat oven to 400 degrees. In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, baking powder, and baking soda. Set aside. In another bowl, whisk eggs, honey, butter, oil, milk, and vanilla. Fold dry ingredients into wet and stir until just combined. Grease a donut pan or cupcake tin and fill halfway with batter. (If you do not have a donut pan, use a cupcake/muffin pan. Create small cylinders of tinfoil, place one in the middle of each cup, and spray each cylinder with cooking oil. If using the cupcake tin with aluminum foil cylinders, transfer batter to a ziplock bag and cut a hole to pipe batter around cylinders.) Bake for 8 to 10 minutes. HONEY GLAZE ¼ cup melted butter 1 cup confectioners’ sugar ½ teaspoon vanilla ⅓ cup hot water 1 teaspoon honey Combine all ingredients in a small bowl. Dip warm donuts in glaze. You can omit the glaze and just drizzle honey on top and, if you like, sprinkle with sea salt.

HONEY-GLAZED SPICED DONUTS (Makes a dozen) 1¾ cups flour 2 teaspoons cinnamon 1 teaspoon nutmeg ½ teaspoon ginger 1 teaspoon baking powder ½ teaspoon baking soda 2 eggs ¾ cup honey 4 tablespoons melted butter ¼ cup oil (vegetable or canola) 1 cup milk (buttermilk can also be used) 1½ teaspoons vanilla Preheat oven to 400 degrees. In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, baking powder, and baking soda. Set aside. In another bowl, whisk eggs, honey, butter, oil, milk, and vanilla. Fold dry ingredients into wet and stir until just combined. Grease a donut pan or cupcake tin and fill halfway with batter. (If you do not have a donut pan, use a cupcake/muffin pan. Create small cylinders of tinfoil, place one in the middle of each cup, and spray each cylinder with cooking oil. If using the cupcake tin with aluminum foil cylinders, transfer batter to a ziplock bag and cut a hole to pipe batter around cylinders.) Bake for 8 to 10 minutes. HONEY GLAZE ¼ cup melted butter 1 cup confectioners’ sugar ½ teaspoon vanilla ⅓ cup hot water 1 teaspoon honey Combine all ingredients in a small bowl. Dip warm donuts in glaze. You can omit the glaze and just drizzle honey on top and, if you like, sprinkle with sea salt.

HONEY-GLAZED SPICED DONUTS (Makes a dozen) 1¾ cups flour 2 teaspoons cinnamon 1 teaspoon nutmeg ½ teaspoon ginger 1 teaspoon baking powder ½ teaspoon baking soda 2 eggs ¾ cup honey 4 tablespoons melted butter ¼ cup oil (vegetable or canola) 1 cup milk (buttermilk can also be used) 1½ teaspoons vanilla Preheat oven to 400 degrees. In a medium bowl, whisk together flour, cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, baking powder, and baking soda. Set aside. In another bowl, whisk eggs, honey, butter, oil, milk, and vanilla. Fold dry ingredients into wet and stir until just combined. Grease a donut pan or cupcake tin and fill halfway with batter. (If you do not have a donut pan, use a cupcake/muffin pan. Create small cylinders of tinfoil, place one in the middle of each cup, and spray each cylinder with cooking oil. If using the cupcake tin with aluminum foil cylinders, transfer batter to a ziplock bag and cut a hole to pipe batter around cylinders.) Bake for 8 to 10 minutes. HONEY GLAZE ¼ cup melted butter 1 cup confectioners’ sugar ½ teaspoon vanilla ⅓ cup hot water 1 teaspoon honey Combine all ingredients in a small bowl. Dip warm donuts in glaze. You can omit the glaze and just drizzle honey on top and, if you like, sprinkle with sea salt. HONEY

The rock came loose, but Jake’s satisfied grunt turned into a howl of outraged pain as a set of huge teeth in the next stall clamped into Jake’s ample rear end. “You vicious bag of bones,” he shouted, jumping to his feet and throwing himself half over the rail in an attempt to land a punch on Attila’s body. As if the horse anticipated retribution, he sidled to the edge of his stall and regarded Jake from the corner of his eye with an expression that looked to Jake like complacent satisfaction. “I’ll get you for that,” Jake promised, and he started to shake his fist when he realized how absurd it was to threaten a dumb beast. Rubbing his offended backside, he turned to Mayhem and carefully put his own rump against the outside wall of the barn. He checked the hoof to make certain it was clean, but the moment his fingers touched the place where the rock had been lodged the chestnut jerked in pain. “Bruised you, did it?” Jake said sympathetically. “It’s not surprisin’, considering the size and shape of the rock. But you never gave a sign yesterday that you were hurtin’,” he continued. Raising his voice and infusing it with a wealth of exaggerated admiration, the patted the chestnut’s flank and glanced disdainfully at Attila while he spoke to Mayhem. “That’s because you’re a true aristocrat and a fine, brave animal-not a miserable, sneaky mule who’s not fit to be your stallmate!” If Attila cared one way or another for Jake’s opinion, he was disappointingly careful not to show it, which only made Jake’s mood more stormy when he stomped into the cottage. Ian was sitting at the table, a cup of steaming coffee cradled between his palms. “Good morning,” he said to Jake, studying the older man’s thunderous frown. “Mebbe you think so, but I can’t see it. Course, I’ve spent the night freezin’ out there, bedded down next to a horse that wants to make a meal of me, and who broke his fast with a bit of my arse already this mornin’. And,” he finished irately as he poured coffee from the tin pot into an earthenware mug and cast a quelling look at his amused friend, “your horse is lame!” Flinging himself into the chair beside Ian, he gulped down the scalding coffee without thinking what he was doing; his eyes bulged, and sweat popped out on his forehead. Ian’s grin faded. “He’s what?” “Picked up a rock, and he’s favoring his left foreleg.” Ian’s chair legs scraped against the wooden floor as he shoved his chair back and started to go to the barn. “There’s no need. It’s just a bruise.

Soviets had their own atomic bomb, Kennan argued that it made no sense for the United States to get into a spiraling nuclear arms race. Like Oppenheimer, he believed that the bomb was ultimately a suicidal weapon and therefore both militarily useless and dangerous. Besides, Kennan was confident that the Soviet Union was politically and economically the weaker of the two adversaries, and that in the long run America could wear down the Soviet system by means of diplomacy and the “judicious exploitation of our strength as a deterrent to world conflict. . . .” Kennan’s eighty-page “personal document” might well have been coauthored with Oppenheimer, reflecting as it did so many of Robert’s views. Indeed, both he and Kennan took its reception as a plunging barometer, indicating the approach of violent political storms. Circulated within the State Department, Kennan’s memo was quietly and firmly rejected by all who read it. Acheson called Kennan into his office one day and said, “George, if you persist in your view on this matter, you should resign from the Foreign Service, assume a monk’s habit, carry a tin cup and stand on the street corner and say, ‘The end of the world is nigh.’ ” Acheson didn’t even bother to show the document to President Truman.

Morning in the Burned House" In the burned house I am eating breakfast. You understand: there is no house, there is no breakfast, yet here I am. The spoon which was melted scrapes against the bowl which was melted also. No one else is around. Where have they gone to, brother and sister, mother and father? Off along the shore, perhaps. Their clothes are still on the hangers, their dishes piled beside the sink, which is beside the woodstove with its grate and sooty kettle, every detail clear, tin cup and rippled mirror. The day is bright and songless, the lake is blue, the forest watchful. In the east a bank of cloud rises up silently like dark bread. I can see the swirls in the oilcloth, I can see the flaws in the glass, those flares where the sun hits them. I can't see my own arms and legs or know if this is a trap or blessing, finding myself back here, where everything in this house has long been over, kettle and mirror, spoon and bowl, including my own body, including the body I had then, including the body I have now as I sit at this morning table, alone and happy, bare child's feet on the scorched floorboards (I can almost see) in my burning clothes, the thin green shorts and grubby yellow T-shirt holding my cindery, non-existent, radiant flesh. Incandescent.

There are millions of thirsty souls. There is sufficient water in the 'well of salvation' to adequately quench every one of those thirsty souls. God is looking for vessels through which He might transmit this living water to them. It matters not regarding the apparent outward value of the vessel or the seeming lack of worth. The only kind of vessel that He can use to carry this living water to these dying souls is a vessel that is 'meet for the Master's use,' that is one that is first cleansed of sin and then emptied of self. Perhaps this truth can be more readily made clear by a simple illustration. Let us imagine a clear, crystal stream of living water flowing beside a broad way. There comes a tired, worn-out, thirsty traveller. He sees the water, but it flows under such circumstances as to make it impossible for him to reach this stream from his mouth. He spies three vessels: a golden goblet, a silver pitcher, and a tin cup. Upon investigation he finds that the golden goblet us filled with something else. The silver pitcher is empty, apparently ready for service but is soiled within; the tin cup alone is clean and emptied. We leave it to you to decide which one he chooses. To rightly get at the heart of this great truth, meditate on: Acts 24:16; 2 Tim. 2:20-21; and 1 Cor. 1:26-30. Which kind are you?

Eleanor’s Black Cake Recipe Quantities are approximate. Eleanor never did write them down. Ingredients: 12 ounces flour 4 ounces breadcrumbs 1 teaspoon baking powder ½ teaspoon baking soda 1 or ½ teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon mixed spice (cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves) 1 pound dark brown sugar (plus extra for the blacking) 2 teaspoons vanilla 1 pound butter (4 sticks), at room temperature 12 eggs 5 to 6 cups dried fruit (raisins, prunes, currants), soaked at least 4 months in white or dark rum and port to cover. If using, dates and maraschino cherries should only be added at mixing time. Instructions: Preheat the oven to 350°F. Add all the dry ingredients to a bowl and blend. In a separate bowl, rub together the sugar and butter, or use a mixer on low, until smooth and fluffy. Add vanilla. Add 1 egg, mix 1-1 ½ minutes, add 1 ⅓ ounces flour-breadcrumbs mixture. Repeat until all eggs and flour are gone. Mix in the blacking. Make the blacking by melting brown sugar in a saucepan over low heat until it is caramelized. You will need more than you think! Puree half the fruits in a blender. Combine and add to the batter. Grease two cake tins. Cut wax paper circles to line the bottoms of the tins. Pour in the batter until the tins are three-quarters full. To bake: Place the tins on the middle rack of the oven. Place a separate pan filled with tap water on the rack beneath. Bake for 1 to 2 hours, until the cake starts to pull away from the side of the pan and a knife inserted into the middle comes out dry. Depends on oven, tin size, and weather.

Michael’s Magical Sweet Potato Muffins WHISK TOGETHER 1 cup dark brown sugar, 1/2 cup oil, 1 running-over teaspoon vanilla, and 2 eggs. Then, in another bowl, mix together 2 cups all-purpose flour, 2 teaspoons baking powder, 1 teaspoon cinnamon, 1 teaspoon nutmeg, 1/2 teaspoon allspice, and 1/2 teaspoon salt. To that, add 2 big giant sweet potatoes—either baked or boiled—and mashed. I suppose you COULD use canned ones, but it kinda makes me gag to think about. Add your egg/sugar mixture to all of that and stir it up without beating it to death. Put it in greased muffin tins and bake for about 25 to 30 minutes at 350°F. (If you want to, you could add 1/2 cup raisins or 1 cup pecans. I’d go with the pecans—not a big fan of raisins in stuff, but that’s just me.)   Okay—I have got

If they’re not practicing deliberately, even experts can see their skills backslide. Ericsson shared with me an incredible example of this. Even though you might be inclined to trust the advice of a silver-haired doctor over one fresh out of medical school, it’s been found that in a few fields of medicine, doctors’ skills don’t improve the longer they’ve been practicing. The diagnostic accuracy of professional mammographers, for example, doesn’t get more accurate over the years. Why would that be? For most mammographers, practicing medicine is not deliberate practice, according to Ericsson. It’s more like putting into a tin cup than working with a coach. That’s because mammographers usually only find out if they missed a tumor months or years later, if at all, at which point they’ve probably forgotten the details of the case and can no longer learn from their successes and mistakes. One field of medicine in which this is definitively not the case is surgery. Unlike mammographers, surgeons tend to get better with time. What makes surgeons different from mammographers, according to Ericsson, is that the outcome of most surgeries is usually immediately apparent—the patient either gets better or doesn’t—which means that surgeons are constantly receiving feedback on their performance. They’re always learning what works and what doesn’t, always getting better. This finding leads to a practical application of expertise theory: Ericsson suggests that mammographers regularly be asked to evaluate old cases for which the outcome is already known. That way they can get immediate feedback on their performance.

Cakes: Microwave milk, water, oil, and butter for two minutes. Make certain it is not too hot to touch (90–100 degrees. We don’t want to kill off our little hardworking yeast, do we? No. We are not killers). Crack eggs into liquid. In the mixing bowl of a standing mixer, combine 1 ½ cups of flour, the salt, sugar, and yeast. Add the liquid and stir thoroughly. Add remaining 2 cups of flour one cup at a time, stirring between each addition. With mixer on low and using the bread paddle or hook, mix dough for 4 minutes. If you don’t have a standing mixer for some strange reason, which I cannot fathom because they are the most useful things ever, you can knead it by hand for 8 minutes instead. Scrape dough into a greased and floured mixing bowl. Let rise for one hour in a warm place. (I preheat my oven to 100 degrees and then turn it off before putting the dough inside, covered with a towel. This is a Great Way to Not Kill Your Yeast.) After one hour, remove the dough and place on a floured cutting board. Gently roll it out to a 12 x 20 inch(ish) rectangle. Combine 3 tablespoons melted butter and ¼ teaspoon orange extract for the filling. Spoon the filling to cover the rectangle, then roll it up. It will be . . . slimy. Delicious, but slimy. Use a sharp knife to cut the log into 12 rolls. (They should be swirled like cinnamon rolls.) Place each roll cut side up in a greased muffin tin and let rise for a half hour covered with the towel. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees, then bake rolls (remove the towel first, flames are such a pain in the kitchen) for 14 minutes. Let them cool in the pan for a few minutes, then tip them out onto a large plate for the next step.

Gray burst into the galley. “Miss Turner is not eating.” The cramped, boxed-in nature of the space, the oppressive heat-it seemed an appropriate place to take this irrational surge of resentment. If only his emotion could dissipate through the ventilation slats as quickly as steam. “And good morning to you, too.” Gabriel wiped his hands on his apron without glancing up. “She’s not eating,” Gray repeated evenly. “She’s wasting away.” He didn’t even realize his knuckled cracked. He flexed his fingers impatiently. “Wasting away?” Gabriel’s face split in a grin as he picked up a mallet and attacked a hunk of salted pork. “Now what makes you say that?” “Her dress no longer fits properly. The neckline of her bodice is too loose.” Gabriel stopped pounding and looked up, meeting Gray’s eyes for the first time since he’d entered the galley. The mocking arch of the old man’s eyebrows had Gray clenching his teeth. They stared at each other for a second. Then Gray blew out his breath and looked away, and Gabriel broke into peals of laughter. “Never thought I’d live to see the day,” the old cook finally said, “when you would complain that a beautiful lady’s bodice was too loose.” “It’s not that she’s a beautiful lady-“ Gabriel looked up sharply. “It’s not merely that she’s a beautiful lady,” Gray amended. “She’s a passenger, and I have a duty to look out for her welfare.” “Wouldn’t that be the captain’s duty?” Gray narrowed his eyes. “And I know my duty well enough,” Gabriel continued. “It’s not as though I’m denying her food, now is it? I’m thinking Miss Turner just isn’t accustomed to the rough living aboard a ship. Used to finer fare, that one.” Gray scowled at the hunk of cured pork under Gabriel’s mallet and the shriveled, sprouted potatoes rolling back and forth with each tilt of the ship. “Is this the noon meal?” “This, and biscuit.” “I’ll order the men to trawl for a fish.” “Wouldn’t that be the captain’s duty?” Gabriel’s tone was sly. Gray wasn’t sure whether the plume of steam swirling through the galley originated for the stove or his ears. He didn’t care for Gabriel’s flippant tone. Neither did he care for the possibility of Miss Turner’s lush curves disappearing when he’d never had any chance to appreciate them. Frustrated beyond all reason, Gray turned to leave, wrenching open the galley door with such force, the hinges creaked in protest. He took a deep breath to compose himself, resolving not to slam the door shut behind him. Gabriel stopped pounding. “Sit down, Gray. Rest your bones.” With another rough sigh, Gray complied. He backed up two paces, slung himself onto a stool, and watched as the cook grabbed a tin cup from a hook on the wall and filled it, drawing a dipper of liquid from a small leather bucket. Then Gabriel set the cup on the table before him. Milk. Gabriel stared it. “For God’s sake, Gabriel. I’m not six years old anymore.” The old man raised his eyebrows. “Well, seeing as how you haven’t outgrown a visit to the kitchen when you’re in a sulk, I thought maybe you’d have a taste for milk yet, too. You did buy the goats.

After the Grand Perhaps” After vespers, after the first snow has fallen to its squalls, after New Wave, after the anorexics have curled into their geometric forms, after the man with the apparition in his one bad eye has done red things behind the curtain of the lid & sleeps, after the fallout shelter in the elementary school has been packed with tins & other tangibles, after the barn boys have woken, startled by foxes & fire, warm in their hay, every part of them blithe & smooth & touchable, after the little vandals have tilted toward the impossible seduction to smash glass in the dark, getting away with the most lethal pieces, leaving the shards which travel most easily through flesh as message on the bathroom floor, the parking lots, the irresistible debris of the neighbor’s yard where he’s been constructing all winter long. After the pain has become an old known friend, repeating itself, you can hold on to it. The power of fright, I think, is as much as magnetic heat or gravity. After what is boundless: wind chimes, fertile patches of the land, the ochre symmetry of fields in fall, the end of breath, the beginning of shadow, the shadow of heat as it moves the way the night heads west, I take this road to arrive at its end where the toll taker passes the night, reading. I feel the cupped heat of his left hand as he inherits change; on the road that is not his road anymore I belong to whatever it is which will happen to me. When I left this city I gave back the metallic waking in the night, the signals of barges moving coal up a slow river north, the movement of trains, each whistle like a woodwind song of another age passing, each ambulance would split a night in two, lying in bed as a little girl, a fear of being taken with the sirens as they lit the neighborhood in neon, quick as the fire as it takes fire & our house goes up in night. After what is arbitrary: the hand grazing something too sharp or fine, the word spoken out of sleep, the buckling of the knees to cold, the melting of the parts to want, the design of the moon to cast unfriendly light, the dazed shadow of the self as it follows the self, the toll taker’s sorrow that we couldn’t have been more intimate. Which leads me back to the land, the old wolves which used to roam on it, the one light left on the small far hill where someone must be living still. After life there must be life.

BACON, EGG, AND CHEDDAR CHEESE TOAST CUPS Preheat oven to 400 degrees F., rack in the middle position. 6 slices bacon (regular sliced, not thick sliced) 4 Tablespoons (2 ounces, ½ stick) salted butter, softened 6 slices soft white bread ½ cup grated cheddar cheese 6 large eggs Salt and pepper to taste Cook the 6 slices of bacon in a frying pan over medium heat for 6 minutes or until the bacon is firmed up and the edges are slightly brown, but the strips are still pliable. They won’t be completely cooked, but that’s okay. They will finish cooking in the oven. Place the partially-cooked bacon on a plate lined with paper towels to drain it. Generously coat the inside of 6 muffin cups with half of the softened butter. Butter one side of the bread with the rest of the butter but stop slightly short of the crusts. Lay the bread out on a sheet of wax paper or a bread board butter side up. Hannah’s 1st Note: You will be wasting a bit of butter here, but it’s easier than cutting rounds of bread first and trying to butter them after they’re cut. Using a round cookie cutter that’s three and a half inches (3 and ½ inches) in diameter, cut circles out of each slice of bread.   Hannah’s 2nd Note: If you don’t have a 3.5 inch cookie cutter, you can use the top rim of a standard size drinking glass to do this. Place the bread rounds butter side down inside the muffin pans, pressing them down gently being careful not to tear them as they settle into the bottom of the cup. If one does tear, cut a patch from the buttered bread that is left and place it, buttered side down, over the tear. Curl a piece of bacon around the top of each piece of bread, positioning it between the bread and the muffin tin. This will help to keep the bacon in a ring shape. Sprinkle shredded cheese in the bottom of each muffin cup, dividing the cheese as equally as you can between the 6 muffin cups. Crack an egg into a small measuring cup (I use a half-cup measure) with a spout, making sure to keep the yolk intact. Hannah’s 3rd Note: If you break a yolk, don’t throw the whole egg away. Just slip it in a small covered container which you will refrigerate and use for scrambled eggs the next morning, or for that batch of cookies you’ll make in the next day or two. Pour the egg carefully into the bottom of one of the muffin cups. Repeat this procedure for all the eggs, cracking them one at a time and pouring them into the remaining muffin cups. When every muffin cup has bread, bacon, cheese and egg, season with a little salt and pepper. Bake the filled toast cups for 6 to 10 minutes, depending on how firm you want the yolks. (Naturally, a longer baking time yields a harder yolk.) Run the blade of a knife around the edge of each muffin cup, remove the Bacon, Egg, and Cheddar Cheese Toast Cups, and serve immediately. Hannah’s 4th Note: These are a bit tricky the first time you make them. That’s just “beginner nerves”. Once you’ve made them successfully, they’re really quite easy to do and extremely impressive to serve for a brunch. Yield: 6 servings (or 3 servings if you’re fixing them for Mike and Norman).

cheese danish cups Makes 8 1 tube refrigerated crescent roll dough (8 pieces) 8 ounces light cream cheese ¼ cup powdered sugar ½ teaspoon vanilla 1 egg yolk 4−6 tablespoons strawberry jam Regular 1. Preheat oven to 400°F, and prepare 8 regular muffin cups. 2. Place one crescent roll in each cup, with the thin pointy side of the triangle coming out of the cup and the opposite side in the bottom of the cup. Then wrap and tuck the long pointy end around the sides of the cup, pressing it and the bottom edge so the entire cup is lined. 3. Mix cream cheese, sugar, vanilla, and egg yolk, until completely combined. 4. Divide cream cheese mixture among cups and use your thumb or a spoon to create a big indent in the middle of each. 5. Place about ½ to ¾ tablespoon strawberry jam in each indentation. 6. Bake for 10−12 minutes, until filling is set and roll is golden brown. Who knew making Danish could be so incredibly simple? Try it with different flavors of jams. CALORIES 213 calories FAT 10.5 grams PROTEIN 4.6 grams SODIUM 358 mg

Two each,” said Jessie. She gave them out. That is, she rolled two potatoes to each one. “Now let’s put the canned milk in the water pail with some spring water.” “What a dinner!” cried Benny. “I don’t like canned milk when I’m home. But it tastes all right here.” It was certainly queer not to have any dishes except a water pail and milk cans. But even as the wind kept on blowing and the rain kept on falling, everyone was very happy to have tin cups and a water pail. “We are pretty lucky to have anything to eat,” said Violet. “If you hadn’t found the bag, Benny, we wouldn’t be eating now.” The children opened the hot potatoes with sticks. They ate them with small sticks. “Awfully hot, aren’t they?” said Henry, burning his fingers. “But aren’t they delicious!” “We have to eat slowly this time,” said Joe. “Make them last as long as you can.

Are you having tea, Miss Rose?” “Yes, Mr. Bronson. Miss Crumpet asked me to pour. Would you like a cup, too?” Before Holly could restrain her, the little girl hastened to Bronson with a doll-sized cup and saucer no bigger than his thumbnail. “Here you are, sir.” A tiny concerned frown adorned her brow. “It's only ‘air tea,’ but it's quite delicious if you're good at pretending.” Bronson accepted the cup as if it were a great favor. Carefully he sampled the invisible brew. “A bit more sugar, perhaps,” he said thoughtfully. Holly watched while the two prepared the cup to Bronson's satisfaction. She had not expected Bronson to interact so comfortably with a child. In fact, not even George's brothers, Rose's own uncles, had displayed such ease with her. Children were seldom part of a man's world. Even the most doting father did little more than view his child once or twice a day and inquire after his or her progress. Glancing at Holly briefly, Bronson caught her perplexed expression. “I was coerced into more than a few tea parties by Elizabeth when she was no bigger than Rose,” he said. “Although Lizzie had to make do with shingles for plates and an old tin cup instead of china. I always swore I'd get her a proper toy tea set someday. By the time I could afford one, she was too old to want it any longer.

We ate at long trestle-tables out of permanently greasy tin pannikins, and drank out of a dreadful thing called a porrón. A porrón is a sort of glass bottle with a pointed spout from which a thin jet of wine spurts out whenever you tip it up; you can thus drink from a distance, without touching it with your lips, and it can be passed from hand to hand. I went on strike and demanded a drinking-cup as soon as I saw a porrón in use. To my eye the things were altogether too like bed-bottles, especially when they were filled with white wine. By

committed a small oversight, and yet one that almost destroyed their venture. They had assumed that they would deliver the kerosene in bulk to various localities, and that the eager customers would line up with their own receptacles to be filled. The customers were expected to use old Standard Oil tin cans. But they did not. Throughout the Far East, Standard’s blue oil tins had become a prized mainstay of the local economies, used to construct everything from roofing to birdcages to opium cups, hibachis, tea strainers, and egg beaters. They were not about to give up such a valuable product. The whole scheme was now threatened—not by the machinations of 26 Broadway or by the politics of the Suez Canal, but by the habits and predilections of the peoples of Asia. A local crisis was created in each port, as the kerosene went unsold, and despairing telegrams began to flow into Houndsditch. In the quickness and ingenuity of his response to the crisis, Marcus proved his entrepreneurial genius. He sent out a chartered ship, filled with tinplate, to the Far East, and simply instructed his partners in Asia to begin manufacturing tin receptacles for the kerosene. No matter that no one knew how to do so; no matter that no one had the facilities. Marcus persuaded them they could do it. “How do you stick on the wire handles?” the agent in Singapore wrote to Samuel’s representative in Japan. Instructions were sent. “What color do you suggest?” cabled the agent in Shanghai. Mark gave the answer—“Red!

Banana Cocoa Muffins Serves: 24 15 Medjool or 30 regular dates, pitted ½ cup coconut water 2 cups garbanzo bean flour 1 teaspoon baking soda 1 teaspoon baking powder ¾ cup natural cocoa powder 1 tablespoon Ceylon cinnamon 1½ cups chopped apple 6 very ripe bananas 2 teaspoons alcohol-free vanilla flavoring ⅓ cup cooked garbanzo beans 2 teaspoons apple cider vinegar 1 cup walnuts, chopped ½ cup unsweetened shredded coconut 9 ounces wilted chopped fresh spinach Soak the dates in coconut water for 30 minutes. Preheat the oven to 350˚F. Line muffin tins with paper liners and wipe them very lightly with olive oil. Whisk together in a small bowl the garbanzo bean flour, baking soda, baking powder, cocoa, and cinnamon. In a high-powered blender, purée the dates and the soaking coconut water, apples, bananas, vanilla, garbanzo beans, and apple cider vinegar until smooth. Pour into a large mixing bowl and stir in the walnuts, coconut, and spinach until evenly distributed. Then fold in the flour mixture until just combined. Do not over mix. Fill the muffin tins almost full and bake for 55 to 65 minutes, rotating in the oven after 35 minutes. They are done when a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean. Let the muffins cool in the muffin tins on a wire rack for 10 minutes, then remove from the tins to the wire rack and cool completely. Refrigerate or freeze in resealable plastic bags. PER SERVING: CALORIES 163; PROTEIN 4g; CARBOHYDRATE 30g; TOTAL FAT 5.1g; SATURATED FAT 1.6g; SODIUM 68mg; FIBER 4.9g; BETA-CAROTENE 622mcg; VITAMIN C 6mg; CALCIUM 46mg; IRON 1.5mg; FOLATE 43mcg; MAGNESIUM 64mg; ZINC 0.8mg; SELENIUM 7.7mcg

In college I was an editorial cartoonist for my school paper, The Daily Aztec...I did straight, news-oriented editorial cartoons. Occasionally, my Chicano background snuck in to the toons simply because I might do a César Chavez toon about how the School Student Board was too stupidly racist to allow him to speak on campus or other anti-frat toons on how they were so racist in doing fund-raisers for Tijuana kid charities--dressed in sombreros and begging with tin cups (from an interview in the book Attitude, 2002)

Here’s one of Claire’s favorite recipes, which never fails to make smiles bloom around the breakfast table. The ingredients and spices are varied, and Claire claims there’s no reason to worry if you don’t have everything on hand. Just improvise. The muffins never come out the same way twice but are always delicious . . . and could be called Vanishing Muffins, since they disappear so quickly. Morning Glory Muffins MAKES 16 MUFFINS Ingredients 2¼ cups unbleached all-purpose flour 2 teaspoons baking soda ¾ cup brown sugar, lightly packed (light or dark) ¾ cup white sugar 2 tablespoons cinnamon 1 teaspoon ground ginger ½ teaspoon allspice 2 cups grated carrots 1 cup (8 ounces) crushed pineapple, packed in juice and drained ¾ cup raisins (golden preferred) ½ cup shredded coconut ½ cup chopped walnuts or pecans 3 large eggs 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1 cup canola oil Directions Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F with a rack in the lower third. Line muffin tins with paper cups. In a large bowl, mix together the flour, baking soda, sugar, cinnamon, ginger, and allspice. Add the carrots, pineapple, raisins, coconut, and nuts, and mix thoroughly. In a separate bowl, whisk the eggs with the vanilla and then the oil. Pour egg mixture into the dry ingredients in thirds and blend well. (Do not overmix or muffins will turn out tough.) Fill muffin cups to the brim. Bake for 30-35 minutes or until a toothpick or sharp, thin knife inserted in the middle of a muffin comes out clean. Allow to cool for 10-15 minutes and remove from tins.

She mixed up the simple batter for those—one cup flour, two eggs, one and a half cups milk, a pinch of salt, and a quarter cup of sugar—and let it set. She used that same batter to make oven pancakes in muffin tins—another good breakfast option for her guests, she thought. She hunted for some

Gruyère and Black Pepper Popovers This recipe was inspired by Jodi Elliott, a former co-owner and chef of Foreign & Domestic Food and Drink and the owner of Bribery Bakery, both in Austin, Texas. Butter for greasing the popover pans or muffin tins 2 cups whole milk 4 large eggs 1½ teaspoons salt ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 2 cups all-purpose flour Nonstick cooking spray ¾ cup Gruyère cheese (5 ounces), cut into small cubes, plus grated Gruyère cheese for garnishing (optional) 1. Place the oven rack in the bottom third of the oven and preheat the oven to 450°F. 2. Prepare the popover pans or muffin tins (with enough wells to make 16 popovers) by placing a dot of butter in the bottom of each of the 16 wells. Heat the pans or tins in the oven while you make the popover batter. 3. Warm the milk in a small saucepan over medium heat. It should be hot, but do not bring it to a boil. Remove from the heat. 4. In a large bowl, whisk the eggs with the salt and black pepper until smooth. Stir in the reserved warm milk. 5. Add the flour to the egg mixture and combine. The batter should have the consistency of cream. A few lumps are okay! 6. Remove the popover pans or muffin tins from the oven. Spray the 16 wells generously with nonstick cooking spray. Pour about ⅓ cup of the batter into each well. Place several cubes of cheese on top of the batter in each well. 7. Reduce the oven temperature to 350°F. Bake the popovers until the tops puff up and are golden brown, about 40 minutes. Remember not to open the oven door while baking. You don’t want the popovers to collapse! 8. Remove the popovers from the oven and turn them onto a wire cooling rack right away to preserve their crispy edges. Using a sharp knife, pierce the base of each popover to release the steam. Sprinkle grated Gruyère over the finished popovers, if desired, and serve immediately. Makes 16 popovers

The judge walked into the kitchen and found two green chilis looking ridiculous in a tin cup on a wooden stand that read "Best Potato Exhibit 1933." Nothing else.

Prospects: a prickly word, a sour betrayer. It was supposed to fill your thoughts with gold, or with clear air and great and lovely distances. Well, the metal came quickly enough to mind, but beards followed shortly, dirt and the deceptions of the desert, biscuits like powdered pumice, tin spoons, stinking mules, clattering cups, stinking water, deceiving air. ... Prospects. They made him think dirt. They made him think rags, snakes, picks, and the murder of companions.

From somewhere LaMeche produced a coffee pot and coffee. I will never be able to find the words to express what it was like to sit before the fire, smelling coffee brew on that horrible night. Somehow it seemed to be a promise that the world would one day be normal again. The trader had also found a couple of battered tin cups. I clutched the cup closely in chilled hands and drank of the dark, hot liquid. I knew that with the help of the coffee I would somehow make it through this nightmare until the morning came again.

I’d be a bum on the street with a tin cup if the markets were efficient.

13.  Macadamia Nut and Mock Banana Muffins Ingredients                  2 tablespoons wheat bran                  1 tablespoon soy flour                  1 cup soy flour                  1⁄2 cup Splenda (or other sugar substitute)                  1 teaspoon baking powder                  2 eggs                  1⁄2 cup heavy cream                  1⁄2 teaspoon banana extract or 1⁄2 teaspoon banana flavoring (no sugar added)                  1⁄3 cup club soda                  1⁄2 cup macadamia nuts, coarsely chopped Directions               Preheat oven to 375°F.               Spray (6 muffin) muffin tin with vegetable oil spray.               Mix wheat bran and 1 T soy flour, then coat the muffin tin with the mixture (do this step over a trash can!).               Mix soy flour, Splenda, baking powder, eggs, cream, and banana extract in a large bowl with a wire whisk.               Whisk in club soda.               Fold in nuts.               Fill muffin tins evenly, and bake for 20 to 25 minutes, using the toothpick test for doneness.              

3. Cranberry Orange Muffins Prep Time: 15 minutes Total Time: 40 minutes Makes:  12 muffins Ingredients: Cooking spray ½ cup of orange juice 1 navel orange, segmented into wedges 1 large egg 1½ cups of all-purpose flour ¾ cup of sugar ¼ cup of vegetable oil 1 tsp of baking soda 1 tsp of baking powder 1 tsp of kosher salt ½ cup of dry cranberries, chopped Directions: Preheat oven at 375°F. Coat a muffin-tin using cooking spray. Blend orange juice, orange wedges, oil and egg in a blender until smooth. Whisk flour, baking soda, baking powder, sugar and salt together in a bowl; whisk to mix well. Make a dig in centre of dry ingredients; pour orange mixture in it; stir to prepare thick batter. Add in cranberries. Divide this mixture into cups of muffin tin, filling up to ¾ full; bake till muffins become golden and bounce when pressed gently, for 20-25 minutes. Let them cool on wire rack and serve warm.

She glanced at Davis to see him quietly staring at her. Startled, Emma put her hand to her stomach to quiet the butterflies that seemed to have taken up residence there. “Oh, Mr. Cooper, I thought you were still asleep.” Once again her voice sounded breathless to her ears. “Well, did you?” Davis studied her with a slight grin and a twinkle in those strange blue eyes. “Did I what?” One bow arched as he regarded her intently. “Find what you were looking for?” “Mr. Cooper.” She raised her chin up. “I was merely making sure there was nothing in your saddlebags that might endanger our trip.” Heat rose from her stomach, burning her face. She quickly looked down, her stiff fingers fumbling with two tin cups. “Well, ma’am, since my gun is here beside me, what could be in my saddle bags that would endanger our trip?” His voice hitched like he swallowed laughter.

Two minutes later, the ball whizzed by Pedro again. This time the ball struck the lower right corner of the net. At the end of the second quarter, the Cougars were down by two goals. Pedro’s eyes were downcast as he walked off the field for the halftime break. His teammates did not look happy. “Okay,” the coach called out. “Time for some refreshments and a snack.” The Cougars gathered around the bench on the sideline.  Pedro opened the tin of coconut brownies that his mother had made. Then he passed the tin to Giles Boucher, who was beside him. Giles stared into the tin… and passed it along to the next kid. The next kid did the same thing. Meanwhile, Pedro started pouring passion fruit juice into cups. He set the cups on the bench. Pedro had filled half a dozen cups when he realized that nobody was taking them. Nor was anybody eating the coconut brownies. His teammates just stood around sipping water from their water

Listen, Sam, and everyone, you need to know something so it won’t freak you out: Pack Leader can speak. I mean, human words. Like Smart-Girl Barbie there was saying, he’s some kind of mutant or whatever. I know you think I’m probably crazy.” She had Hermit Jim’s tin cup now and used it to scoop up another helping of wonderful, wonderful pudding. Blondie—Astrid—was opening a can of fruit cocktail. “What do you know about the FAYZ?” Astrid asked. Lana stopped eating and stared at her. “The what?” Astrid shrugged and looked embarrassed. “That’s what people are calling it. The Fallout Alley Youth Zone. FAYZ.” “What does that mean?” “Have you seen the barrier?” She nodded. “Oh, yeah. I’ve seen the barrier. I touched the barrier, which, by the way, is not a good idea.” Sam said, “As far as we can tell, it goes clear around in a big circle. Or maybe a sphere. We think the center is the power plant. It seems like a ten-mile radius from there, you know, twenty miles across.” “Circumference of 62.83 miles, with an area of 314.159 square miles,” Astrid said. “Point 159,” Quinn echoed from his corner. “That’s important.” “It’s basically pi,” Astrid said. “You know, 3.14159265…. Okay, I’ll stop.” Lana hadn’t stopped being hungry. She took a scoop of the fruit cocktail. “Sam, you think the power plant caused it?” Sam shrugged, and then he hesitated, surprised. Lana guessed that he felt no pain in his shoulder. “No one knows. All of a sudden every single person over the age of fourteen disappears and there’s this barrier and people…animals…” Lana slowly absorbed this new information. “You mean all the adults? They’re gone?” “Poof,” Quinn said. “They ditched. They blinked out. They vacated. They took the off-ramp. They cut a hole. They emigrated. Adults and teenagers. Nothing left but kids.” “I’ve done all I can to strengthen the door,” Edilio announced. “But all I have is nails. Someone can break it in eventually.” “Maybe they didn’t all ditch,” Lana said. “Maybe we did.” Astrid said, “That’s definitely one of the possibilities, not that it makes any real difference. It’s effectively the same thing.

Myron cut east on 50th Street. An albino wearing a Mets cap and yellow boxer shorts on the outside of ripped jeans played an Indian sitar. He was singing the seventies classic “The Night Chicago Died” in a voice that reminded Myron of elderly Chinese women in the back of a laundromat. The albino also had a tin cup and a stack of cassettes. A sign read “The Original Benny and His Magical Sitar, only $10.” The original. Oh. Wouldn’t want that imitation albino, sitar, AM seventies music, no sir. Benny

I kept thinking about all the things we wouldn’t get to do, and the first thought I had was about marrying you. Tony and Cael are your family, our family, but I want to be your husband. I want to be the one who takes care of you and be the one who gets to decide what to do if something happens to you. Someday, I want to start a family with you.” Sloane cupped Dex’s face and looked into his eyes. There was nothing but adoration and certainty behind those pools of amber. “With everything that’s happened over the last two years, hell, over the last few months, I don’t want to waste any more time.” Dex couldn’t stop the stupid tears from falling. Man, he’d cried more in the last few weeks than he had most of his life. Something in the water. Had to be. “Okay,” Dex said with a nod and a smile stretching from ear to ear. “Let’s do it.” As Sloane pulled him into his embrace and kissed him, Dex couldn’t think of anywhere he’d rather be than right here in Sloane’s arms. If they became TIN, they’d likely be sent all over the world, but with Sloane at his side, he would always be home.

But in my wretched efforts to stay alive at almost any cost I could still hurt and be hurt in my turn, and as long as death’s black barrel organ was playing it seemed I would have to dance to the cheerless, doom-filled tune that was turning inexorably on the drum, like some liveried monkey with a terrified rictus on its face and a tin cup in its hand. That didn’t make me unusual; just German.

Elvis Pie Named for the famous crooner’s love of peanut butter and bananas, this decadent dessert is as filling as it is delicious. Serve in small slices, and top with shredded coconut for even more fun.   Difficulty Level: 1 Preparation Time: 30 minutes Yields: 12 servings   Ingredients          8 oz. chocolate cookies          4 Tblsp butter, melted          4 oz. semisweet chocolate chips          2 bananas, sliced thinly          1 cup heavy cream          8 oz. cream cheese          1 cup creamy peanut butter          1 cup powdered sugar          14 oz. sweetened condensed milk          1 tsp vanilla extract          1 tsp lemon juice   1.        In a food processor, grind cookies into fine crumbs. 2.       Combine melted butter and cookie crumbs in a small bowl, and stir with a fork to mix well. 3.       Press mixture into the bottom and 1” up the sides of 9” pie tin. 4.      In a small saucepan over low heat, melt the chocolate chips, stirring often to prevent burning. 5.       Pour melted chocolate over bottom of cookie crust and spread to the edges using a spatula. 6.       Layer banana slices over the melted chocolate. 7.       Place pan in the refrigerator to chill. 8.      Meanwhile, beat heavy cream until stiff peaks form. 9.       Chill in refrigerator until ready to use. 10.    Beat together the cream cheese and peanut butter until light and fluffy. 11.     Stir in powdered sugar until fully incorporated. 12.    Mix in the sweetened condensed milk, vanilla extract, and lemon juice until filling is smooth. 13.    Fold the whipped cream into the filling mixture. 14.   Pour the filling into the prepared pie pan, smoothing top. 15.    Refrigerate for at least 3 hours, preferably overnight. 16.    Serve chilled.

stuffed mushrooms Makes 12–20, depending on mushroom size 10 ounces baby bella or white mushrooms, stems removed and reserved ¼ cup seasoned bread crumbs 1 tablespoon light cream cheese Salt and pepper 1 tablespoon grated Parmesan cheese, plus additional for topping Pinch dry mustard ½ teaspoon Italian seasoning ½ small garlic clove 1 tablespoon shredded part-skim mozzarella cheese 2 tablespoons grated fontina cheese 1 tablespoon olive oil 1 tablespoon melted unsalted butter 1 tablespoon frozen spinach, defrosted and squeezed dry Mini 1. Preheat oven to 400°F, and prepare as many mini muffin cups as you have mushrooms (since sizes vary) by spraying with cooking spray. 2. Place one mushroom cap in each muffin cup. 3. Place remaining ingredients and 4 mushroom stems in food processor and pulse until completely mixed. 4. Divide mixture among the mushroom caps. 5. Cover with foil and bake 20 minutes, until mushrooms are cooked through. 6. Remove from oven, remove foil, and

savory cheesecakes Makes 24 ½ cup seasoned bread crumbs 2 tablespoons melted unsalted butter 1 8-ounce package light cream cheese 1 egg ½ cup grated Gruyère cheese 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard ½ cup grated Parmesan cheese ¼ teaspoon paprika Salt and pepper ½ 10-ounce package of frozen chopped spinach, defrosted and squeezed dry Green part of 1 scallion, chopped Mini 1. Preheat oven to 350°F, and prepare 24 mini muffin cups by spraying with cooking spray. 2. Mix bread crumbs and unsalted butter and then press into bottoms of muffin tins. 3. Mix all other ingredients in a bowl and divide among muffin tins. 4. Bake for 20 minutes until set and slightly brown and serve warm. Great leftover idea: These are good reheated and crumbled over salads the next day. CALORIES 62 calories FAT 4 grams PROTEIN 3.3 grams SODIUM 159 mg CARBOHYDRATES 3 grams

SUGARS 0 grams FIBER 0.1 gram Chapter 2 Breakfast Muffin tins will revolutionize the way you make breakfast. No more standing over a stove, stirring and flipping! Eggs cook beautifully in muffin tins as do ham and sausage. Starting your morning with a lovely little breakfast completely contained in a muffin cup is a wonderful beginning to the day. Many of these recipes can be assembled the night before and refrigerated until you’re ready to pop them in the oven. Be sure to check Chapter 8, Muffins and Breads, for other breakfast ideas, since muffins also make great breakfasts. egg crescent pockets Makes 8 1 package of 8 crescent rolls dough 4 large slices of deli ham, cut in half ½ cup herbed goat cheese (or cheese of your choice) Dried thyme, to taste 8 eggs Salt and pepper Regular 1. Preheat oven to 375°F. 2. Place 8 muffin cup liners in a regular muffin tin and spray the inside of them with cooking spray. 3. Follow the instructions for crescent roll dough in “Crescent Roll Crusts” in the Introduction. 4. Take half a piece of ham and fold it so it fits inside the liner. 5. Place the goat cheese on top of the ham, and add a pinch of thyme. 6. Crack an egg and place it in the liner. 7. Sprinkle with salt and pepper to taste. 8. Bake for 20 minutes, until egg whites are completely set and crescent rolls are browned. Allow each to rest for a few minutes before lifting the cups out of the muffin pan. Try this with salami instead of ham and provolone instead of goat cheese, for a different flavor. This is great with some fruit salad at brunch.

SODIUM 407 mg CARBOHYDRATES 12.1 grams SUGARS 3.5 grams FIBER 0.4 gram shrimp with polenta Makes 6 2¾ cups water 1 cup cornmeal Salt and pepper 4 tablespoons unsalted butter, divided 1 small clove garlic, chopped ¾ pound shrimp, peeled 1 teaspoon fresh rosemary 2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce 1 teaspoon lemon juice 1 teaspoon cornstarch 1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley Jumbo 1. Bring water to a boil then add cornmeal and dash of salt. Reduce heat to low and simmer for about 15 minutes, until thick. 2. Stir in 1 tablespoon butter. Take off heat and set polenta aside.

Who's that?" Playing an old game, Roy pointed at Juanita. Serena grinned and raced to plant a kiss on Juanita's cheek. "'Nita!" she cried triumphantly. Juanita pointed her toward Lily. "Quien es?" "Mama and baby!" Serena climbed into Lily's lap for a hug. As Cade bent his large form beneath the flap to join them, Lily pointed in his direction. "What's his name?" "Papa-padre-daddy," she crowed, laughing as Cade lifted her and sat down with her in his lap. She liked having several names for everything and everyone, and could chatter incessantly in two languages. Cade pointed at an unshaven Travis who glared blearily at their laughter as he untangled himself from his damp bedroll. "Que esta?" Unaware of the Spanish niceties as to being addressed as a "what" instead of "who," Travis glared at their cheerfulness until Serena flung herself at him and hugged his neck. "Snake-oil man!" she cried. Laughter erupted all around—despite the dreary rain, despite their fear and weariness. Welcome waves of amusement relieved some of the tension. Travis growled and tickled Serena until she ran to Roy for help, then grinning, he met Cade's eyes. "Can't you teach her something else to call me?" "Tio Travis?" Cade suggested. "Tio, tio!" Serena cried, sticking her tongue out at Travis and hiding behind Roy's back. "Why do I get the feeling that means 'snake oil' in Spanish?" Travis muttered, reaching for the tin cup of coffee Juanita offered him. "It means 'uncle.' Whether you know it or not, you've just adopted a niece. That means you get to carry her today." Cade took his cup and settled back cross-legged beside Lily. "I don't think I'm ready for the responsibilities of a family man. I'm not even certain how I got into this." Travis threw Lily a wry look. "You're more trouble than you're worth, you know." "Look who's talking." Undisturbed, Lily called Serena to come eat her breakfast. She had spent eight years raising Travis's son. It was time he took on a little responsibility. Travis shrugged his shoulders, unabashed. "You could have had a smart, good-looking man like myself and you chose that man-mountain over there. You lost your chance, Lily." Lily didn't need to reply to that. She merely looked at his rumpled curls and beard-stubbled face and grinned. Relieved that she could still find humor in the midst of her grief, Cade finished his food and leaned over to kiss her before rising to finish packing the horses. Lily watched him go with astonishment. Cade never made public displays of affection. Their

Rounding up cattle!" Cade had Lily in a state halfway to fury by the time Travis ambled in. As a tin cup flew across the room, Cade ducked and Travis jumped out of the way, letting it slam against a far wall with a satisfying crunch. Travis lifted an inquiring eyebrow and caught the next cup that flew at him and set it on the table. "I don't suppose the two of you ever thought of sitting down at the table and discussing things rationally, did you?" "Look who's talking!" Shoving her straying hair back from her face, Lily looked scathingly at the mud stains on Travis's shirt. "Just tell me what happened out there and don't give me a cock-and-bull story about rounding up cattle. Something's happened or El Monstruo over there wouldn't be grinning all over himself." Travis shrugged and took the mug Juanita handed him. "Can't rightly tell you more than that. I've been up visiting with the Indians myself." Juanita retrieved his mug and dumped the contents over his head. Travis howled, and Roy—sitting quietly on the hearth—finally gave in to mirth. Serena, not to be left out, giggled and pulled herself into Travis's lap, patting her small hands against his wet shirt and making smacking sounds. Looking around at the bedlam that was his home, Cade pulled Lily against his side and kissed her soundly before she could offer any protest. "I'll wager they're married before the baby comes." "I'll wager she kills him before then." Lily poked a fingernail into Cade's side to indicate the threat worked for both of them. "You'll not do it," Cade declared boldly. "If you did, who would you have to..." he whispered the rest of the sentence so little ears couldn't hear. As it was, the whispered words singed Lily to her toes and made her cheeks redden. It was obvious she wouldn’t get anything sensible out of him any time soon, but he would regret making her wait. In the meantime, she turned her mouth up for a kiss, bit Cade's lip, stepped on his toe, and sidestepped his grab as she sashayed out the door in search of their belated supper.

Breakfast was always a slab of cold black toast and a cup of thick black coffee. Lunch and dinner were always the same—a tin plate piled with a suspicious pilaff, mostly rice with occasional bits of lamb and shreds of vegetable matter of indeterminate origin.

Strawberry Cheesecake Streusel Muffins Streusel Topping 3 tablespoons White Sugar 3 tablespoons Dark Brown Sugar ½ cup + 3 tablespoons Flour Pinch Coarse Kosher Salt 5 tablespoons butter, melted Cream Cheese Filling 4 ounces cream cheese ⅓ cup white sugar 2 teaspoons beaten egg 1 tsp vanilla extract Muffin Batter 2 cups all purpose flour ½ cup granulated sugar 2 tsp baking powder ½ tsp salt 1 egg ¼ cup canola oil 1 cup whole milk (original recipe used ¾ cup) 1 tsp vanilla extract 1½ cups strawberries, cut into small pieces Instructions cont… Preheat oven to 400. Line a muffin tin with cupcake liners and spray each liner with non-stick spray. Set aside. To make the streusel topping, mix together sugars, flour and salt. Drizzle warm butter over mixture and toss with fork to form pea size pieces. Set aside. To make cream cheese filling, beat cream cheese, sugar, egg and vanilla extract together with an electric mixer in a medium bowl until smooth. Set aside. To make the muffins. Whisk flour, sugar baking powder and salt in a medium bowl. In a separate bowl, whisk the egg, oil, milk and vanilla extract. Add the dry ingredients into the milk mixture. Stir until just incorporated. Do not over mix or you will get a tough muffin. Fold in the strawberries. Scoop a heaping tablespoon of the muffin batter into each cupcake liner. Add a heaping tablespoon of the cream cheese filling. Add another heaping tablespoon on batter onto of the cream cheese filling. I was able to fill the muffin tins full. Sprinkle the streusel topping on the tops. Bake for 25 minutes. Allow to cool in muffin tin for 10 minutes. Remove and chow down.

For the streusel topping ¼ cup all-purpose flour 3 tablespoons white sugar ½ teaspoon baking powder ½ teaspoon cinnamon 3 tablespoons cold unsalted butter Directions For the muffins 1. Preheat your oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit and prepare a large muffin tin with 12 muffin cups. 2. Dump peaches into sauce pan and add brown sugar and rum, bring to a boil. Turn down to low until all liquid is reduced. Let cool. 3. Add the flour, baking powder, salt and sugar to a large bowl and whisk together to combine. 4. Add ¾ c of the peaches and stir well to coat. 5. Add the milk, egg, oil and vanilla extract, and stir together with a rubber spatula just until the flour disappears. 6. Portion the batter out into the muffin cups evenly (about ¾ full). For the topping 1. Combine the flour, sugar and cinnamon and baking powder in

Mig8: Sân chơi kèo Euro 2024 đỉnh cao Euro 2024 đang làm mưa làm gió trên toàn cầu, thu hút hàng triệu trái tim yêu môn thể thao vua. Không chỉ là giải đấu uy tín chỉ sau World Cup, Euro còn là sân chơi thú vị cho những ai thích thú soi kèo. Nếu bạn muốn dấn thân vào thế giới soi kèo Euro và tìm kiếm một nhà cái chất lượng, hãy cùng tìm hiểu bí quyết soi kèo Euro hôm nay và lý do tại sao Mig8 là lựa chọn ưu tiên. Mig8 nổi tiếng là nhà cái đáng tin cậy, mang đến trải nghiệm cá cược đỉnh cao với giao diện gần gũi, tỷ lệ kèo thú vị và dịch vụ chăm sóc khách hàng chu đáo.

In the late afternoon he was standing by a tent run by a trapper-merchant from Oregon, an Englishman named Haversham, the only man at the rendezvous in European dress, and Haversham asked, “Care for a cup of tea?” It had been a long time since McKeag had drunk tea and he said, “Don’t mind if I do.” The Englishman had two china cups and a small porcelain pot. Washing the cups with steaming water, he took down a square brown tin, opened the top carefully and placed a small portion of leaves in the pot. To McKeag they bore no visible difference from the tea leaves his mother had used, but when Haversham poured him a cup and he took his first sip, an aroma unlike any he had ever known greeted him. He sniffed it several times, then took a deep taste of the hot tea. It was better than anything he had previously tasted, better even than whiskey. What did it taste like? Well, at first it was tarry, as if the person making the tea had infused by mistake some stray ends of well-tarred rope. But it was penetrating too, and a wee bit salty, and very rich and lingering. McKeag noticed that its taste dwelled in the mouth long after that of an ordinary tea. It was a man’s tea, deep and subtle and blended in some rugged place. “What is it?” he asked. Haversham pointed to the brown canister, and McKeag said, “I can’t read.” Haversham indicated the lettering and the scene of tea-pickers in India. “Lapsang souchong,” he said. “Best tea in the world.” Impulsively McKeag asked, “You have some for sale?” “Of course. We’re the agents.” It was a tea, Haversham explained, blended in India especially for men who had known the sea. It was cured in a unique way which the makers kept secret. “But smoke and tar must obviously play a part,” he said. It came normally from India to London, but the English traders in Oregon imported theirs from China. “How long would a can like that last?” McKeag asked, cautiously again. “It’ll keep forever … with the top on.” “I mean, how many cups?” “I use it sparingly. It would last me a year.” “I’ll take two cans,” McKeag said, without asking the price. It was expensive, and as he tucked his small supply of coins back into his belt, Haversham explained, “The secret in making good lapsang souchong lies in heating the cup first. Heat it well. Then the flavor expands.” McKeag hid the canisters at the bottom of his gear, for he knew they were precious.

When I judged it to be tea-time I sat on an old stone wall and opened my tin of treacle biscuits. As I ate them I could hear mother banging the kettle on the hob and my brothers rattling their tea-cups. The biscuits tasted sweetly of the honeyed squalor of home – still only a dozen miles away.

the people I loved. But I could not control my dreams. Back at the hotel after that surreal and debauched evening, I crumpled into bed, only to be plagued by nightmares of fingerless children bearing tin cups of poisoned water.

Ingredients 1 1/2 cups walnuts, divided 2/3 cup dark chocolate chips 3 large eggs 3/4 cup sugar 1/2 cup olive oil 1/3 cup cocoa powder 1 cup all-purpose flour 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt, plus additional 2 teaspoons baking powder Preheat the oven to 350°F and oil a 9-inch cake tin. Chop the walnuts so they’re small but still have texture. Melt the chocolate chips in a microwave, stirring every 30 seconds until smooth. In a large bowl, combine the eggs with the sugar (using a mixer is preferred to fully incorporate). Add the oil, cocoa powder, and melted chocolate. Stir again to combine. Add in the flour, salt, and baking powder and lightly combine. Add in 1 cup of the walnuts

pink roses. ‘Milk?’ Isaac held a tin of condensed milk above her cup. She shook her head. ‘I’ll have it black.’ ‘Isaac. Let us have a drop of rum in our tea. Let’s drink a toast to the king, both him who has passed and him who inherits the crown.’ A teaspoonful of rum was added to each cup. A slight movement drew Jenny’s attention back to the wall. The cockroach had fallen to the floor. The cat ate it.

Last summer they came to visit us in West Virginia, and Julie and I spent a week perfecting the peach pie. We made ordinary peach pie, and deep-dish peach pie, and blueberry and peach pie, but here is the best peach pie we made: Put 1 1/4 cups flour, 1/2 teaspoon salt, 1/2 cup butter and 2 tablespoons sour cream into a Cuisinart and blend until they form a ball. Pat out into a buttered pie tin, and bake 10 minutes at 425*. Beat 3 egg yolks slightly and combine with 1 cup sugar, 2 tablespoons flour and 1/3 cup sour cream. Pour over 3 peeled, sliced peaches arranged in the crust. Cover with foil. Reduce the oven to 350* and bake 35 minutes. Remove the foil and bake 10 minutes more, or until the filling is set. I keep thinking about that week in West Virginia. It was a perfect week. We swam in the river and barbecued ribs and made Bellinis with crushed peaches and cheap champagne.

Hot Chocolate Cupcakes A combination to die for – hot chocolate AND cupcakes! This recipe makes 14 cupcakes. Ingredients For the chocolate cupcakes: - ½ cup unsweetened natural cocoa powder - ¾ cup all-purpose flour - 1 teaspoon baking powder - ½ teaspoon baking soda - ¼ teaspoon salt - 2 large eggs at room temperature - ½ cup granulated sugar - ½ cup packed light brown sugar - ⅓ cup vegetable oil - 2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract - ½ cup buttermilk For the frosting: - ½ cup dry hot chocolate mix (with NO marshmallows) - ⅓ cup heavy cream - ¾ cup unsalted butter at room temperature - 3 – 3 ½ cups confectioners’ sugar Instructions Make the cupcakes Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit (175 degrees Celsius). Line muffin time with cupcake liners. In a medium bowl, whisk together cocoa powder, flour, baking soda, baking powder and salt. Set aside. Beat together the eggs, sugar, brown sugar, vegetable oil and vanilla extract until combined. Alternate adding the dry ingredients and buttermilk to batter. The batter will be somewhat thin. Pour batter into the prepared cupcake tin. Fill each paper liner halfway. Bake for 18 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Cool before frosting. Make the frosting In a small saucepan over medium heat, whisk together the hot cocoa mix and heavy cream. Heat for 5 minutes, stirring often, until warm. Remove from heat and cool for 20 minutes or until at room temperature. Beat the butter until smooth, about 1 minute. Add confectioners’ sugar and beat until combined, about 1 minute. With the mixer on low, slowly pour in hot cocoa mixture. Once combined, increase speed to medium-high and beat for 1 minute. For a thicker frosting, add more confectioners’ sugar. Transfer frosting to a pastry bag fitted with desired tip. Pipe frosting on to cupcakes and garnish with mini marshmallows.

White Chocolate Peppermint Cupcakes Don’t be a hater like Callie! While chocolate white may  not be technically chocolate, it’s still yummy. Makes 28 cupcakes Ingredients For the peppermint cupcakes: - 3 cups cake flour - 1 ¾ cups sugar - 1 tablespoon baking powder - 1 teaspoon salt - 1 cup unsalted butter at room temperature cut into small cubes - 5 egg whites - 1 ¼ cup milk at room temperature - 1 tablespoon peppermint extract - 12 crushed candy canes For the White Chocolate Swirled Buttercream: - 1 cup unsalted butter at room temperature - 1 cup vegetable shortening - 8 cups confectioners’ sugar - 2 tablespoons vanilla extract - ¼ cup milk - 4.4 ounces (125 grams) good quality white chocolate - Red gel paste food color For the white chocolate ganache & decoration: - 6 ounces (170 grams) white chocolate - 2 ounces (57 grams) heavy cream - 28 soft peppermint candy balls Instructions Make the cupcakes Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit (175 degrees Celsius) and line muffin tin with cupcake liners. Combine milk and peppermint extract. Set aside. Combine cake flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt in a bowl and mix on low for 2-3 minutes. Add butter a few cubes at a time and mix on low until mixture resembles coarse sand. Add egg whites and beat on medium until combined. Gradually add milk mixture and beat for 1-2 minutes until batter is smooth. Fold in crushed candy canes. Fill cupcake liners ¾ full. Bake for 16-18 minutes, or until toothpick inserted comes out with a few crumbs. Allow cupcakes to cool in the pan for 5 minutes, then remove to wire racks to finish cooling. Make the White Chocolate Buttercream Cream butter, vegetable shortening, and vanilla in bowl and mix on medium speed for 2 minutes until smooth. Reduce mixer speed to low and slowly add confectioners’ sugar 1 cup at a time while mixer is running. Once all the sugar is incorporated, add the milk and mix for 30 seconds. Melt white chocolate in microwave in 30-second intervals, stirring after each turn until melted. Incorporate melted chocolate into buttercream and mix until fluffy. Reserve ¼ cup buttercream and add a small amount of red color get to tint. Prepare a small piping bag with the red buttercream and snip the tip off. Prepare a large piping bag fitted with a large round tip. Streak the inside of the large piping bag with six stripes of red buttercream. Fill the rest of the bag with the White Chocolate Buttercream. Squeeze a swirled dollop of buttercream on top of each cupcake. Place cupcakes in the refrigerator to chill while preparing the ganache. Make the White Chocolate Ganache and Assemble Combine cream and white chocolate in bowl and heat on 30-second intervals, stirring after each turn, for about 1 minute. Stir until chocolate melts, allow to cool and thicken slightly for five minutes. Transfer to a squeeze bottle and drizzle ganache on top of buttercream. Garnish each cupcake with a peppermint candy.

For the Eggnog Cupcakes - 6 tablespoons (85 grams) unsalted butter, softened - ¾ cup sugar - ¼ cup sour cream - 2 teaspoons vanilla extract - 3 large egg whites at room temperature - 1 ¼ cup all-purpose flour - 2 teaspoons baking powder - ½ teaspoon nutmeg (I use speculaaskruiden, which has cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves) - ¼ teaspoon salt - ½ cup eggnog - 2 teaspoons water For the espresso frosting - ½ cup salted butter - ½ cup shortening - 4 cups powdered sugar - 2 tablespoons hot water - 1 tablespoon instant espresso coffee - 2-3 tablespoons eggnog Directions Make the Cupcakes Preheat oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit (176 degrees Celsius) and prepare a muffin tin with cupcake liners. In a large mixing bowl, cream butter and sugar together until light in color and fluffy, about 3-4 minutes. Add sour cream and vanilla extract and mix until well combined. Add egg whites in two batches, mixing until well combined after each batch.  Combine dry ingredients (flour, baking powder, nutmeg, and salt) in a separate bowl. Combine the eggnog and water in a small cup. Add half of the dry ingredients to the batter and mix until well combined. Add the eggnog mixture and mix until well combined. Add remaining dry ingredients and mix until well combined. Fill the cupcake liners about halfway. Bake for 15-17 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted comes out with a few crumbs. Remove cupcakes from oven and allow to cool for 2-3 minutes, then remove to cooling rack to finish cooling. Make the frosting Combine butter and shortening in a large mixing bowl and mix until smooth. Add 2 cups of powdered sugar and mix until smooth. Dissolve the powdered espresso in the hot water, then add about half of the espresso mixture to the frosting and mix until smooth. Add the remaining powdered sugar and mix until smooth. Add the remaining espresso mixture and eggnog as needed and mix until you have the desired frosting consistency. Decorate cupcakes with frosting as desired.

A few examples of repurposed candle molds include: Aluminum or tin cans Milk cartons, both cardboard, and plastic Flower pots (these should be treated with a silicone sealant to prevent the wax from seeping into the mold) Silicone kitchen molds (such as ice cube molds, baking molds, and candy molds) Cups Paper towel rolls Small bowls Metal baking tins Basically, any hollow container you have around the house

here is the best peach pie we made: Put 1 ¼ cups flour, ½ teaspoon salt, ½ cup butter and 2 tablespoons sour cream into a Cuisinart and blend until they form a ball. Pat out into a buttered pie tin, and bake 10 minutes at 425°. Beat 3 egg yolks slightly and combine with 1 cup sugar, 2 tablespoons flour and ⅓ cup sour cream. Pour over 3 peeled, sliced peaches arranged in the crust. Cover with foil. Reduce the oven to 350° and bake 35 minutes. Remove the foil and bake 10 minutes more, or until the filling is set.