This is for two persons: Take two turkey breasts and put them in cling-foil. Hit them gently with a flat heavy object, till they are about a fourth of an inch thick. Chop up mushrooms and fry them in butter, add black pepper. Chop up parsley and some strong cheese. Put the mushrooms, parsley and cheese on the turkey breast, roll them up and tie them with twine. Fry them for five minutes, or till golden brown. Add 25 cl of red wine and let simmer for half an hour. Serve with potatoes or rice. Enjoy!
My friend Lieven posted this as comment on my post: A Piece of Quark?
Submitted on 2011/10/22 at 7:59 PM
if you can’t scientifically explain it
dawkins says it has no value – some hope
inside the mechanical framework of a guess
(as far as any fact can truly grope)
doubts roam – mere looking can’t attain it Continue reading “Science Hunts the Quark.”
This is definitely a must see. Amazing pictures of this most uncommon natural phenomenon (in our parts at any rate). The colours are surreal and wonderful. No artist could render such images on any canvas, try though he might.
HEAR, ye ladies that despise
What the mighty Love has done;
Fear examples and be wise:
Fair Callisto was a nun; Leda, sailing on the stream
To deceive the hopes of man,
Love accounting but a dream,
Doted on a silver swan;
Danae, in a brazen tower,
Where no love was, loved a shower.
Hear, ye ladies that are coy,
What the mighty Love can do;
Fear the fierceness of the boy:
The chaste Moon he makes to woo;
Vesta, kindling holy fires,
Circled round about with spies,
Never dreaming loose desires,
Doting at the altar dies;
Ilion, in a short hour, higher
He can build, and once more fire.
“The moon rises. The red cubs rolling
In the ferns by the rotten oak
Stare over a marsh and a meadow
To the farm’s white wisp of smoke.
A spark burns, high in heaven.
Deer thread the blossoming rows
Of the old orchard, rabbits
Hop by the well-curb. The cock crows
From the tree by the widow’s walk;
Two stars in the trees to the west,
Are snared, and an owl’s soft cry
Runs like a breath through the forest.
Here too, though death is hushed, though joy
Obscures, like night, their wars,
The beings of this world are swept
By the Strife that moves the stars.”
Was it the warm winds down from the Pyrenees
Or maybe Poseidon’s breath off the Mediterranean
That stirred the Spanish Muses,
Who whispered and giggle and tickled the ear
of the passionate Balkan son
To set his pen ablaze and spin his tales,
Paint his imagery,
Behind smoky haze and quenched by bitter elixirs
And sweet wines of the plains of Europa
Come, sons of summer, by whose toil
We are the lords of wine and oil;
By whose tough labours, and rough hands,
We rip up first, then reap our lands.
Crown’d with the ears of corn, now come,
And to the pipe sing Harvest Home.
Come forth, my lord, and see the cart
Dress’d up with all the country art. Continue reading “Present from Lieven 32.”
Lieven Grillaert: “We nailed the hands long ago, Wove the thorns, took up the scourge and shouted For excitement’s sake, we stood at the dusty edge Of the pebbled path and watched the extreme of pain.
But one or two prayed, one or two Were silent, shocked, stood back And remembered remnants of words, a new vision, The cross is up with its crying victim, the clouds Cover the sun, we learn a new way to lose What we did not know we had Until this bleak and sacrificial day, Until we turned from our bad Past and knelt and cried out our dismay, The dice still clicking, the voices dying away.”
How neatly a cat sleeps,
Sleeps with its paws and its posture,
Sleeps with its wicked claws,
And with its unfeeling blood,
Sleeps with ALL the rings a series
Of burnt circles which have formed
The odd geology of its sand-colored tail. Continue reading “Present from Lieven 29.”
My husband drives an oil tanker during the winter and when he’s not busy farming other times of the year. He gets up about 5am while it’s still dark out and first thing he does is go start the semi. Most mornings it’s just a cold quick walk outside to start it up and come back in for a half hour or so of coffee.
To really understand what happens next I must explain a few things. Right out our front door we have two bowls of cat food and dog food for our outside animals. We keep them full of food so our kitties and dog, Homer, always have something to eat.
On this particular early morning, Brad stumbled outside with sleep still in eyes to start his semi. He stepped down towards the food bowls and tripped over a raccoon! I’m sure the raccoon was just as shocked…
Once I saw mountains angry,
And ranged in battle-front.
Against them stood a little man;
Aye, he was no bigger than my finger.
I laughed, and spoke to one near me,
“Will he prevail?”
“Surely,” replied this other;
“His grandfathers beat them many times.”
Then did I see much virtue in grandfathers —
At least, for the little man
Who stood against the mountains.
May I join you in the doghouse, Rover?
I wish to retire till the party’s over.
Since three o’clock I’ve done my best
To entertain each tiny guest. My conscience now I’ve left behind me,
And if they want me, let them find me.
I blew their bubbles, I sailed their boats,
I kept them from eachother’s throats. I told them tales of magic lands,
I took them out to wash their hands.
I sorted their rubbers and tied their laces,
I wiped their noses and dried their faces. Of similarities there’s lots
Twixt tiny tots and Hottentots.
I’ve earned repose to heal the ravages
Of these angelic-looking savages. Oh, progeny playing by itself
Is a lonely little elf,
But progeny in roistering batches
Would drive St. Francis from here to Natchez. Shunned are the games a parent proposes,
They prefer to squirt each other with hoses,
Their playmates are their natural foemen
And they like to poke each other’s abdomen. Their joy needs another woe’s to cushion it,
Say a puddle, and someone littler to push in it.
They observe with glee the ballistic results
Of ice cream with spoons for catapults, And inform the assembly with tears and glares
That everyone’s presents are better than theirs.
Oh, little women and little men,
Someday I hope to love you again, But not till after the party’s over,
So give me the key to the doghouse, Rover
Today is Sunday.
For the first time they took me out into the sun today.
And for the first time in my life I was aghast
that the sky is so far away
and so blue
and so vast
I stood there without a motion.
Then I sat on the ground with respectful devotion
leaning against the white wall.
Who cares about the waves with which I yearn to roll
Or about strife or freedom or my wife right now.
The soil, the sun and me…
I feel joyful and how.
What a mess my room is!
I can barely see the floor!
My little sister Lauren…
Can barely shut the door!
Dishes lie upon the floor
Clothes lie on our beds
The cat lies on our pillows
Where do we lay our heads?
I wonder what’s under this mess
What was that?
It must of been…
My grandmother’s bat
Hair brush hanging here
A stocking over there
OH! NO! I think I lost…
My faviorte underware”
I just read an article in “The News” (publ.07-09-2011), which is a free newspaper, that we get here in the South of Spain. According to Mr. Ken Campbell, their resident astronomer(not astrologer!), what everyone thinks is their star sign, is “almost certainly NOT the constellation where the sun was on the day they were born”!!! This is due to a phenomenon called precession.(->)
*From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
In astronomy, precession refers to any of several gravity-induced, slow and continuous changes in an astronomical body’s rotational axis or orbital path.*
Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?
Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows,
Drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish,
Baring teeth that leer like skulls’ tongues wicked?
Stroke on stroke of pain, — but what slow panic,
Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets?
Ever from their hair and through their hand palms
Misery swelters. Surely we have perished
Sleeping, and walk hell; but who these hellish?
— These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished.
Memory fingers in their hair of murders,
Multitudinous murders they once witnessed.
Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander,
Treading blood from lungs that had loved laughter.
Always they must see these things and hear them,
Batter of guns and shatter of flying muscles,
Carnage incomparable and human squander
Rucked too thick for these men’s extrication.
Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented
Back into their brains, because on their sense
Sunlight seems a bloodsmear; night comes blood-black;
Dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh
— Thus their heads wear this hilarious, hideous,
Awful falseness of set-smiling corpses.
— Thus their hands are plucking at each other;
Picking at the rope-knouts of their scourging;
Snatching after us who smote them, brother,
Pawing us who dealt them war and madness.
“Man in hospital bed wearing oxygen mask over his mouth. “Nurse”, he mumbles. “Are my testicles black?” Nurse raises his gown, holds his penis in one hand & his testicles in the other, …she takes a close look & says, “There’s nothing wrong with them Sir.” Man pulls off the oxygen mask, smiles at her & says very slowly, “Thanks for that, it was lovely, but listen very very carefully. “Are-my-test-re-sults-back?””