New Blog Alert:

Prologue:

http://edibleuniverse.wordpress.com/

Two Worlds Collide

The Daughter’s Tale

Images of the Edible

She was dreaming of food.

It was all that Gemma could dream about.  It filled up most of the space in her head. Sleeping and waking, her mind was stuffed with images of the edible.  Chips- hot and salty.  Apples- cool and crisp, straight from the fridge.  Corn flakes, covered in sugar and immersed in milk.

At every mealtime Gemma heard the footsteps of her fellow patients pounding past her door, heading for the dining room.  They seemed to live for food.  The dining room was one room Gemma was determined never to enter again.

They brought her a tray laden with food three times a day.  Breakfast.  Dinner.  Supper.  Every day.  The food they brought her always remained uneaten.  She didn’t even bother to remove the covers to see what culinary delights they had brought her.  The aroma was enough.

She wanted it.  But she could not have it.  It was desirable but forbidden.  It was poison.  Sugar-coated cyanide.

Instead she was sustained by memories of epic binges.

Three times a day, every day, the nurses came to remove the tray with barely suppressed sighs of disappointment and looks that said, ‘Eat.  It’s not so hard.  Just pick up a fork.  Spear a broccoli floret and raise it to your lips.  Then chew and Swallow.  Simple.’

But they didn’t know Gemma.  They didn’t know that if she were to start eating again she would never stop.  She felt like she could consume the entire world.  She pictured herself as some obese God, grabbing planets and stuffing them into her mouth, their juices running down her chin. She felt as though she could have munched her way through the entire universe.  But she still would not have been satisfied. Her appetite was insatiable.

And Do the Dumbest Docs Become Psychiatrists?

Perhaps ‘The Lancet’ should publish a paper on that:

http://pjmedia.com/lifestyle/2013/03/23/does-military-service-cause-men-to-become-criminals/?singlepage=true

http://pjmedia.com/lifestyle/2013/03/23/does-military-service-cause-men-to-become-criminals/?singlepage=true&show-at-comment=121304#comment-121304

http://pjmedia.com/lifestyle/2013/03/23/does-military-service-cause-men-to-become-criminals/?singlepage=true&show-at-comment=121488#comment-121488

Medical Student 1: You know, they really should abolish psychiatry.  It’s an embarrassment to the medical profession.

Medical Student 2: But then what would all the dumb docs do?

Medical Student 1: (shrugs) They could always become lawyers.

Addendum: I am rereading a rather interesting little book entitled: Instructions for American Servicemen in Britain 1942 reproduced from the original typescript, War Department, Washington D.C.

The blurb on the back cover reads:

‘…The British don’t know how to make a good cup of coffee.  You don’t know how to make a good cup of tea.  It’s a even swap…”

“…When you see a girl in khaki or air-force blue with a bit of ribbon on her tunic–remember she didn’t get it for knitting more socks than anyone else in Ipswich…”

“…It is always impolite to criticise your hosts; it is militarily stupid to criticise your allies.”

I love primary sources.

‘Laters’

La Fin

 

 

This is the Dénouement: the final scene, we capitulate
Paralysed, circumcised by self annihilation. Our sky is starless.
At this moment it is merely desolate,
We are but cautionary tales, standing before a precipice
There are no fundamentals to rely upon anymore
For us anything will do. Pale faces brown. A Queen is crowned.
The patron saint of the damned is advancing, breaching borders
Her empire has tripled in size, its interior honeyed with holiness
Surplus sailors, veterans wasting away to bone
Sucked into the swamp. There will be no revival
They leave, devoid of prospect. We hear their long lament

And we who choose to stay behind
With the calamitous cacophony of the tide
The ocean roars in a foreign language
Dissolving into salt water, we finally yield

Suicide Is Never Painless

There have been many times when I have wished that the world would stop. I wanted to put a spoke in the wheels of time. I wanted it to come screeching to a halt so that I could get off in a dignified manner, a pale, girlish foot stepping into the blackest of space. Becoming a part of it, dissolving into it, never to be seen again.

The question was: how would I get to this point? The Catholic faith does not look terribly kindly upon those who choose to commit suicide. Look to the reaction engendered by Ophelia’s death in Hamlet. It is a mortal sin with no possibility of redemption. It is self murder and once done can never be undone. You have relinquished your immortal soul.

It occurred to be that I could entice one of the more unpleasant members of my species to push me over the edge. The problem with this strategy is that it involves enticing another into committing a mortal sin. (only this time with at least some possibility of redemption.) Also having initiated the process I would be acting with suicidal intent. So, ultimately, that’s two immortal souls lost. And I cannot escape from the idea that, given that I did not create myself, I have no right to destroy myself.

Above all, I recognise that I will be remembered as a silly, spoilt, selfish girl who squandered every opportunity she had ever been given.

And this is why, for the moment at least, I want the world to keep on turning.

Liberty

Nothing But the Same Old Story

Paul Brady

(Assuming familiarity with the historical context.  Now that’s a silly thing to do.  Sigh, okay if I must: http://www.paulbrady.com/?page_id=1471)

I was just about nineteen
When I landed on their shore
With my eyes big as headlights
Like the thousands and thousands who came before
I was going to be something . . .
Smiled at the man scrutinising my face
As I stepped down off the gangway

Came down to their city
Where I worked for many’s the year
Built a hundred houses
Must’ve pulled half a million pints of beer
Living under suspicion
Putting up with the hatred and fear in their eyes
You can see that you’re nothing but a murderer
In their eyes, we’re nothing but a bunch of murderers

Hey, Johnny, can’t wait till Saturday night!
Got a thirst that’s raging . . .
Know a place where we can put that right
Wash away the confusion
Hose down this fire inside
But look out!
‘Cause I’ll tear you into pieces if you cross me.

I’m sick of watching them break up
Every time some bird brain puts us down
Making jokes on the radio . . .
Guess it helps them all drown out the sound
Of the crumbling foundations
Any fool can see the writing on the wall
But they just don’t believe that its happening.

There’s a crowd says I’m all right
Say they like my turn of phrase
Take me round to their parties
Like some dressed up monkey in a cage.
And I play my accordion
Oh! but when the wine seeps through the facade
It’s nothing but the same old story
Nothing but the same old story

Got a brother in Boston 
Says he’ll send me on the fare 
Just wrote me a letter 
Making out that he’s cleaning up out there 
Two cars in the driveway. 
Summer house way down on the Cape 
And I know he’d fix me up in the morning 

I’ve been thinking about it 
But it seems so far to go 
People say in the winter 
you’d get lost underneath the snow 
And there’s this girl from my home place 
We’ve been planning to move back and give it a try 
So I never got around to going 
That’s why I never got around to going.

What Should I Do? (Reblog)

Somewhere across the Big Pond they often advise trial lawyers to avoid asking questions of witnesses on the stand unless they are sure of the answer.  A Texan gentleman by the rather peculiar name of Alphonsus Jr. might consider applying such advice to other areas of his life, such as his interactions with complete strangers on the internet.

http://www.libertylawsite.org/2013/02/11/fat-wars-why-not-personal-responsibility

Alphonsus Jr.

MAR 07, 2013 @ 20:52:02
Your links don’t work.

Incidentally, you appear to be on a crusade against Theodore Dalrymple. I keep seeing you in com boxes speaking against him. Kindly explain.

Incidentally, have you ever hired a surgical hitman to commit surgical infanticide?

If ‘Alphonsus Jr.’ had conducted some research before he asked this rather unpleasant, ungentlemanly question he may have stumbled across my Catholic origins.  I certainly stumbled across his.  Just a word of advice ‘Junior’, abortion is a mortal sin, having oneself tattooed isn’t.

I asked my wise old 95 year old neighbour (ex RAF, paramedic, college porter) Nobby Clarke what I should do.

‘Nobby, some American accused me of committing a mortal sin.  What should I do?”

‘And did you commit this mortal sin?’

‘Why, of course not.’

Brief silence.  And then Nobby said ‘Nothing.’

That man is a genius.  Although you’ll note that I did not follow his advice.

http://dalrymplewatch.wordpress.com/2013/03/16/what-should-i-do/

Apparently my charming interlocutor has a few identities on da web, including:

Jackson K. Esquire:

Sketch

Genius!

http://www.bonkersinstitute.org/seven.html

http://psychrights.org/States/Michigan/ClosingTheGap/Appendix%20I.pdf

Dinner Guest (Joining the real world temporarily)

RECIPE:

Chick Pea Paprika

4oz (100g) brown rice
1 onion, finely chopped
1 clove garlic, finely chopped
1 teaspoon olive oil
1 small red pepper, cut into strips
2 teaspoons paprika
14 oz (400g) can of chick peas
14 oz (400g) can of chopped tomatoes
2 tablespoons of natural low fat yogurt

Cook the brown rice. Fry the onion and the garlic in the olive oil in a heavy non-stick saucepan (I have a Wok) until soft and golden. Add the red pepper strips a cook a few minutes more. Add the drained chick peas and the chopped tomatoes. Simmer for 15-20 minutes. Spoon the yogurt over the chick pea paprika just before serving. Drain the rice and serve as an accompaniment to the chick peas.