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William Josiah Goode
August 30, 1917 - May 4, 2003
William J. (Si) Goode served as the 63rd President of the American Sociological Association. The following article by Wilbert E. Moore appeared in the August 1970 issue of The American Sociologist:
Introducing the New President-Elect of ASA
William J. Goode
by Wilbert E. Moore
William J. Goode, our new President-Elect, is known as Si to all his host of friends. Let me explain first about the nickname. Si derives from the normally suppressed middle name, Josiah. But the man, Si Goode, derives from Texas, and there are those who think that this regional origin still shows in a certain manner of grand style—one might say Panache if one wanted a French touch, or machismo if one wanted a more distinctly Latin flavor. By ethnic provenience he is from poor (and therefore honest) Protestant Irish stock, and if one wants to be mystical, that may be a bit of the reason that we have so much in common. But it may be harder getting over being poor than to suppress being a WASP. In Goode's case (and my own) I think the perception has validity.
Si Goode was my very first graduate student, at Penn State, where he was attracted by the presence of Kingsley Davis, as was I. Davis was our hero in absentia during our initial year at Penn State, but he did return for a year before he left again, and Si left for military service, and I to follow Davis to Princeton. Si, alone, returned to Penn State, to a complete his brilliant doctoral thesis Religion Among the Primitives, published soon thereafter. Although the dates of all of these encounters and events are scarcely secret, I see no reason to display them here.
Goode's many published contributions to the development of our discipline are on record, as are at least some of his activities in national and regional sociological affairs, associations, conferences, and committees. Goode also has a well-earned reputation as a teacher, or, even better, as a professor who cares, for he does care about his craft and his calling. I give to him my highest accolade: he is an "old pro" (a designation that some acquire at a tender age).
About his accomplishments as a scuba-diver or winter sportsman I am unable to judge. His attempts to be a Renaissance Man are different from mine, and possibly better, and certainly more responsive to current possibilities. What I do know is this: Si Goode is a great sociologist. He is also a great man. I know better than to make an equation of those statements, but the temptation is strong. I yield to it.
Goode's ASA Presidential Address, entitled "The Place of Force in Human Society," was delivered at the Association's Annual Meeting on August 28, 1972 in New Orleans, LA. Following the meeting, his address was published in the October 1972 issue of the American Sociological Review ( ASR Vol 37 No 5, pp 507-519 ).
We were saddened by the unexpected loss of Dr. Goode on Sunday, May 4, 2003:
William Josiah Goode, former President of the American Sociological Association (1972) and Emeritus Professor of Sociology at Stanford University, died unexpectedly on May 4, 2003. He was best known for his pioneering cross-cultural analysis of marriage and divorce although his work covered basic issues in sociological theory focusing on social control systems of prestige, force and force threat, and love.
William J. Goode (known as Si to his family and friends) published 20 books and more than 80 articles on a wide range of topics, including Religion Among the Primitives (1951), Die Struktur der Familie (1960), World Revolution and Family Patterns (1963), Explorations in Social Theory (1973), Principles of Sociology (1977), The Celebration of Heroes (1978), and World Changes in Divorce Patterns (1993). His Methods in Social Research with Paul Hatt (1952 with many printings) was widely translated (including a pirated Chinese edition) and was used to teach research methods to three generations of social scientists throughout the western world and Asia.
Si Goode was best known for his 1963 book, World Revolution and Family Patterns (The Free Press). Drawing on his knowledge of nine languages, the research included data from more than 50 countries and covered a half-century. It demonstrated the critical impact of family systems on what was previously assumed to be purely economic forces, such as society's capacity to industrialize.
Thirty years later, Si published an equally pioneering cross-cultural analysis of divorce, World Changes in Divorce Patterns (Yale University Press, 1993), which laid out the conceptual basis for analyzing and predicting patterns of divorce, revealing anomalous patterns in some societies.
Goode's classic articles, such as "The Theoretical Importance of Love," "A Theory of Role Strain," "The Protection of the Inept," "Violence Among Intimates," and "Why Men Resist," offered insights into social processes that often were contrary to popular wisdom, and moved research beyond existing paradigms. His book, The Celebration of Heroes (1978), of which he was proudest, was a keystone to his overarching analysis of the subtleties of social forces involved in the production and distribution of prestige, honor, and respect.
Goode was a fellow of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, and his scholarship was honored by numerous awards and prizes, including an honorary Doctorate of Science, Upsala College, 1971; the Merit Award for a Lifetime of Scholarship from the Eastern Sociological Association; two Guggenheim fellowships; National Institute of Mental Health Senior Scientist Career Award; the MacIver Prize for the best scholarly book, given by the American Sociological Association (ASA); and the Burgess Award in 1969.
Goode also served as President of the Sociological Research Association and President of the Eastern Sociological Society. In 1982, the ASA's Section on the Family named its annual scholarly award for the outstanding book on the family in his honor, and in 1994 he himself was granted the William J. Goode award for World Changes in Divorce Patterns (Yale University Press, 1993).
Born in Houston, Texas, in 1917, and encouraged by his high school debating coach, the future U.S. President Lyndon B. Johnson, Goode started college at the age of 16 on a full fellowship at Rice Institute. Characteristic of a lifelong tendency to nonconformity about matters of small importance, he was expelled from Rice in the spring of 1936 for violating the school's dress code by wearing shorts to class. He completed his BA and MA degrees (in Philosophy) at the University of Texas, Austin in 1938 and 1939.
He was studying for his PhD in Sociology at Pennsylvania State University when he enlisted in the Navy and became a radarman on an attack transport ship carrying and landing troops in the Pacific (1944-45). After the war, Goode became an Assistant Professor in Sociology at Wayne State University (1946-50).
He moved to Columbia University in 1950 to collaborate with Robert K. Merton on a project analyzing the professions in American society. In 1952, he became an Associate Professor and in 1956, Professor of Sociology.
Goode was named the Franklin H. Giddings Professor of Sociology at Columbia University in 1975. He was chair of the Department of Sociology for several periods in the 1960s and 1970s and also served as the Associate Director of the Bureau of Applied Social Research and on its Board of Governors from 1956-70.
During his years at Columbia, he was an early supporter of the nascent women's movement, both intellectually and personally, working with Betty Friedan when she was writing The Feminine Mystique, and with Cynthia Fuchs Epstein on a jointly edited book The Other Half: Roads to Women's Equality (1971). Unlike many male professors of his generation, he encouraged and promoted the careers of his women graduate students—from whom he demanded nothing less than excellence.
In 1977, Goode left Columbia to become a Professor of Sociology at Stanford University where he taught for the next nine years. He became an Emeritus Professor at Stanford in 1986, and joined the Department of Sociology at Harvard University (until 1993). He became affiliated with the Sociology Department at George Mason University in 1994.
Goode's reputation for scholarship and teaching was widely acknowledged internationally, and he was invited to many foreign countries. He was a Visiting Professor at the newly opened Free University of Berlin in 1954; a visitor at Wolfson College, Oxford University, in 1980; a distinguished guest lecturer in China for the Chinese Academy of Science in 1986; and a Visiting Professor at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem in 1992.
Si Goode was often referred to as a "renaissance man," excelling in a wide range of activities, including painting, sculpture, sailing, tennis, skiing, mycology, and birding. In the past three years he won numerous tennis trophies in the mid-Atlantic region in the over 80's singles category, saw one of his paintings published on the cover of a book, and wrote an article on "bird watching with your ears" for the East Hampton (New York) SOFO Naturalist magazine.
Goode is survived by his wife, Lenore J. Weitzman, the Clarence J. Robinson Professor of Sociology and Law at George Mason University; three children, Erich Goode, Emeritus Professor of Sociology at the State University of New York at Stonybrook, who is currently Visiting Professor of Criminology and Criminal Justice at the University of Maryland; Barbara Baldwin, Women's Health coordinator for the Washington, DC Department of Heath; and Andrew Josiah Goode, an architect in Shingle Springs, California; and a sister, Rosalie Grizzle of Magnolia, Texas.
His family is planning a funeral ceremony at the Columbarium of Arlington National Cemetery (date to be announced.) They would welcome contributions to the ASA for the William J. Goode international fellowship, which is being established in his honor to provide support for graduate students engaged in cross-cultural dissertation research.
An official ASA obituary and tributes will be published in the July/August 2003 issue of Footnotes.


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The personal data provided by the data subject ("Data") shall be processed for the following purposes:
a) to allow YOOX NET-A-PORTER S.p.A., company with sole shareholder subject to direction and coordination of Compagnie Financière Richemont S.A., to manage the services offered by the website, to fulfil orders placed, and to complete the activities related thereto, including the operations pertaining to administrative and fiscal requirements, to respond to requests via the contact form, as well as to manage any product returns;
b) to allow Ferrari S.p.A.'s registration process to occur on the website;
c) upon consent of the data subject, to send commercial and/or promotional communications on products and services of Ferrari S.p.A., as well as to perform market research ("Marketing");
d) upon consent of the interested party, analyse shopping behaviours, habits, and preferences, in order to improve the products and services provided by Ferrari S.p.A. as well as meet the specific demands of customers ("Profiling").
e) upon consent of the data subject, to allow Ferrari S.p.A. to disclose the Data to the subsidiaries that are directly and indirectly controlled by Ferrari N.V. and/or affiliated with Ferrari S.p.A. ("Companies of the Ferrari Group"), that may process customer data to send commercial and/or promotional communications for products and services of the aforementioned companies, as well as to conduct market research ("Ferrari Group Marketing").
Data may be processed for each of the above purposes using paper, automated, or electronic methods and, in particular, by ordinary mail or email, telephone (e.g. automated calls, SMS, MMS), fax, or any other IT channel (e.g. websites, mobile app).

subset: commoncrawl


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Mark Ballas' 'DWTS' blog: Two to tango, three to jive
This week promises to be a lot of fun, with the "Trio" round. Lucky for us, we have the pleasure of having Henry Byalikov in our group. It's awesome because, when my back was at its worst last week, he stepped in to help me with Aly, so she already feels comfortable dancing with him. He is also great at dancing as a team player and has great choreographic ideas, so I'm stoked to have him.
Our trio dance is the jive, which is one of my favorite dances of all time. It's quick, it's slick, and it's got a lot of personality. We are going for a cool theme this week, too, which will add a lot of flair to the dance. Aly is constantly improving with the counts, which has been her weakest thing so far.
The other dance we are taking on is the Argentine tango, which is a complete change of pace for Aly. The story of the tango is all about the woman of the night, and I represent the paying customer. I'm really pleased with Aly's progress with this character, considering she has not had an intense dance yet. She's handling the sexy very well.
My back is still not 100%, but I'm powering through. Only a few weeks left to go, and I want to keep dancing for all the fans who have been so great to us! Really hoping y'all enjoy this week.
And, once again, when I'm done dancing, I'll have my show this Monday. If you're in the L.A. area, come down to The Sayers Club on Hollywood and Wilcox at 11 p.m. and see me play with a full eight-piece band set. Each week is more and more fun — ope to see you there! And don't forget to check out the new markballas.com if you haven't already and follow me. And follow me on Twitter @markballas. I'll be getting some exciting things underway next week!


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Registered Nurse applicants should complete all sections of the Graduate Admission Application and submit it to the Admissions Office.
General Admission Requirements
Candidates for Graduate Admission to Thomas University MUST submit to the Office of Admissions each of the following:
- Application for Graduate Admission
- Application fee
- A detailed resume
- A personal statement of career and educational objectives
- Transcripts from all undergraduate and graduate schools attended, to be forwarded directly to the Office of Admissions at Thomas University
- Three professional or academic references
Program Specific Admission Requirements for the MSN Program
- The candidate must be a graduate of an accredited Bachelors of Science in Nursing program
- If the candidate holds a BA or BS in a field other than nursing and is a graduate of an accredited diploma or Associate Degree Program in nursing, he or she MUST meet all other admission requirements. Additional courses in baccalaureate upper division nursing may be required.
- Candidates must hold a current unencumbered RN license.
- Candidates must have a minimum undergraduate GPA of 3.0 (on a 4.0 scale) for the most recent 60 hours of college-level coursework.
- An undergraduate statistics course must be completed within five years of date of enrollment to Thomas University.


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Did you know that Zangief's original name was Vodka Gorbalsky? Do you realize how horrifically stereotypical some of the early Street Fighter character designs were? You will once you watch episode one of Machinima's FighterPedia.
It's not Japan's fault that they don't have a lot of African, Indian, or Russian people hanging about to model characters after. The only reference they had back then was imported American television and movies, and we weren't particularly good at representing diversity in our entertainment at the time.
Hell, before I moved to Georgia when I was twelve or so I figured all the kids down here walked to school in suspenders, straw hats, and bare feet. Imagine my surprise when I got here and discovered that not everyone had bare feet.
Oh man, gotta go email Capcom, got a great idea for a new Street Fighter character.
Fighterpedia Episode 1: Rejected Street Fighters [YouTube via Capcom Unity]
You can contact Michael Fahey, the author of this post, at firstname.lastname@example.com. You can also find him on Twitter, Facebook, and lurking around our #tips page.


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When we came across the iPhone photography app Faded by Vintage Noir, we were first drawn to it because of their unique logo (and $0.99 price tag). We dug the design so we thought we'd download the app, and have a quick look around. Once we launched it we were instantly hooked!
The homescreen of the app is super eye-catching, and well branded — the background features a succession of gorgeous photos, as well as their colorful logo. At this point you can choose to take a new photo with the in-app camera, or grab one from your camera roll.… Read more


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When I got divorced 10 years ago, I stayed in the house that my then-husband and I had bought. After everything was finalized, I slowly began making some changes at home to reflect my newly single status.
The things I tackled first were the ones that were the most intimate between my ex and me. Anything that touched his bare body? Gone. Things that reminded me of long-ago promises? Gone. (Except, of course, our children. I didn't get rid of them. They're wonderful, and probably my best reminder of what was good about my marriage.)
After I finally got around to making those changes, I realized I should have made them a lot sooner. Because they stopped me from looking around the house and seeing memories of my failed marriage. Instead, I looked around and was able to see my bright future.
Out of everything I replaced, these 10 were the ones that made the most impact in my day-to-day life.
1. Bedding: Replace your old bedding with some new sheets, pillows, and a comforter. While you're at it, get a friend to help you move the furniture around. I also painted my bedroom a different color.
2. Lingerie: Get yourself some new underwear. You don't have to replace all of it, but enough so that your underwear drawer looks different. And definitely replace the lingerie that holds a special meaning for you. Like the teddy you got at your wedding shower.
3. Jewelry: Buy a new ring, even if it's for a different finger. I missed wearing a ring so I bought myself one at a street festival. It wasn't expensive, but it was something I liked seeing on my hand.
4. Artwork: That print of Monet's Water Lilies you bought from the Metropolitan Museum? Donate it. And have one of your favorite photographs, like that one you took of the beautiful sunset, blown up and framed.
5. Towels: Definitely freshen up your bathroom with new towels. Because what gets closer to your naked body than a towel? Well maybe ...
6. Sex Toys: Replace your sex toys -- or at least the ones you used with your ex. You may not be ready to be intimate with a new partner and, well, we all have needs.
7. Pajamas: Throw out the old T-shirts of his that you were using as sleep shirts. Put them in your rag drawer and buy yourself something cute and matchy to sleep in. Like a tank top and soft pajama bottoms.
8. Wine glasses: Don't get rid of all the glasses you got from your bridal registry. Just buy yourself two new ones. One for you and one for whomever may share your life down the road.
9. Photographs: Those pictures of you and your ex from your wedding day, your honeymoon, and any other special occasion? Banish them. If you're not ready to put them in the garbage, just put them in a box and store them in the attic.
10. Friends: Okay, so this one's not an inanimate object, but you have to replace so-called friends who don't want to try and understand what you're going through with people who are supportive. Going through a divorce is hard. You need friends who have got your back.
What else would you replace post-divorce?
Image via Jennifer Cullen


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Halfred (disambiguation)
(Redirected from Halfred)
Halfred was the name of several Hobbits:
- Halfred Greenhand, the founder of the Greenhand Family
- Halfred of Overhill, brother of Gaffer Gamgee
- Halfred Gamgee, brother of Samwise Gamgee
|This disambiguation page is a list of articles associated with the same title. This is in accordance with Tolkien Gateway's Naming policy.
If an internal link referred you to this page, you may wish to change the link to point directly to the intended article.


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"I decided on making cozies for empowering objects which happened to be very hard, masculine, recognizable objects. The covers kind of softened them up and changed their determined roles," explains extreme knitter Teresa Honeywell. She was, of course, inspired by a toilet-paper cozy at a flea market. "It kind of made me a little sad to see someone's handmade craft discarded and being sold for pennies, but it mostly saddened me because it was such a bizarre and useless object. I pictured a sad housewife with nothing better to do then knit up a cozy for a roll of toilet paper. I knew then that I wanted to use that same lonely technique, and meaningless process, to cover up an object that I wouldn't ever need or have the opportunity to use again in my new role as a housewife." [Andew Sullivan]
She's Crafty


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Before you contact Apple to request a refund for a charge you don't recognize,
check your purchase history and follow the steps below.
If you don't recognize the amount on your statement, multiple purchases might be grouped into one charge, even if you made the purchases on different days. You might not receive a separate email receipt for each purchase. Sometimes the charges appear on your statement a few days after the purchases were made. Learn about how purchases are grouped.
In addition to music, movies, TV shows, stickers, and apps purchases (from the iTunes Store and App Store) that are billed at the time of purchase, your statement might also include in-app purchases, pre-ordered music or movies, and automatically renewing subscriptions.
Compare your purchase history with the charges on your statement
To view and search your purchase history, click or tap this link: View Purchase History.
In your purchase history, you can see which payment method was charged.
If you're not currently signed in with the same Apple ID that you use to make purchases in the App Store and iTunes Store, if you're using a different device, or if you don't see your purchase, learn how to view your purchase history on your iPhone, iPad, iPod touch, Mac, or PC.
You can also use reportaproblem.apple.com to review your purchase history and receipts.
The Report a Problem website shows most subscriptions, except those for Apple services and iCloud storage charges.
Check the status of your subscriptions
Make sure that your charges aren't for a subscription that you or a family member set up.
To view and manage your subscriptions, click or tap this link: Manage your subscriptions.
If you're not currently signed in with the same Apple ID that you use with the subscription that you want to manage, if you're using a different device, or if you don't see your subscription, learn how to view, change or cancel your subscriptions. If you don't see your subscription, you might be billed directly through the provider instead of Apple. Contact the provider to cancel.
Deleting an app doesn't cancel a subscription.
Check all of your Apple IDs
If you ever added a payment method to another Apple ID, the unrecognized charges might have been made using that account. Check the Purchase History of each Apple ID that uses your payment method.
If you can't remember if you have another Apple ID, we can help you find out.
To stop charges with that Apple ID, you can restrict in-app purchases or turn on restrictions (parental controls) on your iOS device, in iTunes on your Mac or PC, or on your Apple TV.
If you share your devices
If you share your device with others, including young children, learn how to manage your password preferences.
If you share your device with others who have their own devices, you might want to set up Family Sharing.
If anyone else has your Apple ID password
Anyone who has your Apple ID password can make charges to your account. If you have unauthorized charges, change your Apple ID password.
Get more help
If you compare your statement to your purchase history and still don't recognize a charge, you can contact Apple Support.
To contact Apple Support, click or tap this link: Contact Apple Support.
If you don't use your Apple ID to make purchases from the iTunes Store or App Store and see charges on your statement, contact Apple for help with Apple ID account security.
If you think you're being billed twice for the same item, it might be a payment authorization hold and not an actual charge. The charge will disappear after your purchase clears.


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Last week, an employee who was a year out from retirement called the Financial Finesse Financial Helpline seeking some guidance. He didn't ask our planner about payout options in his 401(k), or how to file for Social Security. Instead, the employee explained that he didn't really want to retire even though he could. He knew that when he did, he'd be losing the only social interactions he really had. The people he'd been working with over the course of many years had become his friends, and leaving the company would mean losing the thing that had even more value to him than being able to retire comfortably.
Our caller's concern about losing something in retirement that brought him emotional fulfillment is not a surprise. In fact, that's why there have been countless (and even more since the Great Recession) retirement coaching firms popping up all over. They focus on clients' core values, and prepare people for more than just the financial aspects of retirement. But there's a need and a benefit for advisors to consider these values and provide more holistic retirement advice when dealing with their own clients' retirement planning.
There are mixed views on whether providing holistic retirement planning advice is worth an advisor's time and resources. The volatility of our economy and new legislation dictating more responsibility for advisors in managing clients' assets are giving those who believe it's not worth it a shove in the other direction. Soon, clients will seek out advisors based not only on their investment returns and performance, but also on how much guidance they provide their clients on the intangible values in retirement. According to the Dow Jones Affluent Investor Study, two-thirds of study participants reported having created a retirement plan with their advisors. With a more well-rounded approach to retirement planning, advisors have the opportunity to capture the other one-third. By getting on board with the new paradigm, advisors may have an upper hand on the competition. They'll be offering what investors currently want and will eventually come to expect: retirement planning guidance that focuses on their overall picture and life goals. Because of this, these advisors will continue to attract and retain more clients while increasing their clients' satisfaction in retirement.
The biggest issue right now for advisors is being able to retain clients. With the recent market correction and Federal credit downgrade, holding onto investors after they've seen daunting losses in their portfolios can be time consuming and stressful, especially if they aren't educated about market fluctuations and don't understand their long-term goals. According to Prince & Associates, Inc. (as cited by NABCAP), after the recession hit, over 80% of investors planned to move their money away from their advisor. Traditionally, the industry has focused heavily on an advisor's performance and investment returns to attract clients, showing potential clients their money is going to be in good hands. But there is opportunity and a benefit for adaptable advisors who will focus on a broader realm of factors that affect people in retirement such as our caller's and others that hold emotional value.
Why? Advisors who provide this broader guidance in retirement planning are more likely to retain clients when the market takes a turn for the worse.
Clients will see more than just big losses in investment returns—they'll see an advisor who is concerned about their overall satisfaction in retirement. This will give the advisor a competitive edge over those who are still providing traditional planning advice that only, or most heavily, focuses on investment returns. With consumers' perception growing increasingly cynical, providing clients with valuable guidance that helps them achieve success in their finances and life goals is going to be a necessity to ensuring an advisor's own success. Advisors will eventually be expected to provide this type of guidance, and the ones who aren't will be left behind.
So what should advisors be doing to ensure their clients are satisified in retirement, beyond their ability to do it financially? In my next column, I'll be providing some best practices advisors can use to offer more holistic retirement coaching without spending much more time or resources to do it.
Whether we are ready for it or not, one-dimensional planning is soon to be a thing of the past. Financial professionals may see this shift either as a nuisance to be dealt with, or as an opportunity to grow their clients' satisfaction in retirement. The fact still remains that advisors today are in a unique position to help people reach a rewarding lifetime dream at a time when those dreams seem even harder to obtain.


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|CTU Catalogue - Holdings
|Heath, Robert W.,1973-:
|Foundations of MIMO communication /Robert W. Heath Jr., Angel Lozano..
| Cambridge, United Kingdom ; : Cambridge University Press, [2019]. New York :..
| xxxvi, 764 stran : ilustrace ; 25 cm..
|Click on the link ("request") to make a hold request for an item.
|Item status
|Due date
|Call number
|No. of requests
|Central CTU Library
|FEE: Department of Electromagnetic Field
*) Note: Item status depends on the type of document and user's category. If there is more than one
entry, the first applies to students, the second to employees and the third to external users and professional community.
If the item belongs to MIAS than the first entry applies to students, the second to MBA students, the third to employees
and the fourth to external users and professional community.
Deposited book = a book purchased by the departmental budget (grants, research projects) for educational and scientific research purposes, which is located at the given CTU's department and is not available for the loans under regular conditions.
Course = a book is available only to students of a course. It is not possible to make a reservation via catalog.


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Example 9—Writable External Web Table with Script
A newer version of this documentation is available. Click here to view the most up-to-date release of the Greenplum 4.x documentation.
Example 9—Writable External Web Table with Script
Creates a writable external web table, campaign_out, that pipes output data recieved by the segments to an executable script, to_adreport_etl.sh:
=# CREATE WRITABLE EXTERNAL WEB TABLE campaign_out (LIKE campaign) EXECUTE '/var/unload_scripts/to_adreport_etl.sh' FORMAT 'TEXT' (DELIMITER '|');


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For more than 75 years, scientists at PRI have been pursuing research in paleontology in response to one of the core functions established at the Institution's founding in 1932. Our current researchers include 10 PhD-level staff members who study a wide variety of topics in addition to their work for the Institution. Much of their research focuses on fossils and modern mollusks from the southeastern United States, Caribbean, and Latin America.
In the last 10 years, research by PRI staff has expanded to include work on the abundant Devonian marine invertebrates and Pleistocene mastodons of New York State, as well as the general fields of evolutionary paleobiology, conservation, and macroevolution. PRI is formally affiliated with Cornell University's Department of Earth and Atmospheric Science and several staff members teach courses and advise work by graduate and undergraduate students. In addition, PRI-affiliated Research Associates collaborate with staff, increase activity in our collections, and broaden our scope of expertise.
Our research facilities (including laboratories, library, and specimen collections) provide workplaces for our scientists and offer research training and resources to students and teachers.
PRI publishes two paleontological research journals, Bulletins of American Paleontology and Palaeontographica Americana as well as periodically producing stand-alone publications in various areas of Earth Science. PRI recognizes excellence in paleontological research through annual academic awards to students, professionals, and amateurs. The Institution is recognized worldwide for the excellence of its research, collections, and publications.
In addition to research in the basic sciences, PRI contributes to education research, determining the best methods of communicating science to students, teachers, and the public.


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The "Desktop Chair" is an iPad and MacBook stand designed by Moku Woodware, and looks like something that would fit in perfectly on your kitchen counter while cooking dinner and channeling your inner Emeril Lagasse.
The handmade construction makes use of basswood for a study and modern construction, while still playing on traditional Japanese design elements. It's capable of holding almost any current Apple laptop or tablet, giving it a handy place at your desk allowing you to set up an external monitor, mouse, and keyboard, without sacrificing organization or desk space. If you're interested in picking one up, they're available over at BiteMyApple.Co for $38. [BiteMyApple via Materialicious]


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Dead Baby Syndrome
Dead Baby Syndrome (DBS) is a variant form of rabies, and the symptoms include, but arent limited to: laughing, ROFL, LMAO, foaming at the mouth, stomach cramps, and severe weakness due to tremors. A very strange side effect of DBS is the effectee starts speaking universal truths such as
illegal immigrants Mexicans should say in Guatemala, or the only risk Black people are in is being patronized to death. Though they speak these truths, answers to questions like "What is the meaning of life?" (we all know the answer to that...) have never been answered by the victims. Most babid people, if they haven't been vaccinated, can't be helped. Like people with the Gay/Lesbian disease. But, if enough medicines are swallowed, such as methadone, adderoll, oxycontin, etc., it's been observed that this calms the victim.
The original originations of DBS, like any English word in the dictionary, are unknown. Perhaps it came from penis's in the Middle East, contaminated by the uranium seeping out of the bombs stashed up their rears. Once, when Adolf H. was in his adolescence or in College (not the art college) he tried the infamous milk challenge. One of his smart ass friends decided to show him a picture of a dead Jewish baby that had been circulating around cell phones. Adolf H. started laughing so hard that it triggered the expulsion the half gallon of milk in his stomach. He pukelaughed for a couple minutes (maybe this is where the foaming at the mouth symptom comes from?) until his dorm room mother, Rosa Parks, who loved her
illegitimate son, lovingly told him to clean it up, or else she would whip him and make him pick cotton. Little Adolfo didn't hear her because he was rofl'ing, but not to worry, his dog, Eva Braun, came and drank up all the pukemilk. A subtler, less known theory of origination is the ancient practice of dog fighting. Not two feisty teenage girls. Real dog fighting. The kind the Michael Vick does. The Romans practiced this before they had an abundant source of Jews or Christians, but they couldn't nail the losing dog to a cross because its legs weren't thick enough for spike to stay in. The Romans had mini colloseums before Nero made 'da big one,' and their main past time, besides killing Gauls, was dog fighting. There is much strategy in this sport, like dodging Fed and animal rights activist's claims of animal abuse. Also Ann Coulter. The biggest and most famous dog of those days was Doggy Bonds. We know how he got big.
There is speculation from the guys in the white coats holding microscopes... what do you call them? Anyways, there is speculation on the causes of contraction. Most of the more highly educated portion of the populace says you contract it by too much exposure to dead baby jokes. Others think this theory is completely untrue as they are avid seekers of dead baby jokes. Some say you can get it from eating dead babies... but who eats dead babies when you can get 'em fresh from the market for 1.99 +tax? Well, the market in Juarez, Mexico, anway. But you can get anything there, like bottles of sludge from the Rio Pequeno.
If you don't want DBS, don't read this![edit]
- What's funnier than a dead baby? A dead baby in a clown costume.
- How did the dead baby cross the road? In my lunch box.
- What's the difference between a Ferrari and a dead baby? I don't keep a Ferrari in my garage.
- What's the difference between a truck of bowling balls and a truck of dead babies? You can't unload a truck full of bowling balls with a pitchfork.
- What's blue and flies around the room at high speeds? A baby with a punctured lung.
- Whats more fun than a dead baby spinning at 100rpm? Stopping it with a shovel.


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Tips for Using Free Weights
Free weights are bars with weights on each end. The long bars are called barbells, and the short bars are called dumbbells. It takes two hands to hoist a barbell. You can lift a dumbbell with one hand, although you may do some exercises using two hands on a single dumbbell.
At most gyms, you find a wide array of dumbbells, lined up from lightest, usually 3 pounds, to heaviest, as much as 200 pounds. At larger gyms, you also find a selection of bars with plates welded to each end, starting with 20 pounds and increasing in 10-pound increments.
Virtually every gym has bars without weight plates on each end. The long bar (also called an Olympic bar) alone usually weighs 45 pounds. To increase the poundage, you slide weight plates — round plates with a hole through the center — to each end. You then secure the plates with clips called collars. An assortment of these weight plates, typically from 2.5 pounds to 45 pounds, sits on a rack near the bars. If you want to lift 75 pounds, you add a 10-pound plate and a 5-pound plate to each side of the 45-pound bar. After you finish, be sure to remove these plates and put them back in their proper place.
Anyone using free weights needs to be very careful, even with light weights. Here are a few other tips to make free-weight training safe and fun:
If you're using very heavy weights, enlist a spotter. A spotter is particularly helpful when you graduate to a heavier weight. You can enlist help from a health-club staff member; or better yet, ask anyone nearby who doesn't look too busy. Fill your spotter in on your game plan — mention how many reps you think you can do.Credit: Photograph by Sunstreak Productions, Inc.Spotting the bench press.
Be careful when you lift a weight from a rack and when you put it back. Never pick up a weight off the floor without bending your legs.
Never drop the weights carelessly when you've completed a set. The loud clang is sure to annoy your fellow lifters, and the weights may roll away and land on someone's toes.
Use two hands when lifting weight plates. Remember that plates are weight, too, and you can just as easily hurt yourself placing a weight on a bar as you can performing an exercise. Don't attempt to lift a weight plate onto a bar if it's too heavy for you.


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Teacher resources and professional development across the curriculum
Teacher professional development and classroom resources across the curriculum
Workshop Session
Test Your Knowledge: Click here to take our online workshop quiz
Lesson Topic: Rights and Responsibilities of Students
Key Constructivist Methodology:
Teacher: Matt Johnson
School: Benjamin Banneker Senior High School, Washington, D.C.
Grade Level: 12th Grade
Course: Constitutional Law
Lesson Objectives:
The Lesson
Support Materials
The support materials identify key concepts, provide discussion ideas for each video segment, and recommend follow-up activities for after the workshop session.
The support materials for this workshop are available to read online or to print out. You can access them from anywhere on the Web site by clicking on Support Materials in the main navigation bar.
Additional Materials on the Web
Lesson Plan: information on Matt Johnson's method of teaching the lesson on the rights and responsibilities of students, the national standards this lesson addresses, additional resources, and his teaching materials, including:
Lesson Materials
Teacher Perspectives: Matt Johnson's reflections on the following topics:
Student Perspectives: Matt Johnson's 12th-grade students' reflections on the following topics:
About the National High School Mock Trial Championship
Matt Johnson's students have participated in a variety of mock trials. This article sets out the history, purpose, and rules of the National High School Mock Trial Championship for those teachers considering participation.
Legal Thriller Alternative: Trial Research
In this lesson created by the Constitutional Rights Foundation, students are given the option of selecting one of 21 trials from the period 1865 to 1993, writing a report about it based on a defined list of questions and a set of research tips, and making an interesting presentation about the case to the class.
Legal Thriller Book Review
This lesson provides students with a list of 28 novels that are courtroom thrillers, or that feature a famous lawyer, judge, or particular aspect of the legal system. With the teacher's permission, students may also choose books that are not on the list. Students are expected to write a report using a defined format and participate in a Book Club discussion group.
© Annenberg Foundation 2017. All rights reserved. Legal Policy


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Your options are simple:
- Get someone to assume your car lease. By using this option
you are able to transfer a car lease to someone else for
the reaminder of the lease term. Lease Trader will try to
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If you want to find out more about this exciting option
- Privately sell your car. Call your leasing company and
ask for the current car lease buyout amount. Once you get
that number, look at the Edmunds.com True Market ValueSM
price for a private party. Make sure to adjust the figure
for mileage, color, options and region. If the current market
value is close to the buyout number, try to sell the car
yourself and pay off the bank. You are better off than continuing
the payments or walking away from the car, even if you have
to take a $1,000 or $2,000 loss. Remember, in addition to
your lease payment, there are insurance payments, too. (Note:
Sales tax can cause a problem if you buy the car, then have
to resell it immediately. The bank may help you by arranging
to transfer the title directly to the new owner.)
- Turn in the keys and walk away from the lease. This isn't
a good option. If you give the car back to the lessor, and
walk away, it will go on your credit report as a "repo."
Copyright © 2019 LeaseTrader.com. All rights reserved.


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Shrimp Fried Rice (Com Chien Tom in Vietnamese)
We had a party this weekend and Lulu's family came over. We had a bunch of leftover steamed jasmine rice so this was the perfect occasion to make some shrimp fried rice (cơm chiên tôm in Vietnamese). I had bought some shrimp for the party because Lulu's relatives are all carnivores. I decided to use them as the protein in this dish. The shrimp, not the relatives that is...
It's super easy once you know the tricks of the trade. You won't have to go to your local Chinese restaurant anymore when you're in need of a fried rice fix.
Yields: 65 cups steamed jasmin rice, preferably chilled
4 tablespoons canola oil
4 cloves garlic, finely chopped
3 whole eggs, lightly beaten
2 dozen baby shrimp, shelled and deveined
1 tablespoon plain yogurt
1 tablespoon unsalted butter
1/4 cup chicken breast, cooked, finely diced
1 package frozen mixed diced vegetables (peas, carrots, green beans), (10 oz)
1 teaspoon sea salt
1 teaspoon black peppercorns, freshly ground
2 stalks green oinion, finely sliced
2 tablespoons soy sauce
1 tablespoon water
1 drizzle sesame oil, optional
1 tablespoon fresh coriander, finely chopped
Wash the shrimp and pat them dry. In a bowl, place the shelled and deveined shrimp. Add yogurt. Refrigerate overnight.
In a nonstick fry pan, cook a teaspoon of chopped garlic in a little oil until the garlic is slightly golden. Pour half the amount of the beaten eggs. Season with salt and pepper. Flip it and remove from the pan. Repeat with the rest of the eggs. Let it cool down for 5 minutes. Finely slice the thin omelets. Set aside.
Remove the shrimp from the refrigerator. Season with salt. In the same fry pan, add another tablespoon of oil. Add 2 teaspoons of chopped garlic and cook until it's slightly golden. Make sure the oil is hot. Saute the shrimp for about a minute or 2. Add pepper. Set aside.
In a small bowl, dilute the soy sauce with water. Set aside.
In a wok, add the remaining oil. Cook the remaining garlic until it is slightly golden then cook the vegetables. Stir fry until they are slightly translucent then season with salt and pepper. Transfer to a plate.
In the same wok, add butter. Stir fry the sliced green onions until it is golden. Add the rice and stir until each grain is evenly coated with butter. Spread the rice evenly oven the wok and let it cook for about 2-3 minutes. Scrape any grains of rice that may be stuck on the wok with a silicone spatula. You know it's time to add the soy sauce when some of the grains of rice start popping and jumping up in the wok.
Add the sliced omelets, the shrimp, the vegetables and the diced chicken to the wok. Toss using 2 spatulas positioned on either side of the wok to prevent the food from sticking to the bottom. Cook for another 3-4 minutes. Add the coriander and finish with a dash of sesame oil and some pepper.
All the vegetables and chicken cubes should be diced the same size for a homogeneous product.
Preferably marinate your shrimp overnight. I always "precook" the shrimp first halfway in garlic, so there is no fishy smell. Then finish cooking them in the rice at the end. Do not overcook the shrimp.
A lot of cooks say that the way to make a good "dry" non-mushy fried rice is to chill your rice overnight. I would add other tips to it:
1 - The addition of the oil and butter at the beginning is the same procedure as the one I make for my risotto to prevent from being soggy. Coating each grain of rice in fat prevents them from sticking to one another.
2 - The higher the range of your stove is, the better. We use a 20,000 BTU burner at home. The food cooks faster and you get to keep all the nutrients in your food, especially when sauteing vegetables. If you do not own a range with very high BTUs, when you place the rice in your pan, resist the urge of moving the rice. Let it untouch for about 2-3 minutes to let it dry a little.
3 - Make sure you've stir fried your rice over very high heat until you see each grain of rice popping in the wok.Then pour the soy sauce mixture.
The addition of the sesame oil at the end is optional but brings a nice fragrance to the rice.Published By: on February 9, 2009.


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Dinesh never became a famous writer, but he did become a writer, and he published several novels. I translated one of these from the original Hindi into English and tried to get it published here, but I was told that the background was too unfamiliar to be of interest to an American audience. Of course, it was very familiar to me; I had actually lived in New Delhi and was not only a witness to the principal events but a part of them.
In the novel, I was called Elisabeth (not my name). Dinesh himself, who was the narrator, became D. The fictional Elisabeth and the real me had both come to India to absorb the wisdom of a woman saint who lived in a tenement building near the Old Delhi railway station. The building was ancient, and so crammed with tenants and subtenants that it appeared to be leaning sideways. It was also very noisy, but the two rooms that our teacher occupied had a peaceful atmosphere. Her disciples sat cross-legged in a circle around her while she spoke of the Absolute, both in its aspect of the inconceivably immense and as the tiny Person no bigger than a thumb within the human heart.
The real Dinesh and the fictional D. had the same attitude toward our absorption in this heady stuff. He said that we lived in an India that had been invented in the nineteenth century by German professors, and that, by keeping our eyes fixed on mystical and mythical abstractions, we failed to look down at the earth and the people crowding it. It was only, he said, when something unpleasant happened to us—a sickness, or some fat shopkeeper cheating us, or a youth groping us on a bus—it was only then that we recognized that we were living in a real place, in a city like any other; and at once our noble, our spiritual India was degraded into a country of thievery and lechery. By the time he got to this point, the real Dinesh, like the fictional D., was very worked up, but, unlike D., he recovered himself quickly and said, "Not you, of course—this is not personal," and he flashed me a smile in which both his teeth and his glasses participated.
Dinesh and I were fellow-lodgers in the house of Mr. and Mrs. Malhotra, a childless middle-aged couple who looked more like brother and sister than like husband and wife. Both were small and delicate, and had ivory complexions, much fairer than Dinesh's slightly pockmarked skin. They had one servant, Gochi, an old and tattered sweeper woman who called her employers Sahibji and Bibiji—respectful forms of address that I, too, adopted. At first, Dinesh and I were the only lodgers, though there was another room available. The advantage of the house was that it was centrally situated—it was almost the only small domestic residence left in the area and was surrounded on all sides by huge commercial buildings—but it was tiny, and badly in need of whitewashing, with many cracks, which expanded during the monsoon season. There was a central courtyard with a series of little rooms opening out from it. In front, there was also a patch of garden in which a tree stood, with a single living branch and a few sickly leaves hanging from it.
I was glad to be staying in an Indian household, for I had not received a lot of invitations to local homes. At that time, there were many Westerners like me, in love with India, and people tended to laugh at us—perhaps because those of us who wore saris sometimes tripped over them, and although we were rapt while listening to Indian music, we couldn't tell one raga from another. Also, some of the foreign girls got involved with respectable Indian boys, whose families then had to rush to find brides for them or send them away for higher studies.
There was nothing like that between Dinesh and me, though we became good friends. He was from Kanpur, the son of a poor widow; he had won a scholarship to Delhi University and, after graduating, had got a job with All India Radio. He wanted to be a writer, and so did some of his friends, all of them with very little money to spare after sending most of their salaries home. Many of these friends were gloomy and bitter, but Dinesh seemed always to be in a good mood, though I noticed that his cheerfulness often became exaggerated in times of stress. He had a very bony face, and his pitch-black hair was straight and lank; his teeth were too numerous and too large for his mouth, but he was charming when he smiled.
He and I walked around the public parks and gardens, taking shelter from the hot sun in mausoleums or pavilions as we carried on our discussions. He laughed at my idea that it was almost impossible for anyone not Indian to understand India. "Oh, I see," he said with the amused irony that was his favorite mode of debate. "So it is your opinion that we are not like other humans but completely different, monstrous and bizarre? And, by the way, what about you? What about this?" he said, indicating my sari. "Why are you wearing it? Why are you loving our music, not to mention our food, our parathas and tandoori rotis and so on? And also, may I ask, why are you here at all? Isn't that bizarre?" He didn't give me time to answer—and, anyway, what was there to say? We, all of us here in Delhi, all of us pale foreigners, talked about it over and over—what we were looking for, and finding, in India. "Yes, yes, yes," Dinesh said, smiling with all his teeth. "I've heard about it—our spiritual dimension. Only where is it? Can you tell me that? Can you show it to me? Never mind. Let's speak about something more interesting, like, for instance—"
"The Malhotras," I said. "Our landlords."
Dinesh disliked gossip, but he had, reluctantly, told me a bit about them. They were obviously middle-class, educated people—both spoke good English, and he was, or had been, a lawyer—but their status had been marred by a scandal many years earlier. Dinesh briefly indicated that it had had something to do with gold smuggling, and that both of them had been involved. I was surprised: both of them? It was not so difficult to believe this of Sahib—there was something anxious about him, as if he wanted very much to be liked, or perhaps forgiven. He was always eager to make conversation—when he was at home, that is, which was not all that much. He would leave in the morning, in his black tie and panama hat, giving the impression that he was going out to conduct some business. But we tended to run into him in a modest coffeehouse, sitting over a cup of coffee and talking to the waiter. One afternoon, I saw him standing in the ticket line at a cinema, and when he noticed me he laid his finger on his lips, amused and tolerant of himself. He usually came home late at night, and then Bibiji would tell us that he had been delayed at the office. She said it in a very serious tone, which gave us no ground to suspect that there was no office.
Sahib liked to talk about how he had studied law in England and had eaten dinners at the Inns of Court. When he spoke of England, it was as if he were talking about a familiar friend. He was interested in hearing about the States, too; he had never been there but was hoping to go sometime—as a tourist, not as a student. What, he joked, was there left to study, at his age? Then he regularly asked me to guess how old he was. When I, as regularly, said thirty-five, which was at least ten years younger than he could have been, he smoothed his hair and chuckled that he had always been able to fool the world about his age.
Had he actually been in jail? He sometimes referred to his "trouble," as though he expected everyone to know what this had been. Dinesh told me, after I persisted in asking, that he had done time as a prisoner awaiting trial. Then he had been at least partially cleared, and placed on probation, though stripped of his license to practice law. It was the two other men accused in the case who had been given long jail sentences; they were more palpably guilty than Sahib, who had been their dupe. And what about her? Dinesh shrugged, and said that she'd had to make several court appearances before the case against her was dropped. When I asked him how he knew, he said that it had all been in the papers. After that, he changed the subject.
It was impossible to think of Bibiji's having been involved in a criminal case. She was so proud and dainty, with the folds of her sari falling smoothly to her feet; her bangles were only glass, but probably they replaced some gold jewelry that was, due to circumstances, temporarily absent. Unlike her husband, Bibiji did not leave the house very often. Maybe she was afraid of meeting people and having to wonder what they were thinking. In every exchange I had with her, she scanned my face for information—not about me but about herself, about how much I knew. Still, like her husband she seemed eager for conversation with her lodgers. There were never any visitors to the house, though she was fully set up to receive them in the living room, which was furnished with a blue sofa, two matching armchairs, and a carpet. She owned a china tea set, and every afternoon she took it out and sat on the sofa to enjoy several cups of tea with digestive cookies.
Whenever I happened to be at home, she invited me to join her. She repeatedly impressed upon me the details of how Sahib had studied in England and was a professional person, and how she herself had been educated at a ladies' college, where she had studied domestic arts and music. Sometimes she took out her harmonium and sat on the floor with it, singing songs that were a mixture of the erotic and the spiritual. She told me that she appreciated my love of Indian culture, and then she passed from talking about me to talking about Dinesh.
She said that she had first met him at a bus stop. When the bus arrived, there was the usual rush to board, in which she was pushed to the ground. In the scramble, only one person bothered to stop and help her up: Dinesh, thereby missing the bus himself. But he didn't care about that; he wanted only to make sure that she was unhurt. Even before they knew each other, he had responded to something delicate in her nature, as she had to the same in his. When she said that, she looked at me directly for the first time, and not, as usual, aslant with shyness and anxiety.
Dinesh was very attentive to her. He took care to fill the water buckets for her during the hours when the municipal supply was turned on. He noticed whenever she was running short of tea leaves and refilled her little cannister, buying tea with his own money, though, of course, she always paid him back. Neither of them could afford to be as generous as they may have wanted to be. But she took care of him as he did of her; she said that he was like a younger brother to her. When his glasses broke, she mended them with tape; or she cooked a little extra of the dish that she was preparing for her and her husband's evening meal. This meal she and Sahib always ate alone in their bedroom, with the door shut. It was only on reading Dinesh's novel that I learned that they had eaten not in silence but amid fierce and bitter whispers, in which each blamed the other for what had happened.
It was the fictional D. who described for me how Sahib had first met his two fellow-conspirators. It had happened in the sort of coffeehouse where he could still be found—over the same ketchup-stained tablecloths—but at that time he had been part of a very jolly group of friends, which included freelance journalists, a doctor who had lost his license, and the younger son of an industrialist. This last was trying to start a business of his own, and he introduced his prospective partner into the circle of friends. The new man was a different type from the rest, with cruder jokes and more oil on his hair. A businessman, he called himself; eager to please, he treated the others to a round of chicken kebabs.
Sahib had completed his studies several years before, but had not yet rented an office—he intended to do so the moment he had some clients; so it was at home that the two partners came to visit him. They said that they needed a lawyer to draw up their contracts and that he was just the person they were looking for. Bibiji served glasses of sugared lime water in order to get a look at them for herself. Later, she confided to D. that she'd had doubts about the businessman from the start, but that she'd liked the son of the industrialist. He was not much more than a boy, well-spoken, and with manners learned at one of the best schools in the country.
They came every day, and soon they offered Sahib a partnership in their venture. All they asked in return was a small investment to help with the initial purchase of gold from certain reliable sources, to be resold at fantastic profits via other reliable sources. Sahib was hesitant; he said that he would have to consult his wife. Bibiji objected, citing their total lack of business experience; he mentioned the promised profits, and they argued to and fro.
Then one morning, when Sahib was out, the son of the industrialist came to see Bibiji. She was just enjoying a cup of tea and chatting with Gochi, her old sweeper woman, who squatted nearby with the glass of tea that was part of her wages. When the visitor arrived, Gochi absented herself, and Bibiji took out another cup to serve her guest. He admired everything—not only the cup but the sofa, the carpet, and the wall hanging of Little Boy Blue in cross-stitch, which she admitted to be the work of her own hands. It was obvious to the industrialist's son, who was himself from a fine home, that she and Sahib came from good families. He acknowledged that this could not be said of his partner—but then he went on to describe a deal that this partner had already successfully concluded, with astonishing profits. The same result could confidently be expected of their own project, he said. One day, he promised, there would be an even costlier carpet on this floor, even larger, heavier bangles on Bibiji's wrists. And maybe she wouldn't be in this house at all but in one of the new mansions in the diplomatic enclave, with a motorcar standing before the door. No, he said, smiling, no need for her to learn to drive—a chauffeur would be at her disposal day and night.
The industrialist's son had to pay Bibiji only two more morning visits before she informed her husband that she was adding her jewelry to their input of capital. At that, Sahib cried out in shock and touched the gold that had adorned her since the day of their wedding. She laughed at him: bigger, better bracelets would be bought, rings, and ropes of pearls, and what would he say to a motorcar with chauffeur?
All this was described in Dinesh's novel—how Bibiji had persuaded her husband, brought him around. His account is in no way censorious; it is with affection that D. describes Bibiji's joyful cries and gestures at the prospect ahead. It is in subsequent chapters that D. narrates the scenes of nightly whispering behind the bedroom door, in which each blames the other for what eventually happened. "You were lucky," Sahib tells his wife. "It was you—you who should have gone, you who were guilty, not I." In answer, Bibiji simply raises her thin arms, whose sole adornment now is some colored glass bangles bought from a street hawker.
One day, I found Bibiji on her sofa with Gochi squatting near her on the floor, both of them in tears. What had happened? It was explained to me that Gochi's daughter and son-in-law had forbidden her to come here anymore. Another job had been found for her where the salary was higher and was also paid regularly. Gochi clutched Bibiji's feet and wet them with her tears, and Bibiji's tears fell on the spot on Gochi's head where the sparse hennaed hair had worn away. Both of them were helpless and hopeless in their different kinds of poverty.
I suggested that more income could be brought in by way of a third tenant for the empty room. And that was how Karuna—or Kay, as she told us to call her—came to us. I had met her in the Tibetan Colony, where impecunious foreigners like myself ate delicious messes that sometimes made us sick. We were joined there by a new group of young Indians—who were modern enough to drop out of school and leave home and family to discover (using the same terminology that we did) their own identity. Kay had not run away from home, exactly, but she had staked her claim for self-expression—which her father may not have understood but had tolerantly indulged. He was a brigadier in the Army, in charge of a hill-station cantonment. She often spoke of him, and seemed to admire him, though she laughed at what she called "his dodo ways." He supported her with checks and frequent calls and letters that she only sometimes answered.
When I met her, she was living in a Y.W.C.A. hostel. She made scornful jokes about this place, and, when I told her about our empty room, she was ready to move in at once. I have to say here that the three rooms for rent in the house were no more than cubicles, each furnished with a string cot, a commercial calendar, and a water jug on a stand. This spartan interior was what Dinesh was used to—he had never known anything else—and it suited me perfectly, asceticism being what I had come to India for. It suited Kay, too, mainly because it was different from her home. Anyway, she soon had a rug on the cement floor and had replaced the calendar with a poster of a dead rock star.
Bibiji liked her immediately, and was fascinated by her, which Kay seemed to find natural. She was used to people wanting to be in her company, and she chattered away to Bibiji and to Sahib, who was also fascinated by her. I don't think she ever told them anything new or interesting; it was she herself that was so for them—the way she spoke and laughed at nothing in particular, unless it was the Y.W.C.A. or her hopelessly bourgeois family.
Dinesh got her hired in the English section of All India Radio. She became the disk jockey for a request program called "Yours, with Love," playing recent pop songs from England and America that had been selected by listeners with messages for their loved ones. She read these messages in a seductive voice—"This is for Bunny, and a million billion thanks, darling, for the fabulous times"—which made Sahib nod and smile in some sort of recognition, while Bibiji looked down shyly, as if she were the one being addressed.
To get Kay to work on time, Dinesh often had to wake her. He shouted from outside her door, and then, too shy to see a woman asleep in bed, he sent me in. She lay on her stomach, one hot flushed cheek pressed into the pillow, moaning for coffee. Sahib had bought a tin of Nescafé specially for her, and it gave him great pleasure to rush into the kitchen, where he otherwise never set foot, to pour water over the powder and stir it before handing it over to Bibiji or me to deliver. Dinesh stood outside the door, looking up at the ceiling in simulated disgust.
But he, too, seemed to enjoy Kay's company. He spoke to her in his usual torrent of often disconnected ideas—and although she kept saying, "Fantastic," she didn't really listen, and she interrupted him at intervals, usually with something so far removed from what he was saying that he stopped short in astonishment. I suppose her head was full of thoughts of her own that left little room for anything else.
But one evening she asked Dinesh, "What about them? . . . You know. " She gestured in the direction of the Malhotras' bedroom, where, presumably, our landlords were already asleep, or talking together in voices so low that no sound could be heard.
The three of us—their "paying guests," as they called us—were in the courtyard, which was like a well with the sun pouring in all day, though at night some cool air descended.
"Their case," she went on.
Dinesh waved his hand impatiently. "That was twelve years ago."
"Twelve years! I was only eight."
"You must have been a nasty little brat."
"I looked like an angel, and I was one. Everyone said so." She ignored his exaggerated laughter. She was combing her hair, which fell around her in dark waves with auburn glints. I could see neither of them clearly in the dim starlight, but I was aware of Dinesh's eyes gleaming—or maybe I was aware only of his stifled excitement. We could hear the comb as she slowly, lovingly drew it through all that silken luxury; at the same time she said, "Shall I cut it off? It's such a nuisance."
"If you cut it off, you might get to work on time and not be fired, which will happen any day now," Dinesh said.
"Nobody is going to fire me. They love me too much. But, seriously, were they both in jail?"
"Who's been talking to you?"
"Oh, everyone talks. As soon as anyone hears where I'm living: 'Aren't those the people in the gold-smuggling case?' I suppose no one ever forgets."
"I suppose no one ever learns to mind his own business," Dinesh said.
"Do you think they're listening?" She lowered her voice. "The two of them with their ears glued to the door?"
It was easy to imagine—the small couple crouched behind the closed bedroom door, their hearts beating, wondering, What are they saying? Are they talking about us? What do they know? The thought seemed to make Dinesh angry and ashamed, and he turned on Kay: "So you sit gossiping with your friends? 'My landlords did this, my landlords did that—' "
"Well, did they? Both of them?"
Now he didn't trust himself to speak. He turned away and left us.
"But why's he mad at me?" Kay wondered.
She was truly puzzled by Dinesh's attitude. She was used to being admired by men and took it as her due. There was Sahib, every morning, lingering in wait for the cry for coffee, and in the evenings he came home earlier than he had before. Part of a lively social set, Kay was often on the point of going out when Sahib arrived—curses could be heard from her room, where she kept discarding one outfit for another. He hovered, smiling, around the door, clutching a book, and, as soon as she emerged, he held it up for her: "Are you acquainted with this book? What is your opinion of the writing?" Mostly, she had no time to answer him; she'd brush past on a wave of energy and fresh perfume that drowned his disappointment in sheer pleasure.
When she was home, she wandered all over the house, talking to anyone who was around. If she had to write a letter to her family—with much underlining and many exclamation points—she preferred to do it in the living room, where we could keep her company. This was Sahib's opportunity. He had found a tattered old copy of a novel by Françoise Sagan, and it fascinated him. He questioned Kay: "Is it true? Is this how modern girls behave, so free and knowing so much about sex?" The word "sex"—enticing, expectant—sat on his lips, waiting for her to take it up. Her laugh hinted at kingdoms hidden from him. He lowered the book. "And you? Do you have someone for your friend? A cavalier?" He shut one eye. "A boy friend?" More laughter from her, and he laughed, too, enjoying the conversation, enjoying being teased by her, enjoying her. At such moments, his true nature—spry, humorous—seemed to shine out from under its eclipse of disgrace and humiliation.
When Dinesh heard Sahib question Kay about books, he would say, "What makes you think she's ever read one?"
"That's all you know!" she cried, adding, "Dinesh hates me," but with a smile that showed she suspected that this was not quite true.
In his novel (in the character of D.), Dinesh admitted that he had never met anyone like Kay, an emancipated girl from her class. The only women he had ever been close to were his mother and his sisters. There was a constant exchange of letters between them, and it was easy to tell when one arrived with bad news. Later in the day, he'd announce that he was taking a leave from the radio station and would be departing on the evening train. When he returned, after a few days, he appeared to have settled whatever trouble he had found at home, or, at least, to have accepted it.
When Dinesh was away, Bibiji did not sing to her harmonium. But the day he came back she took it out again and accompanied herself to one of her ambiguous songs of love, human or divine. Sometimes Sahib stood behind her, with his fingers in his ears, playfully grimacing at us. But Dinesh, who was a great lover of Indian music and could recognize each raga from the first few notes, listened respectfully. If she made a mistake, he hummed the right notes for her. He hated the pop songs that Kay presented on her program; and if he found the Malhotras listening to her show he made a disgusted face. "Why are you listening to that stuff?" he'd say. "It's for idiots, by idiots."
Once Sahib answered him. "I love it. It's the music for young people. Don't you like young people?" He became coy, the way he did when he was on the brink of saying something he called "spicy." "I know one young person you like."
Perhaps we should have guessed Bibiji's feelings from her explosion of anger then. But how could we, how could anyone? Dinesh's attitude toward women had always been a protective one, and that was how he felt toward Bibiji. He accepted her description of him as a brother to her. It was the only relationship with a woman that he really knew.
With Kay, he thought of himself as a detached observer, analyzing her and her type. Probably he kept notes about her, as did D. in the novel. She had far less time to think about him. Often, she didn't come home after work but went with her friends to fashionable places that he had never seen. Some of her girlfriends were fugitives from arranged marriages, or had, like Kay herself, simply raised the flag of independence and made their families salute it. Away from their mothers and their ayahs for the first time, they were untidy and scatterbrained and gave parties at night, with music and dancing and drinks. Dinesh, of course, was not invited to these parties, but Kay told him, "They all want to meet you."
"Who wants to meet me?"
"My friends."
"What an honor," he said. He knew some of these girls from the radio station; they ignored him, as they did all the others who worked there for a living. But now Kay had told them that he was a writer, and this raised his status with them, for writers had articles written about them in magazines, with photographs of the foreign girlfriends who had followed them to India. Dinesh quite fiercely denied being a writer—he said that he hadn't published anything yet and perhaps never would.
"Then what is it you're scribbling all night?" I heard her challenge him, for, however late she returned from her outings, the light was always on in his room.
She was standing looking into his room, where he sat cross-legged on his bed, a notebook in his lap. She had let her hair fall loose—this scene was in the novel as well—and, winding a strand around her finger, said, "Are you writing a novel? Am I in it?" It didn't bother her that he ignored her. "What are you writing about me? Let me see—or is it too horrible and mean?"
Then he did look up—only to drop his eyes again immediately, for she hadn't noticed, or just didn't care, that the upper part of her sari had dropped down, revealing her breasts in their inadequate little blouse. He said, "Kindly shut my door and don't ever open it again."
"Listen to Mr. Grumpy! What's wrong with you? Did a monkey bite you?"
That night, D. wrote in his notebook, "If she weren't stupid and a fool, she'd be a whore." But elsewhere in the novel it was himself he called stupid and a fool.
It wasn't long before she left us. This happened a day or two after her father, the brigadier, came to visit—or, rather, to look us over. His Army jeep, standing outside, seemed as large as the house, and he himself overflowed the chair he occupied, with one stout leg laid across the thigh of the other. Sahib could not stop trying to make conversation. He spoke of golf, the latest cricket test matches, and other topics that should have been of interest to his visitor. But the brigadier kept studying the watch on his hairy wrist and asking when Kay was expected back. No one wanted to tell him that her hours were as unpredictable as she was.
He had plenty of time to size us up, and evidently we did not pass muster. I was the sort of foreigner he had no respect for (a "hippie type"), and the way he looked at Dinesh, with his much laundered shirt and his glasses mended with tape, made Sahib quickly explain, "Mr. Dinesh is a writer." When the brigadier just went on grimly tapping his boot with his Army baton, Bibiji added, "He is writing a novel."
"Where is she?" was the brigadier's only reaction, and, when we told him that she was out with friends, he said, "What friends? Who are they?"
But, actually, he knew very well where a girl like his daughter could go to amuse herself on the sort of allowance that he sent her. He had no objection to those friends—the children of other Army officers or of high-ranking bureaucrats. What he did object to was her living in the house with us.
When he returned the next day, he stayed outside in the jeep while Kay packed up her belongings. Silent in shock, we stood and watched her. She was in tears but not disconsolate. It seemed that her father had wasted no time finding a more suitable place for her: a room in the house of a colonel's widow. "Those are the only sort of people Daddy knows," she said. "Dodos like himself and boring bourgeois." But the house was near where some of her other friends lived and gave parties. "I'll come to see you," she promised. "We had so much fun." But she said it a bit absently, while fastening her suitcase and biting her lip, the way people do when they are hoping they haven't forgotten anything.
The days after Kay left were intensely hot—it was the middle of June—and, as always at such times, the atmosphere in the city was exceptionally charged. So was the atmosphere in the Malhotra house. There seemed to have been a change in the relationship between husband and wife. They were suddenly bitter and angry with each other. Perhaps this was the way they had always been once their bedroom door was shut, but now they didn't wait to be alone. They fought about Kay's departure, blaming each other for having let her father get the wrong impression.
Bibiji said, "You should have told him that you're a lawyer who has studied abroad, instead of all that nonsense about golf. And I didn't like the way he was looking at Dineshji."
Sahib explained, "You can be a famous writer, an M.A. from Oxford University—if you can't talk about whiskey and golf, then you're not fit to lick their boots. But with me he knew he was dealing with a person like himself. A gentleman."
"Yes, and what else do you think he knew?"
"Nothing! He knew nothing!"
"And, when you walk in the street, no one knows anything?" She lowered her voice to a whisper. "No one says, 'He's been inside'?"
He came up closer, threatening. "You put me there."
She didn't retreat an inch. "It's my fault. Everything is my fault. This is my fault." Here she shook her arms with the thin glass bangles on them. "Like a sweeper woman. That's what he thought—'My poor daughter, having to live in the house of a sweeper woman.' "
Sahib stepped back. He lowered his voice. "No one thinks that. They wouldn't dare."
"When you're poor, they all dare. They push you in the street." Bibiji had begun to shed little tears. "The milkman who hasn't been paid calls you bad names."
He whispered, "I'll pay him tomorrow. They'll all be paid. Don't. You're still my princess. "
I was not there to witness the beginning of their next fight, and neither was Dinesh. This fight was actually about him, and he reconstructed it in his novel. The scene, in my translation, goes like this:
"What he didn't like was D. living in the same house with his daughter. Looking at her," Sahib said.
"He never looks at her," Bibiji said.
"Is it my fault that you have no eyes to see?"
"He has never in his life looked at her!"
"Not even when she is combing her hair?" Smiling, he made the slow, sensual gesture of a woman drawing a comb through her hair, each strand alive, tumbling over her shoulders and down her back. "I wouldn't like you to know what happens to him then." He came closer to whisper in her ear. "Like a dog. You've seen a dog?"
It was at this moment that D. in the novel—and perhaps also Dinesh in real life—came home. Full of fun, Sahib turned to him. "Don't you miss her?" he said, repeating the motion of the comb through waves of hair. D. couldn't even pretend not to understand, and, without looking at him, Bibiji fled into the kitchen. Her hands trembling, she began to peel potatoes.
Sahib was glad to be alone with D. He chuckled, man to man. "These girls—they're sent by the Devil to drive us poor devils mad. But isn't it a nice way to become a raving lunatic?"
"She's gone now," D. said. "So you can relax. "
"Who wants to relax? That's for dead men. Who do you think she liked—you or me?"
D. went to his room. His landlord eagerly followed. He sat on D.'s bed and watched him change the shirt he wore at work for the one that was too frayed for outside. D.'s shoulders, now revealed by his undershirt, were not broad or manly, but Sahib said, "At least you're young—you have a chance. Perhaps she liked you. Perhaps she is saying to her daddy at this moment, 'Take me back to him!' Don't you think I have a good imagination? I should be writing the books, not you." He laughed loud enough for Bibiji to hear, so that she came out of the kitchen with the potato she was peeling.
"Did you hear that?" Sahib asked her. "He thinks I should write books and become a famous author."
"Why are you sitting on his bed? Get up."
"And when I'm a famous author all the girls will run after me, and it is for me that she will say, 'Daddy, why did you take me away from him?' "
"Oh, my friend," D. said. "You're talking such nonsense."
Sahib winked at his wife. "Did you hear that? What sort of books can a person write if he thinks love and romance are nonsense?"
D. was struggling into his shirt, for he was both shy and ashamed of his undershirt, which was torn. "Yes, put on your clothes, man," Sahib urged him. "Don't show yourself before my wife. She imagines things."
"It's he," Bibiji desperately told D. "He's been imagining things—about you and her. All lies. You're a liar," she said, turning on Sahib. "And come out of his room—you shouldn't be there with your thoughts."
"And what about your thoughts?" Sahib said, enjoying the mischief rising in him. "Don't I know you have them? Haven't I been married to you for twenty years, lying next to you in bed while you had your thoughts? . . . Oh, not about me—what am I, a ruined wreck—but others, like your guest, your paying guest, a guest who pays you, what luck!"
Was there, as described in the novel, a dust storm blowing that day? It was the season of such storms—day after day of furnace heat, and then, suddenly, wildly, winds laden with the dust of the desert whirling through the city. I seem to remember returning from my teacher's house in such a storm, but it may have been that Dinesh's novel suggested it to me (for he was skilled at such effects). Wherever it came from, my memory of that scene in the Malhotra house is set within swirling columns of dust, lashing the tree outside, bending its sickly trunk, and stripping it down to the last of its dying leaves. Dust thick in my mouth, stinging my eyes, I groped my way inside. The first thing I noticed was that the windows had not been shut, so that the storm whistled around the room as freely as it did outside. It was only when I had managed to shut each window in the house that I became aware of the people in it.
They were in the living room: Bibiji on the floor, on her carpet, not as she usually sat there, singing to her harmonium, but with her knees drawn up and her face hidden in her hands. Dinesh was bending over the sofa, and he turned to me and said, "Get a doctor."
I heard Sahib groan, "Let me die," before I actually saw him laid out on the sofa.
Dinesh asked Bibiji, "Where is there a doctor nearby?" Sahib's groans of pain changed to a moan of panic: "No doctor."
"Should we let you bleed to death?" Dinesh said. Blood was seeping through Sahib's shirt and slowly spreading over his chest. His eyes were shut. His face had the pallor of a dead man's, but he was energetic enough to insist again, "No doctor."
I went to find a sheet to tear up for a bandage. Crossing the courtyard, I saw a half-peeled potato lying on the ground, and not far away, as though it had been flung there, the knife with which it had been peeled. I picked up the knife and found that, in addition to potato peel, it had blood on it. Dinesh was calling "Hurry!," so instead of a sheet I quickly tore the top part of my sari. I helped Dinesh raise our landlord to a sitting position so that we could bandage him. Sahib groaned and cried between us, but when we asked if we were hurting him he denied it and said for the third time, "No doctor," and now Bibiji echoed him.
Her voice roused him; he became animated. "She wants me to die. . . . Why else did she murder me?"
Dinesh said to me, "What's that knife?" I had completely forgotten about it. I picked it up from where I had dropped it.
Sahib, now bandaged and prone on the sofa, said, "Get rid of the murder weapon."
Bibiji got up and took it from me. She regarded it front and back. She told Sahib, "You can say you did it yourself." She demonstrated, raising the knife toward her heart.
"Why should I wish to kill myself and not you?" Sahib said.
"People often kill themselves. You yourself, at that time, and if I hadn't found it—"
"I bought it for the rats!"
"You wrote a note." She whispered, "A suicide note. The police took it. It is in their hands."
He, too, was whispering now—out of weakness and pain, but also because that was the way they spoke to each other when they had bad things to say. "I wanted to die. This is the second time you've killed me." To Dinesh and me he said, "Yes, call the doctor. Let him fetch the police. Let them take her away this time. "
"So, all right, I'll go," she said indifferently.
"You! As if you could stand it there. . . . Wipe the handle." She did so on a cushion, but not thoroughly, so that he said, "More, more . . . Now give it to me—don't touch it! What a fool. Hold it with your sari."
That was the way she handed it to him. He pressed his fingers around it but was too weak to hold on, and it fell to the floor. We all looked at it. No one wanted to pick it up.
At last Dinesh said, "Suicide is also considered a criminal offense."
Bibiji cried, "He didn't do anything!"
He opened his eyes. He murmured, "I tried to kill myself. I stabbed myself with a knife."
"It was I!" She turned to Dinesh. "You saw me. And you heard what he said. The lies he told about you. That's why I did it. I couldn't stand his lies." She sank to the floor. Her shoulders shook with sobs—silent ones, but they were more than her husband could bear.
He told her, "It was a joke. You know how I love to make jokes." To Dinesh he said, "Tell her the girl was nothing to you. Tell her."
Dinesh had lowered his eyes. When he spoke, he did so in the strangled voice of a truthful person making up a lie. But Sahib appeared satisfied. He said, "My poor wife. She doesn't understand that, when there is a girl, it's human nature to make jokes. Everyone does it. But really there's only one person, and when she sings and plays her harmonium—oh! oh!"
"I think he's fainted," I said, for his face was drained and he had shut his eyes again.
"No." With an effort he motioned for Dinesh to move closer. "Tell her it's true about her singing: how you love it—because it is very good and because it is she who sings." When Dinesh confirmed this in the same strangled voice as before, Sahib appeared satisfied and said nothing more.
In the novel, the husband dies in the night, and the wife goes mad with grief and remorse. But Sahib didn't die, and Bibiji didn't go mad. Instead, she proved herself very practical. It was she who nursed him and dressed his wound every day. I tore up the rest of my saris, and Dinesh and I rolled them into bandages. We never called a doctor. The only person to help us was Gochi, who brought an herbal ointment that helped to heal the wound. She asked no questions at all; she was probably familiar with difficult, even violent family situations and was more knowing than the rest of us.
But we, too, had learned to be less innocent. Since it was necessary to find a new tenant for Kay's room, we took care that it should be not a young but a middle-aged lady who moved in with us. Shortly afterward, Dinesh asked for a transfer to his home town (he said that his family needed him), and, to replace him, I found another, even older lady, whom I had met at my teacher's house. Bibiji began to cook for her paying guests, which increased her income. The Malhotras no longer ate alone behind the closed door but sat together with their boarders on the living-room carpet to eat in the traditional way, with their fingers from little bowls. Sometimes Bibiji took out her harmonium, though more rarely now, and her songs were no longer ambiguous but definitely spiritual. The visits to my teacher's house became less satisfying to me. Also, I missed Dinesh. Soon after he left for Kanpur, I, too, decided to go home.
In my farewell letter to him, I described the new household: "Sometimes the three ladies are all sad together, so I guess they are telling one another their troubles. Gochi squats nearby, drinking tea and contributing her own comments on life's vicissitudes. I can't always understand what they are saying, and I'm beginning to think that you're right and that instead of struggling with the Upanishads, etc., I'd have done better to learn more Hindi. I can just see your face—you're thinking, Ah-ha, she's had enough at last of our ancient wisdom. But it's only that it's difficult for me to think of everything in the world, including ourselves, as merely an illusion. I don't think human misery is an illusion, and, rather than go into total denial about it, I'd like to learn of some ways to deal with it. I've found out that there's a Buddhist teaching center in Connecticut, not far from my parents' house. So now, if you like, you can think of me with my head shaved, wearing a Buddhist robe instead of my saris. In any case, as you know, I don't have any saris left—they've all been rolled into bandages. But I'm definitely going to learn Hindi, so that I can translate your novel. As Kay would say, 'Am I in it?' And the Malhotras? And Kay herself, so fatefully combing her hair?" ♦


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Gluten-free Smoky Poblano Jack Mac: The Recipe
Oh, twist my arm harder! I had enough requests that I decided to post this. It's gluten-free, as am I, but if you can eat regular pasta, go for it; you can also substitute bread crumbs for the rice crumbs and regular flour for the potato flour in the white sauce. It sounds like more work than it is, really, but it does involve firing up a pot of hot water, a couple of skillets, AND the oven. I'm a maximum-mess cook. (If you like the sound of this dish, but haven't time for that kind of mess, just do the sausage, squash and poblanos in the same skillet, then layer on little slabs of the cheese and let them melt.) Or, if you've oodles of time and you're being all Iron Cheffy, add a garnish of fresh sliced poblano rings. They bake up all crispy, shattery and spicy, and add a third and different layer of heat to the roasted poblanos and the El Diente seasoning.
Smoky Poblano Jack Mac
Serves 8
4 Tbsp Or-Gran rice crumbs
2 tsp Savory Spice El Diente Peak seasoning mix (or other Mexican spice mix)
3 cups Tinkyada spiral, shell, or penne rice pasta
8 round zucchini, about softball size, preferably with stems on
(look for Ronde de Nice variety; if you can't find round ones, simply use peeled regular zucchini, but make sure they are young and tender).
3 to 4 Applegate Farms Chicken-apple sausages (in Colorado, you can get these at Vitamin Cottage.)
3 Tbsp. olive oil
2 roasted, skinned poblano peppers, diced
2 Tbsp butter
2 Tbsp potato flour
1 to 1 ½ cups half and half (or whole milk)
1 tsp salt
2 ¼ cups shredded Monterey Jack Cheese
Preheat the oven to 350.
Combine the rice crumbs and seasoning mix. Set aside. Cook the rice pasta about 13 minutes; rinse in cold water and toss dry. Spin in a salad spinner if you've got one to remove as much water as possible. Toss with a tablespoon of the olive oil.
Take the round zucchini. If they have stems and are round, cut a sliver from one side so that the squash will lie on its side without rolling. (If it has no stem, or is wider than it is tall, do the same on the bottom unless it already stands securely on its blossom end). Next, make a cut to remove the top side, above the stem (if the squash is sitting on its blossom end, cut off the top). Using a sharp paring knife and a grapefruit spoon or sharp paring knife, cut around the inside of the squash and remove it in chunks, leaving a shell that's at least ½ inch in thickness and has the stem for a handle." Spray a shallow metal pan with nonstick cooking spray and set the squash, cavity up, in the pan.
Slice out any seedy parts of the removed squash and slice into quarter-inch thick chunks. Set aside. Cut the other two zucchini into wedges and remove peels; then slice the wedges into quarter-inch chunks. Combine the squash chunks; you'll need about 2 cups. Set aside.
Slice the sausages lengthwise, then chop into 1/3-inch thick half-rounds. Saute in olive oil until just crispy. Remove from the pan and set aside. In the same pan, sauté the zucchini in 1 T. olive oil until tender, adding the chopped poblanos. Cook until the squash has released its juices and is tender. Drain well. Add the squash and poblanos to the cooked sausage.
In another pan, melt the butter. Whisk in the flour and cook until it begins to thicken. Add the half and half a little bit at a time, whisking constantly. Add the shredded cheese a handful at a time. Allow the sauce to be very thick; it will gain water from being baked in the squash.
Combine the sausage-poblano-zucchini mixture and the pasta; toss to mix well. Add the cheese sauce and stir to combine; salt to taste. Fill each zucchini ball with the mixture. Sprinkle with the rice crumb-seasoning mixture; garnish if desired with thin rings of whole, fresh poblano peppers. Put leftover macaroni mixture into an ovenproof casserole and sprinkle with the remaining rice crumb/seasoning mix; if desired, sprinkle additional shredded cheese on top.
Bake at 350 degrees for 30-40 minutes, or until the zucchini bowls are releasing their juices and the sauce is bubbling. Serve hot. Devour!


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2 responses
photogregd said (27 May 2008):
Where and when did you take this amazing picture of a Dornier Do 24 in flight. I did not know there were any operational D0 24's left in the world. This his history in action.
Thanks for sharing a wonderful picture.
Nico said (28 May 2008):
Thanks for the response. The foto was taken 2 years ago by Marion at a meeting of swimming a/c here in Austria, in Strobl am Wolfgangsee, that´s near Salzburg. The event is sponsored by Red Bull as their head office is only some 20km away from this lake. Takes place every year.
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