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Gluten-Free Carrot Cake
Lovely and classic gluten-free carrot cake with coconut, iced with lemon cream cheese frosting.
Karina's Gluten-Free Carrot Cake Recipe with Coconut and Cream Cheese Icing
Recipe posted June 2006.Once in a blue moon I get a hankering for this old school classic. Lucky for me it translates well to gluten free. This recipe is based on one of my own [pre-gluten free] standbys. I changed it very little, except for the flour.
Please note: This recipe has no added leavening because it is using a leavened baking and pancake mix.
3 large organic free-range eggs
1/2 cup light vegetable oil or Spectrum Organic Shortening
1 cup organic light brown sugar, packed
1/3 cup plain yogurt or coconut yogurt
2 teaspoons bourbon vanilla extract
1 tablespoon honey or agave (for added moisture)
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon Pumpkin Pie Spice, or Apple Pie Spice [or a mix of nutmeg, clove, ginger, allspice]
2 cups Pamela's Gluten-Free Ultimate Baking and Pancake Mix *see notes
3/4 cup flaked sweetened coconut
1 1/2 cups processed or finely grated carrots (about 4 medium carrots)
1/2 cup golden raisins or currants
1/2 cup toasted chopped walnuts or pecans
Preheat the oven to 350ºF. Grease a 9-inch Springform cake pan.
In a mixing bowl beat the eggs; add the oil and beat; add the brown sugar and beat till smooth. Beat in the yogurt, vanilla, honey, cinnamon and spice. Add in the baking mix and beat till combined. The batter should be a bit thicker than wheat flour batter. Add in the coconut, carrots, raisins and nuts; stir with a wooden spoon to combine.
Spread the batter evenly in the cake pan; and place the pan in the center of a preheated oven. Bake until the cake is firm, and a wooden pick inserted into the center emerges clean, about 40 to 45 minutes or longer if necessary - I baked mine at high altitude. Cool on a wire rack.
Frost with your favorite cream cheese icing and sprinkle with coconut, if desired.
Cream Cheese Icing
4 oz. softened cream cheese
2 tablespoons softened unsalted butter
1-2 teaspoons vanilla extract, to taste
3 cups powdered cane sugar- or more, if needed
A squeeze or two of fresh citrus, to taste- lemon, lime or orange
In a mixing bowl beat the cream cheese and butter until fluffy. Add the vanilla. Add in the powdered sugar a cup at a time; squeeze a little lemon or other citrus juice into the frosting and beat till smooth. Taste test. Add more sugar, if needed, to thicken; add more juice to thin.
Frost the cake.
Makes one nine inch cake.
Recipe Source: glutenfreegoddess.blogspot.com
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Karina's Notes:
For replacing Pamela's Baking Mix, I used to say just try another leavened GF baking mix or GF pancake mix- but I no longer believe all GF mixes/GF flour blends behave the same way. You'll need to experiment.
Gluten free cakes tend to dry out quickly. If you are not serving this cake the day you bake it, I'd advise chilling it to firm up the icing; wrap well and chill. For more than a day ahead, I would wrap and freeze it; thaw the day of serving (remove the wrap so the icing doesn't stick!) and served slightly chilled.


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Gunmen opened fire on people marching in a neighborhood Mother's Day parade in New Orleans on Sunday, wounding at least 19.
The shooting — described by the FBI as a flare-up of street violence — shattered the festive mood surrounding the parade that drew hundreds of people to the 7th Ward neighborhood of modest row houses not far from the French Quarter. Cell phone video taken in the aftermath of the shooting shows victims lying on the ground, blood on the pavement and others bending over to comfort them.
At least three of the victims were seriously wounded. Of the rest, many were grazed and authorities said that overall most wounds were not life threatening. No deaths were reported.
The victims included 10 men, seven women, a boy and a girl. The children, both 10 years old, were grazed and in good condition.
Mayor Mitch Landrieu urged witnesses to come forward with information during a news conference Sunday night at a hospital where gunshot victims were taken.
"These kinds of incidents will not go unanswered. Somebody knows something. The way to stop this violence is for you all to help," he said.
Mary Beth Romig, a spokeswoman for the FBI in New Orleans, said federal investigators have no indication that the shooting was an act of terrorism.
"It's strictly an act of street violence in New Orleans," she said.
As many as 400 people came out for the second-line procession — a boisterous New Orleans tradition — though only half that many were in the immediate vicinity of the shooting, said Police Superintendent Ronal Serpas. Officers were interspersed with the marchers, which is routine for such events.
Police saw three suspects running from the scene. No arrests had been made as of early evening.
Outside the hospital on Sunday night, Leonard Temple became teary as he talked about a friend who was in surgery after being shot three times during the parade. Temple was told the man was hit while trying to push his own daughter out of the way.
"People were just hanging out. We were just chilling. And this happened. Bad things always happen to good people," said Temple, who was at the parade but didn't see the shootings.
In the late afternoon, the scene was taped off and police had placed bullet casing markers in at least 10 spots.
Second-line parades are loose processions in which people dance down the street, often following behind a brass band. They can be planned events or impromptu offshoots of other celebrations. They trace their origins to the city's famous jazz funerals.
A social club called The Original Big 7 organized Sunday's event. The group was founded in 1996 at the Saint Bernard housing projects, according to its MySpace page.
The neighborhood where the shooting happened is a mix of low-income and middle-class row houses, some boarded up. As of last year, the 7th Ward's population was about 60 percent of its pre-Hurricane Katrina level.
The crime scene was about 1.5 miles from the heart of the French Quarter and near the Treme neighborhood, which has been the centerpiece for the HBO TV series "Treme."
Sunday's violence comes at a time when the city is struggling to pay for tens of millions of dollars required under a federal consent decree to reform the police department and the city jail.
Shootings at parades and neighborhood celebrations have become more common in recent years as the city has struggled with street crime. Earlier this year, four people were shot following an argument in the French Quarter during the last weekend of partying before Mardi Gras. The victims survived, and several suspects were eventually arrested.
Police vowed to make swift arrests. Serpas said it wasn't clear if particular people in the second line were targeted, or if the shots were fired at random.
"We'll get them. We have good resources in this neighborhood," Serpas said.

subset: commoncrawl


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Riverbed vs Silver Peak: WAN Optimization Vendors Put to the Test
Enterprises are relying on WANs to carry more data than ever. With cloud computing, offsite disaster recovery and big data on the rise, it's more important than ever for IT professionals to boost application performance across the WAN. However, times are changing. Instead of deploying a physical WAN optimization appliance to improve application performance, the industry is moving to a better approach – virtual WAN acceleration software. It can be downloaded in minutes, runs almost anywhere, and controlled with the click of a mouse for maximum flexibility. In this report we not only explore the requirements for virtual WAN optimization but compare how Silver Peak's virtual WAN acceleration stacks up against Riverbed's physical Steelhead appliance.


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The Crystal Springs 50K was held in the Santa Cruz Mountains south of San Francisco. I travel to California to visit Beat but the Bay area has the added bonus of ultramarathons nearly every weekend, even in the depth of winter. The weekend weather was extra chilly for the region, with overnight temperatures dropping into the mid-30s and frost forming on the higher hillsides. I dressed in what I thought was appropriate for those temps — tights and a long-sleeve thick polyester shirt, wool socks, hat and gloves, then carried a backpack with extra layers, food and water — because even in organized races I prefer to pretend I'm out for a self-supported training run, even if I end up solely eating peanut butter sandwich quarters and drinking Coke in tiny cups while my backpack dangles uselessly off my shoulders. And of course, the Californians all showed up wearing shorts and T-shirts and carrying a single bottle in their hands. It made me ashamed to call myself a hardy Montanan-former-Alaskan, but I figured it didn't matter. I was there to run my own race.
Things went great for the first 12 miles. I was running consistently, soaking in beams of sunlight where it broke through the fog, and making good time on my mile splits. I found my place in the pack but reeled in a couple of people, including the "girl in the cute plaid shorts ala Danni." Beat stuck with me and told me my pace was pretty hard, and said I should think about dialing it back. But I knew I felt good and I knew I could hold it. Even though I haven't been a runner for very long, I have enough experience in endurance efforts to sense when the bottom might drop out. However, I have a particular grating problem as a runner in the form of inexplicable midsection cramping on descents. Downhill grades cause a sensation that is best described as someone taking a dull knife and stabbing it deep under my rib cage. It's probably related to breathing and at least partly psychological, but when it flares up on long, steep downhills, I become both extremely slow and extremely irritable.
I groaned as I shuffled down the hill. Beat tried to offer suggestions and I got testy with him. He couldn't help but laugh at me. Angry race Jill is not unlike an angry toddler — too irrational and scrunchy-face cute to be taken all that seriously. Meanwhile, toddler gets more and more scrunchy faced and angry until finally she blurts out, "I just want to go into my pain cave. Why can't you leave me in my pain cave?" Beat laughed at loud. "No pain cave for you!" he said in his best "Soup Nazi" accent. I laughed back at the absurdity of the situation and accepted my role in it. I stopped and took four Advil, and over the next seven miles was able to recover my cramp from "searing agony" to "low-level ache" to "not much at all."
At mile 19, I finally perked up and started to breeze along the trail again. I reeled back in the women and a couple guys who had passed me during my sophomore slump. My feet felt light and fast against the strange sensation of running on actual dirt. The final 5-mile singletrack descent was truly fun. My cramp had abated and despite tired legs I picked up some speed, flying through the trees with feeling of effortless freedom, almost like being carried by wheels. The worst part about running is there's no coasting, and every difficult downhill reminds me of that. But if I can dial in a downhill run enough to move freely without pain or fear, it's one of the best feelings.
We strode across the finish line with 6:12 on the clock — not quite as close to six hours as I had hoped, but still a fair improvement on Rodeo Beach. Beat chatted with his friends (he seems to know most everyone in the Greater Bay Area trail running community) and I found my way over to the finisher's food table to make myself a massive turkey sandwich. The sandwich was almost the size of my head and nearly muffled out the race director's announcements from the other side of the pavilion. Then suddenly I heard him say, "Jill ... Horner." That sounded suspiciously like my name. Perhaps I finished third in my age group or something like that. I set down my sandwich and sheepishly walked to the front to see if Jill Horner was in fact me.
The director doled out medals to age group finishers, and then handed me a mug. The mug said, "First Place Finisher." I looked back at the race director, confused. First in what? He must have sensed my confusion because he said, "You're the first woman. Congratulations."
The girl in the cute shorts ... the woman in the black shirt ... there were several females that finished just a few minutes after me. But they were all behind me.
Beat, who officially finished one second behind me, jokingly pouted. "I never win anything."
I held the mug in my hands and reasoned with it. It was a small race ... just a few dozen people ... and it was winter when not many people besides Susitna freaks are training with all that much gusto. But I was a Montanan in California, running dirt when I'm used to running on snow, running when I'm used to hiking and cycling, at a distance most people spend months specifically training for. And I won the race.
Maybe I'm not so terrible at running after all. I'll take it.


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Our Group hosts over 700 leading-edge peer reviewed Open Access Journals and organize over 3000 International Conferences annually all over the world. Our Group journals have over 3 million readers and the fame and success of the same can be attributed to the strong editorial board which contains over 50000 eminent personalities that ensure a rapid, quality and quick review process. Our Group signed an agreement with more than 1000 International Societies to make healthcare information Open Access. | |
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NEW YORK — While three of four people arrested amid the investigation of the Philip Seymour Hoffman's death were arraigned on drug charges, the New York theater community mourned the actor with a dimming of Broadway's marquee lights and a candlelight vigil.
The vigil Wednesday night was held outside the 90-seat home of the LAByrinth Theatre Company, where Hoffman had long been a member. And at 7:45 p.m., Broadway's lights turned off for a minute.
"We come together tonight in a spirit of terrible mourning and incredible loss," the Rev. Jim Martin, a Jesuit priest and LAByrinth member, told the crowd of about 200 people who stood in a chilly drizzle. "But we also come together to celebrate a remarkable life."
"Courage was his forte, always," said playwright and actor Eric Bogosian, a longtime LAByrinth collaborator. "Phil set his bar on the highest rung, on a rung above the highest rung. He pushed himself relentlessly until finally his efforts virtually redefined the very endeavor we call acting. That's what he wanted. He wanted to rock the world."
As Broadway lamented, the criminal justice system quickly acted with arrests that came just days into the high-profile case, reflecting the attention and urgency it has attracted. At least one of those arrested during the probe into Hoffman's suspected fatal heroin overdose had the actor's cellphone number, two law enforcement officials said Wednesday.
Investigators zeroed in on the four after a tipster, responding to publicity about Hoffman's death, told police he had seen Hoffman at the lower Manhattan apartment building where they were arrested on Tuesday and he believed that's where Hoffman got the heroin, the officials said. In searches of two apartments in the building, police found hundreds of packets of heroin in one of them, according to a criminal complaint.
But prosecutors declined to pursue charges against one of the four, saying there was no evidence that he had control of the drugs or the apartment in which they were found, and two of the others were charged only with a misdemeanor charge of possessing cocaine, not heroin. Only one, jazz musician Robert Vineberg, was facing a felony charge of heroin possession with intent to sell.
Lawyers for the three people charged vigorously denied their clients had any role in Hoffman's death and suggested they were being swept up in a maelstrom of attention surrounding the actor's demise.
"This case and the charges against Mr. Vineberg have absolutely nothing to do with the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman. … We're hoping the (district attorney) will not use Mr. Vineberg as a scapegoat," said his lawyer, Edward Kratt, who declined to say whether Vineberg knew Hoffman.
All three of the people charged were indicted within a day after their arrests, a somewhat unusual step, and were being held without bail. The two charged with cocaine possession, Juliana Luchkiw and Max Rosenblum, a couple who are neighbors of Vineberg's, were visibly dismayed when a judge denied them bail, though their lawyers hoped to revisit the issue Thursday.
"She's not a drug dealer. She's a college student," attending a design school, said Luchkiw's lawyer, Stephen Turano.
Rosenblum's lawyer, Daniel Hochheiser, said his client "has nothing to do with Philip Seymour Hoffman."
Luchkiw and Rosenbaum had two bags of cocaine, while investigators found about 300 packets of heroin, a bag of cocaine and about $1,200 in cash in Vineberg's apartment, according to criminal complaints.
Investigators have determined that the "Capote" star made six ATM transactions for a total of $1,200 inside a supermarket near his home the day before his death, law enforcement officials have said. Investigators are examining a computer and two iPads found at the scene for clues and recovered syringes, a charred spoon and various prescription medications, including a blood pressure drug and a muscle relaxant, law enforcement officials have said.
Police learned from phone records that one of the suspects had Hoffman's number, strengthening the theory that they may have supplied him with drugs, the law enforcement officials said. The officials, who weren't authorized to speak about evidence in the ongoing investigation of the death and spoke to The Associated Press on the condition of anonymity, didn't identify which of the suspects had the number.
Some of the packets found in Hoffman's apartment were variously stamped with the ace of hearts and others with the ace of spades. Those found in the building where the arrests occurred had different brand names, including Black List and Panda, the officials said.
Police were waiting for a cause of death for the Oscar-winning actor from the medical examiner's office, which said on Wednesday that more tests were needed.
Hoffman, 46, was found dead Sunday with a needle in his arm, and tests found heroin in samples from at least 50 packets in his apartment in Manhattan's Greenwich Village, law enforcement officials have said.
A private funeral for relatives and close friends of Hoffman is set for Friday, and a larger memorial service will be held later this month, said his publicist, Karen Samfilippo.
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Adam and Eve and Pinch Me
By A.E. COPPARD
... and in the whole of his days, vividly at the end of the afternoon—he repeated it again and again to himself—the kind country spaces had never absorbed quite so rich a glamor of light, so miraculous a bloom of clarity. He could feel streaming in his own mind, in his bones, the same crystalline brightness that lay upon the land. Thoughts and images went flowing through him as easily and amiably as fish swim in their pools; and as idly, too, for one of his speculations took up the theme of his family name. There was such an agreeable oddness about it, just as there was about all the luminous sky today, that it touched him as just a little remarkable. What did such a name connote, signify, or symbolize? It was a rann of a name, but it had euphony! Then again, like the fish, his ambulating fancy flashed into other shallows, and he giggled as he paused, peering at the buds in the brake. Turning back toward his house again, he could see, beyond its roofs, the spire of the church tinctured as richly as the vane: all round him was a new grandeur upon the grass of the fields, and the spare trees had shadows below that seemed to support them in the manner of a plinth, more real than themselves, and the dykes and any chance heave of the level fields were underlined, as if for special emphasis, with long shades of mysterious blackness.
With a neat little drift of emotion that had at other times assailed him in the wonder and ecstasy of pure light, Jaffa Codling pushed through the slit in the back hedge and stood within his own garden. The gardener was at work. He could hear the voices of the children about the lawn at the other side of the house. He was very happy, and the place was beautiful, a fine white many-windowed house rising from a lawn bowered with plots of mold, turreted with shrubs, and overset with a vast walnut tree. This house had deep clean eaves, a roof of faint-colored slates that, after rain, glowed dully, like onyx or jade, under the red chimneys, and half-way up at one end was a balcony set with black balusters. He went to a French window that stood open and stepped into the dining room. There was no one within, and, on that lonely instant, a strange feeling of emptiness dropped upon him. The clock ticked almost as if it had been caught in some indecent act; the air was dim and troubled after that glory outside. Well, now he would go up at once to his study and write down for his new book the ideas and images he had accumulated—beautiful rich thoughts they were—during that wonderful afternoon. He went to mount the stairs and he was passed by one of the maids; humming a silly song she brushed past him rudely, but he was an easy-going man—maids were unteachably tiresome—and reaching the landing he sauntered toward his room. The door stood slightly open and he could hear voices within. He put his hand upon the door... it would not open any further. What the devil... he pushed—like the bear in the tale—and he pushed, and he pushed—was there something against it on the other side? He put his shoulder to it... some wedge must be there, and that was extraordinary. Then his whole apprehension was swept up and whirled as by an avalanche—Mildred, his wife, was in there; he could hear her speaking to a man in fair soft tones and the rich phrases that could be used only by a woman yielding a deep affection to him. Codling kept still. Her words burned on his mind and thrilled him as if spoken to himself. There was a movement in the room, then utter silence. He again thrust savagely at the partly open door, but he could not stir it. The silence within continued. He beat upon the door with his fists, crying: "Mildred, Mildred!" There was no response, but he could hear the rocking armchair commence to swing to and fro. Pushing his hand round the edge of the door he tried to thrust his head into the opening. There was no space for this, but he could just peer into the comer of a mirror hung near, and this is what he saw: the chair at one end of its swing, a man sitting in it, and upon one arm of it Mildred, the beloved woman, with her lips upon the man's face, caressing him with her hands. Codling made another effort to get into the room—as vain as it was violent. "Do you hear me, Mildred?" he shouted. Apparently neither of them heard him; they rocked to and fro while he gazed stupefied. What, in the name of God... What this... was she bewitched... were there such things after all as magic, devilry!
He drew back and held himself quite steadily. The chair stopped swaying, and the room grew awfully still. The sharp ticking of the clock in the hall rose upon the house like the tongue of some perfunctory mocker. Couldn't they hear the clock...? Couldn't they hear his heart? He had to put his hand upon his heart, for surely, in that great silence inside there, they would hear its beat, growing so loud now that it seemed almost to stun him! Then in a queer way he found himself reflecting, observing, analyzing his own actions and intentions. He found some of them to be just a little spurious, counterfeit. He felt it would be easy, so perfectly easy to flash in one blast of anger and annihilate the two. He would do nothing of the kind. There was no occasion for it. People didn't really do that sort of thing, or, at least, not with a genuine passion. There was no need for anger. His curiosity was satisfied, quite satisfied, he was certain, he had not the remotest interest in the man. A welter of unexpected thoughts swept upon his mind as he stood there. As a writer of books he was often stimulated by the emotions and impulses of other people, and now his own surprise was beginning to intrigue him, leaving him, oh, quite unstirred emotionally, but interesting him profoundly.
He heard the maid come stepping up the stairway again, humming her silly song. He did not want a scene or to be caught eavesdropping, and so turned quickly to another door. It was locked. He sprang to one beyond it; the handle would not turn. "Bah! what's up with 'em?" But the girl was now upon him, carrying a tray of coffee things. "Oh, Mary!" he exclaimed casually, "I..." To his astonishment the girl stepped past him as if she did not hear or see him, tapped upon the door of his study, entered, and closed the door behind her. Jaffa Codling then got really angry. Hell! were the blasted servants in it! He dashed to the door again and tore at the handle. It would not even turn, and, though he wrenched with fury at it, the room was utterly sealed against him. He went away for a chair with which to smash the effrontery of that door. No, he wasn't angry, either with his wife or this fellow—Gilbert, she had called him—who had a strangely familiar aspect as far as he had been able to take it in; but when one's servants... faugh!
The door opened and Mary came forth smiling demurely. He was a few yards farther along the corridor at that moment. "Mary!" he shouted, "leave the door open!" Mary carefully closed it and turned her back on him. He sprang after her with bad words bursting from him as she went toward the stairs and flitted lightly down, humming all the way as if in derision. He leaped downward after her three steps at a time, but she trotted with amazing swiftness into the kitchen and slammed the door in his face. Codling stood, but kept his hands carefully away from the door, kept them behind him. "No, no," he whispered cunningly, "there's something fiendish about door handles today, I'll go and get a bar, or a butt of timber," and, jumping out into the garden for some such thing, the miracle happened to him. For it was nothing else than a miracle, the unbelievable, the impossible, simple and laughable if you will, but having as much validity as any miracle can ever invoke. It was simple and laughable because by all the known physical laws he should have collided with his gardener, who happened to pass the window with his wheelbarrow as Codling jumped out onto the path. And it was unbelievable that they should not, and impossible that they did not collide; and it was miraculous, because Codling stood for a brief moment in the garden path and the wheelbarrow of Bond, its contents, and Bond himself passed apparently through the figure of Codling as if he were so much air, as if he were not a living breathing man but just a common ghost. There was no impact, just a momentary breathlessness. Codling stood and looked at the retreating figure going on utterly unaware of him. It is interesting to record that Codling's first feelings were mirthful. He giggled. He was jocular. He ran along in front of the gardener and let him pass through him once more; then after him again; he scrambled into the man's barrow and was wheeled about by this incomprehensible thick-headed gardener who was dead to all his master's efforts to engage his attention. Presently he dropped the wheelbarrow and went away, leaving Codling to cogitate upon the occurrence. There was no room for doubt, some essential part of him had become detached from the obviously not less vital part. He felt he was essential because he was responding to the experience, he was reacting in the normal way to normal stimuli, although he happened for the time being to be invisible to his fellows and unable to communicate with them. How had it come about—this queer thing? How could he discover what part of him had cut loose, as it were? There was no question of this being death; death wasn't funny, it wasn't a joke; he had still all his human instincts. You didn't get angry with a faithless wife or joke with a fool of a gardener if you were dead, certainly not! He had realized enough of himself to know he was the usual man of instincts, desires, and prohibitions, complex and contradictory; his family history for a million or two years would have denoted that, not explicitly—obviously impossible—but suggestively. He had found himself doing things he had no desire to do, doing things he had a desire not to do, thinking thoughts that had no contiguous meanings, no meanings that could be related to his general experience. At odd times he had been chilled—ay, and even agreeably surprised—at the immense potential evil in himself. But still, this was no mere Jekyll and Hyde affair, that a man and his own ghost should separately inhabit the same world was a horse of another color. The other part of him was alive and active somewhere... as alive... as alive... yes, as he was, but dashed if he knew where! What a lark when they got back to each other and compared notes! In his tales he had brooded over so many imagined personalities, followed in the track of so many psychological enigmas that he had felt at times a stranger to himself. What if, after all, that brooding had given him the faculty of projecting this figment of himself into the world of men! Or was he some unrealized latent element of being without its natural integument, doomed now to drift over the ridge of the world for ever? Was it his personality, his sprit? Then how was the dashed thing working? Here was he with the most wonderful happening in human experience, and he couldn't differentiate or disinter things. He was like a new Adam flung into some old Eden.
There was Bond tinkering about with some plants a dozen yards in front of him. Suddenly his three children came round from the other side of the house, the youngest boy leading them, carrying in his hand a small sword, which was made, not of steel, but of some more brightly shining material; indeed, it seemed at one moment to be of gold, and then again of flame, transmuting everything in its neighborhood into the likeness of flame, the hair of the little girl Eve, a part of Adam's tunic; and the fingers of the boy Gabriel as he held the sword were like pale tongues of fire. Gabriel, the youngest boy, went up to the gardener and gave the sword into his hands, saying: "Bond, is this sword any good?" Codling saw the gardener take the weapon and examine it with a careful sort of smile; his great gnarled hands became immediately transparent, the blood could be seen moving diligently about the veins. Codling was so interested in the sight that he did not gather in the gardener's reply. The little boy was dissatisfied and repeated his question: "No, but Bond, is this sword any good?" Codling rose, and stood by invisible. The three beautiful children were grouped about the great angular figure of the gardener in his soiled clothes, looking up now into his face and now at the sword, with anxiety in all their puckered eyes. "Well, Marse Gabriel," Codling could hear him reply, "as far as the sword goes, it may be a good un, or it may be a bad un, but, as good as it is, it can never be anything but a bad thing." He then gave it back to them; the boy Adam held the haft of it, and the girl Eve rubbed the blade with curious fingers. The younger boy stood looking up at the gardener with unsatisfied gaze. "But Bond, can't you say if this sword's any good?" Bond turned to his spade and trowels. "Mebbe the shape of it's wrong, Marse Gabriel, though it seems a pretty handy size." Saying this he moved off across the lawn. Gabriel turned to his brother and sister and took the sword from them; they all followed after the gardener and once more Gabriel made inquiry: "Bond, is this sword any good?" The gardener again took it and made a few passes in the air like a valiant soldier at exercise. Turning then, he lifted a bright curl from the head of Eve and cut it off with a sweep of the weapon. He held it up to look at it critically and then let if fall to the ground. Codling sneaked behind him and, picking it up, stood stupidly looking at it. "Mebbe, Marse Gabriel," the gardener was saying, "it 'ud be better made of steel, but it has a smartish edge on it." He went to pick up the barrow, but Gabriel seized it with a spasm of anger and cried out: "No, no, Bond, will you say, just yes or no, Bond, is this sword any good?" The gardener stood still and looked down at the little boy, who repeated his question—"Just yes or no. Bond!" "No, Marse Gabriel!" 'Thank you, Bond," replied the child with dignity, "that's all we wanted to know," and, calling to his mates to follow him, he ran away to the other side of the house.
Codling stared again at the beautiful lock of hair in his hand and felt himself grow so angry that he picked up a strange-looking flowerpot at his feet and hurled it at the retreating gardener. It struck Bond in the middle of the back and, passing clean through him, broke on the wheel of his barrow, but Bond seemed to be quite unaware of this catastrophe. Codling rushed after, and, taking the gardener by the throat, he yelled: "Damn you, will you tell me what all this means?" But Bond proceeded calmly about his work unnoticing, carrying his master about as if he were a clinging vapour, or a scarf hung upon his neck. In a few moments Codling dropped exhausted to the ground. "What... Oh hell... what, what am I to do?" he groaned. 'What has happened to me? What shall I do? What can I do?" He looked at the broken flowerpot. "Did I invent that?" He pulled out his watch. "That's a real watch, I hear it ticking, and it's six o'clock." Was he dead or disembodied or mad? What was this infernal lapse of identity? And who the devil, yes, who was it upstairs with Mildred? He jumped to his feet and hurried to the window; it was shut; to the door, it was fastened; he was powerless to open either. Weill well! this was experimental psychology with a vengeance, and he began to chuckle again. He'd have to write McDougall about it. Then he turned and saw Bond wheeling the barrow across the lawn toward him again."Why is that fellow always shoving that infernal green barrow around7" he asked, and, the fit of fury seizing him again, he rushed toward Bond, but before he reached him the three children danced into the garden again, crying, with great excitement: "Bond, oh, Bond!" The gardener stopped and set down the terrifying barrow; the children crowded about him, and Gabriel held out another shining thing, asking: "Bond, is this box any good?" The gardener took the box and at once his eyes lit up with interest and delight. "Oh, Marse Gabriel, where'd ye get it? Where'd ye get it?" "Bond," said the boy impatiently, "is the box any good?" "Any good?" echoed the man. "Why, Marse Gabriel, Marse Adam, Miss Eve, look yerel" Holding it down in front of them, he lifted the lid from the box and a bright-colored bird flashed out and flew round and round above their heads. "Oh," screamed Gabriel with delight, "it's a kingfisher!" "That's what it is," said Bond, "a kingfisher!" "Where?" asked Adam. "Where?" asked Eve. 'There it flies—round the fountain—see it? See it!" "No," said Adam. "No," said Eve.
"Oh, do, do, see it," cried Gabriel, "here it comes, it's coming!" and, holding his hands on high, and standing on his toes, the child cried out as happy as the bird which Codling saw flying above them.
"I can't see it," said Adam.
"Where is it, Gaby?" asked Eve.
"Oh, you stupids," cried the boy."There it goes. There it goes... there... it's gone!"
He stood looking brightly at Bond, who replaced the lid. "What shall we do now?" he exclaimed eagerly. For reply the gardener gave the box into his hand and walked off with the barrow. Gabriel took the box over to the fountain. Codling, unseen, went after him, almost as excited as the boy; Eve and her brother followed. They sat upon the stone tank that held the falling water. It was difficult for the child to unfasten the lid; Codling attempted to help him, but he was powerless. Gabriel looked up into his father's face and smiled. Then he stood up and said to the others:
"Now, do watch it this time."
They all knelt carefully beside the water. He lifted the lid and, behold, a fish like a gold carp, but made wholly of fire, leaped from the box into the fountain. The man saw it dart down into the water, he saw the water bubble up behind it, he heard the hiss that the junction of fire and water produces, and saw a little track of steam follow the bubbles about the tank until the figure of the fish was consumed and disappeared. Gabriel, in ecstasies, turned to his sister with blazing happy eyes, exclaiming:
"There! Evey!"
"What was it?" asked Eve, nonchalantly, "I didn't see anything."
"More didn't I," said Adam.
"Didn't you see that lovely fish?"
"No," said Adam.
"No," said Eve.
"Oh, stupids," cried Gabriel, "it went right past the bottom of the water."
"Let's get a fishin' nook," said Adam.
"No, no, no," said Gabriel, replacing the lid of the box. "Oh, no."
Jaffa Codling had remained on his knees staring at the water so long that, when he looked around him again, the children had gone away. He got up and went to the door, and that was closed; the windows, fastened. He went moodily to a garden bench and sat on it with folded arms. Dusk had begun to fall into the shrubs and trees, the grass to grow dull, the air chill, the sky to muster its gloom. Bond had overturned his barrow, stalled his tools in the lodge, and gone to his home in the village. A curious cat came round the house and surveyed the man who sat chained to his seven-homed dilemma. It grew dark and fearfully silent. Was the world empty now? Some small thing, a snail perhaps, crept among the dead leaves in the hedge with a sharp, irritating noise. A strange flood of mixed thoughts poured through his mind until at last one idea disentangled itself, and he began thinking with tremendous fixity of little Gabriel. He wondered if he could brood or meditate or "will" with sufficient power to bring him' into the garden again. The child had just vaguely recognized him for a moment at the waterside. He'd try that dodge, telepathy was a mild kind of a trick after so much of the miraculous. If he'd lost his blessed body, at least the part that ate and smoked and talked to Mildred . He stopped as his mind stumbled on a strange recollection... What a joke, of course... idiot... not to have seen that. He stood up in the garden with joy... of course, he was upstairs with Mildred, it was himself, the other bit of him, that Mildred had been talking to. What a howling fool he'd been!
He found himself concentrating his mind on the purpose of getting the child Gabriel into the garden once more, but it was with a curious mood that he endeavored to establish this relationship. He could not fix his will into any calm intensity of power, or fixity of purpose, or pleasurable mental ecstasy. The utmost force seemed to come with a malicious threatening splenetic "entreaty." That damned snail in the hedge broke the thread of his meditation; a dog began to bark sturdily from a distant farm; the faculties of his mind became joggled up like a child's picture puzzle, and he brooded unintelligibly upon such things as skating and steam engines, and Elizabethan drama so lapped about with themes like jealousy and chastity. Really now, Shakespeare's Isabella was the most consummate snob in... He looked up quickly to his i wife's room and saw Gabriel step from the window to the balcony as though he was fearful of being seen. The boy lifted up his hands and placed the bright box on the rail of the balcony. He looked up at the faint stars for a moment or two, and then carefully released the lid of the box. What came out of it and rose into the air appeared to Codling to be just a piece of floating light, but as it soared above the roof he saw it grow to be a little ancient ship, with its hull and fully set sails and its three masts all of faint primrose flame color. It cleaved through the air, rolling slightly as a ship through the wave, in widening circles above the house, making a curving ascent until it lost the shape of a vessel and became only a moving light hurrying to some sidereal shrine. Codling glanced at the boy on the balcony, but in that brief instant something had happened, the ship had burst like a rocket and released three colored drops of fire which came falling slowly, leaving beautiful grey furrows of smoke in their track. Gabriel leaned over the rail with outstretched palms, and, catching the green star and the blue one as they drifted down to him, he ran with a rill of laughter back into the house. Codling sprang forward just in time to catch the red star; it lay vividly blasting his own palm for a monstrous second, and then, slipping through, was gone. He stared at the ground, at the balcony, the sky, and then heard an exclamation... his wife stood at his side.
"Gilbert! How you frightened me!" she cried. "I thought you were in the room; come along to dinner." She took his arm and they walked up the steps into the dining room together. "Just a moment," said her husband, turning to the door of the room. His hand was upon the handle, which turned easily in his grasp, and he ran upstairs to his own room. He opened the door. The light was on, the fire was burning brightly, a smell of cigarette smoke about, pen and paper upon his desk, the Japanese book knife, the gilt matchbox, everything all right, no one there. He picked up a book from his desk... Monna Vanna. His bookplate was in it—Ex Libris—Gilbert Cannister. He put it down beside the green dish; two yellow oranges were in the green dish, and two most deliberately green Canadian apples rested by their side. He went to the door and swung it backward and forward quite easily. He sat on his desk trying to piece the thing together, glaring at the print and the book knife and the smart matchbox, until his wife came up behind him exclaiming: "Come along, Gilbert!"
"Where are the kids, old man?" he asked her, and, before she replied, he had gone along to the nursery. He saw the two cots, his boy in one, his girl in the other. He turned whimsically to Mildred, saying: "There are only two, are there?" Such a question did not call for reply, but he confronted her as if expecting some assuring answer. She was staring at him with her bright beautiful eyes.
"Are there?" he repeated.
"How strange you should ask me that now!" she said... "If you're a very good man—perhaps..."
She nodded brightly.
He sat down in the rocking chair, but got up again saying to her gently: "Well call him Gabriel."
"But suppose—"
"No, no," he said, stopping her lovely lips, "I know all about him." And he told her a pleasant little tale.


text:
end of first trimester last time around
end of first trimester this time around
at my super-cool collection of Wordless Wednesday linkies,
and let me know if you have one to add.
You can also link up a thumbnail from your post below!
I think you look great! It's true that second babies show sooner. It was that way for me too.
You look great! I did not mind showing sooner.
We love showing off our bellies - such a special time!
congrats! Isn't being pregnant such a beautiful experience? I am 34 weeks + pregnant - due next month. Best wishes! :)
You look so great and still pretty small. In the beginning, I carried the smallest with my third. In the end, my belly was just a HUGE as the first. I was all belly.
There is nothing prettier than a pregnant woman. You are beautiful.
Oh that's just wonderful, Congrats for making it to the first trimester.
Congratulations! I love baby bellies! They definitely get bigger sooner each time though. Happy WW!
Oooooh, I have the belly envy.
So beautiful, Lauren!
Congrats! I sat next to a baby yesterday and got baby pangs. Wish I could do it all over again, I loved being pregnant -- and giving birth -- naturally :)
Dagmar's momsense
And it's official...I have the baby itch. I blame it on you! lol All kidding aside, you look fantastic. That baby bump is downright adorable.
Thanks for stopping by and linking up. Have a great day, Hobo Mama.
Cute bump! And I think we have the same gray striped shirt :) Is your nausea easing up any now? Hope you're feeling better soon.
That second one is a doozy, innit? YOu should have seen me on my 4th! eeeesh.
I get so jealous those perfect bellies. Mine always dropped flat at the end. Super cute!
You look awesome! How exciting - CONGRATS! :)
WW: Dinosaur Birthday
Congratulations and good luck. bet the baby will be blonde and gorgeous like the sibs.
You look great! Beautiful belly.
I was in maternity clothes SO much earlier with my second. It's true you pop out a lot sooner.
Yep, you do show sooner, and it is true the more you have. I am 24 wks pg with #6. My belly has popped, starting with #1 at 24wks, then with the others it was 22wks, 16wks, 11wks, and 9 and 8 wks with the last 2!! Makes it hard to hide but is so much fun! Congrats!!
I just entered the 2nd trimester this week and I popped at about 11 weeks! I love it though cause with my first child, I just when through a horrible "I've just been eating too much" chubby phase til about 16 weeks. I didn't look remotely pregnant until then, so I was so embarrassed! This time I actually feel cute and clearly pregnant! By the way, love that sweater! so cute!
You look great!
You definitely show sooner the second time around. Whee, pre-stretched stomach muscles!
I'm Lauren Wayne, writer and natural parent. I embrace attached parenting with an emphasis toward green living.
Riding the rails with my husband, Crackerdog Sam, and our hobo kids, Mikko Lint Picker (born June 2007), Alrik Irontrousers (born May 2011), and Karsten (born October 2014). Trying every day to parent intentionally and with grace.
Read more about my family and me here, and join the hobo parenting movement.


text:
Did you see Jimi Hendrix in concert? Did you meet Jimi Hendrix or have the opportunity to interview him or have some other unique, first-person encounter with Jimi Hendrix? If so, Experience Hendrix wants to hear from you.
Jimi Hendrix
Did you see Jimi Hendrix in concert? Did you meet Jimi Hendrix or have the opportunity to interview him or have some other unique, first-person encounter with Jimi Hendrix? If so, Experience Hendrix wants to hear from you.
The Experience are interviewed at the BBC Broadcasting House on Portland Place in London.
BBC Broadcasting House interview Interviews London Portland Place the experience
The band flies to Gothenburg, Sweden. Gosta Hansson interviews Hendrix for Goteborgs-Tidningen. The interview is published the following day. The Experience visit the Klubb Karl in Gothenburg.
Gosta Hansson Gothenburg interview Interviews oteborgs-Tidningen Sweden the experience
Hendrix is interviewed for a January 6 Expressen story. Along with Mecki Mark Men and Baby Grandmothers, The Experience play the Sportshallen. Because of a sore throat, the band plays for only 35 minutes.
Baby Grandmothers Expressen interview Interviews Mecki Mark Men Sportshallen
The band flies to Copenhagen, where they are recorded for TV and interviewed by Carsten Grolin for Ekstra Bladet. The interview is published January 8.
Carsten Grolin Copenhagen Ekstra Bladet interview Interviews
Richard Robinson interviews Hendrix and Noel Redding for Hullabaloo at the Upper Berkeley Street flat. The interview is published in May.
Hullabaloo interview Interviews Noel Redding Richard Robinson Upper Berkeley Street
Hendrix is interviewed by Hugh Nolan for a February 17 Disc & Music Echo feature. Hendrix wins the publication's award for "Top World Musician."
The Experience fly to New York, where they hold a news conference at the Pan Am Building's Copter Club. Hendrix is interviewed by Jay Ruby for Jazz and Pop (July 1968); Michael Rosenbaum for Crawdaddy (May 1968); Don Paulsen for Hit Parader (July 1968); Al Aronowitz for the New York Post (February 2); and Life magazine (April 1).
Crawdaddy interview Interviews Jay Ruby Jazz and Pop Michael Rosenbaum Pan Am Building's Copter Club the experience