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A 120-pound service dog named "Akai" was the center of attention at the Manteca Rotary noon luncheon earlier this month as its owner Alicia Yonemoto told her story of how the German Shepherd - Japanese Akita mix first came to her aid.
She said she had been under extreme stress over the death of her husband and in losing the custody of two step children when her lupus attacked her legs. Her doctor told her later that was a known effect of lupus activated by stress.
The French Camp woman, a commercial dog trainer for some 20 years who worked with the German border patrol in Berlin, said she isolated herself after the funeral, locked up her residence, and took a hot Epson Salt bath. That tub of water that would hold her captive for three hours because her legs froze on her.
"Akai" was only about a year old then, and was in the living room of her home when she realized she was in trouble. The dog had been taught the simple commands of sit, lie down and come, but nothing more.
She said she called him continually until he finally was able to get the bathroom door open and stand next to the bathtub. It was over an hour after he got through the door that she was finally able to get out of the tub by holding him around the neck and telling him to sit. It was a trial and error effort that finally produced enough leverage to get her over the edge and onto the floor where she lay covered with dog hair.
It was something of an epiphany for her realizing at that moment that she needed a service dog, and that she must train "Akai" to fill that role for her. He has been at her side day and night for some eight years now and provides the legs she cannot use. The dog can get her up and down stairs and actually break her fall if she were to try to stand and lose her balance.
talking for centuries
She noted that some 25 years ago someone came up with the wonderful idea of having hearing dogs that alert the hearing impaired. Whether totally deaf or just hearing impaired, they alert them to things like smoke alarms, door bells, babies crying, stoves, and water running from a broken pipe.
"Dogs are amazing, and as a dog trainer we discovered that they have been around for centuries and they have been talking to us for centuries – we just haven't been listening," she said.
In 1990 the Americans with Disabilities Act was passed that allows accessibility with service dogs. "It doesn't just mean allowing (just) me into your business, it also covers service dogs.
"Akai" is a mobility assistance dog. He falls under service animal," she said. "Obviously 'Akai' acts as my legs and gets me from point A to point B. Without him I could do it, but I would be seriously limited in what I could do. He also assists me to transfer from my chair to another surface and to stand and to get me down stairs in the case of an emergency – he can actually get me down stairs and upstairs too."
She added that most service animal partners will not tell you about their physical disability. "As a business person you have been taught not to ask the handlers what is wrong with them."
Sitting in her wheel chair, she said, "With me it's kind of obvious, but I wasn't always like this."
She said "Akia" is much more than a dog. Because of the Americans with Disabilities Act , service animals – those dogs who are domesticated animals that have been trained in tasks to mitigate disabilities for their handlers are protected and allowed accessibility.
They travel with their owners – that means by car, by plane, by taxi, by bus, and by boat. The thing about service animals is they are protected – including guide dogs, hearing dogs, mobility assistance dogs and the newest frontier, psychiatric service dogs (PSD).
These PSDs are the newest thing like autistic dogs. The criteria under the Americans with Disabilities Act are an impairment that goes to a disability. "With autism, with post traumatic syndrome, the dogs create a buffer between their partners and the world. The dogs are taught to sit between the partner and the general public," she said.
The trainer has to determine whether a 5-year-old autistic child can control the dog or is the dog controlling the child, said. "However, can a 30-year-old with traumatic stress syndrome control his dog? Yes!
"That dog is going to make it so they can go out and they can interact with the public. Maybe they can't interact with them being within five feet of them, but if you stay outside the five feet radius, we're fine. In the case of having a flashback, the dogs are trained that should that partner become fixated or have smoke alarms or strobe lights that cause distractions, the dog reacts with his training and will pull his handler from that situation," she said.
autism victims
She explained that in the case of autism where victims often have a negative reaction, such as banging their heads or kicking, the dog is trained to react and prevent them from banging their heads and from kicking.
"The question becomes can a small child with autism that has a service dog be considered a service dog partner. That is something that the United States courts are trying right now," she added. "Without a doubt the animal is definitely mitigating the disability, but we as a service dog community, are concerned, because we have to be in control of the dog."
She continued saying, a dog is a dog – he's not a robot – he's a living, breathing, thinking thing. He is trained and dissuaded from biting which doesn't mean that if he is pushed to a point of violence; he would react – as anyone here today would react if someone attacked their child.
"Even going back to the very pioneers of guide dogs, the dog doesn't know how to get to the post office, the dog doesn't know how to get to the doctor's office, the dog doesn't know how to get to the office – but, after a few trips, the dog is patterned. You can say post office and he will then walk you there every time."
She said that initially the handler was giving the commands of left, right and forward. "Akai knows where the door is now and he can get me to the door. Once he gets to the door, it's left, right and forward – I have to make that decision," she said.
"Seventy-five years ago because of the guide dog standards, because of the way they act in public, because even though they're under minimum protection, they will get me out of here in case there is a fire –get me up in the middle of the night, and get me out if I am in the building.
"That's my protection. The fact that he is 100 pounds and has 42 teeth – he is alive and thinking thing, and he does care about me, and would provide protection if someone tried to harm me," she said.
She further explained that no two dogs are the same and no two recipients are the same as they do their best to make a good match between animal and handler.
"I can tell you as business people when you encounter a service dog team, approach the handler and ask if that is a service dog." Some people are more disabled than others and you may ask what tasks he performs for you, she added.
The majority of service dog partners realize they are all ambassadors as they go through their daily lives. Those that came before us did the work to make the Americans with Disabilities Act a possibility, she said.
"We are international: Europe, Asia, Japan, India, and South Africa – they all recognize service dogs. We no longer have to quarantine our dogs for six months to go to London. Once they are tested they fly with us in the cabin to our destination," she said.


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What does brachyceral mean?
Definitions for brachyceral
Here are all the possible meanings and translations of the word brachyceral.
Webster Dictionary
having short antennae, as certain insects
Chaldean Numerology
The numerical value of brachyceral in Chaldean Numerology is: 1
Pythagorean Numerology
The numerical value of brachyceral in Pythagorean Numerology is: 6
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These days, we are seeing not only the emergence of electronic commerce but also the rise of the subscription-based economy. The subscription business model typically requires customers to pay a subscription fee in order to gain access to the products or services being offered by a company.
This system has the potential to significantly improve time to market for companies that are hoping to develop and deliver products and services quickly to consumers, and it can likewise radically improve customer experience for people who are looking for novel ways to enjoy the things being offered by enterprises.
Selling products and services on a subscription basis can benefit your business by providing you with a continuous stream of revenue. However, before deciding on adopting such a model, you first need to make sure that you have done what is necessary to make things work. Here are some tips that you may want to consider:
Study Customer Behavior First
Before jumping in, always test the waters first. You can't really hope to know what sort of campaigns, offers, and price points are going to work if you don't study your customer's behavior, like what visitors do when they go to your website, what sort of search terms draw people into your site, or what kinds of products and services customers actually want to see you come up with. Analytics tools, quantitative and qualitative market research, and customer engagement through platforms like your social media channels can help you gain actionable insights about how best to approach the subscription business model.
Offer a Frictionless Billing and Payment System
Successfully convincing your customers to pay for your products and services is great, but aside from converting leads into paying clients, are you sure you have the right technological platform in place to make billing and payment as effortless as possible for these people? If you are selling products and services online through a recurring revenue business model, you have to have a complete subscription billing and recurring payment solution that implements frictionless payment facilities, accepts payments in foreign currencies, and reduces subscriber churn by resolving failed transactions. You owe it to your customers to make sure that they have the best experience when paying for your products and services.
Tailor Your Offerings to Your Customers' Needs
It is understandable that you start your subscription-based business with a simple pricing and packaging strategy. However, customers' needs are typically dynamic and predisposed to change. In order for you to keep up, you should offer not just attractive pricing for your products and services, you should also make sure that your pricing and packages are flexible. Ensure that your billing system is agile enough to accommodate this requirement. It should be able to offer responsive pricing, packaging, and bundling so your business can speed up time to market for your new campaigns and offerings.
Encourage Your Customers to Upgrade or to Continue Doing Business with You
You should also implement strategies that will allow you to leverage the billing relationship that you establish with your customers. This connection should inspire your customers to continue buying your products or services instead of trying out those from other companies. Don't hesitate to consider different pricing models, and try to offer incentives for bulk and repeat purchases, as well as discounts for certain types of subscriptions. Find out what pushes your customers to upgrade or to accept upsells. Encouraging existing clients to remain loyal to your business leads to higher average customer lifetime value.
Adopting a subscription-based business model may seem like a difficult undertaking, but it certainly is not insurmountable. By studying your market well and creating conditions that are conducive to customer satisfaction and retention, there's no reason you shouldn't make it in the subscription economy.


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|National Policy for the Conservation and Management of Wetland Resources (Ministry of Natural Resources - Uganda, 1995, 23 p.)
These problems derive from two sources. Firstly, there has been a traditional lack of recognition of wetlands as anything but unusable wastelands. In previous times when there was enough and easily cultivatable land, the extra work required to exploit waterlogged areas was too great to bother with This has led to the second general problem that the exploitation has often been unbalanced, excessive, and inappropriate for the resources. The results have frequently been an irretrievable loss of an important source for sustainable production.
It is important to appreciate that the problems do not arise because of development as such, but because of development which does not take all the requirements of a community into consideration
The following are among others, the specific problems
(i) Water loss
Wetlands have commonly been drained to enlarge the area of farmland. But drainage of wetlands causes loss of valuable water which would otherwise be available for plant growth.
(ii) Reduced runoff control
If drained, the ability of wetlands to control water flow is lost, as is also the downstream erosion prevention, as well as the seasonal spread of the moist areas for fast-maturing crops and for grazing.
(iii) Soil deterioration
Exposure of wetland soils to drying can frequently lead to their acidification, caused by the conversion of sulphide in the original wetland to sulphuric acid. The soil can shrink upon drying and become too thin and friable for good agriculture.
(iv) Traditional use loss
Traditional harvesting of natural vegetation or fishing and hunting as well as a good water supply will be lost if wetlands are completely converted to large-scale exploitation, such as cash crop farming which is a mono-culture activity.
(v) Restricted ownership of the resource
Although conversion to cash agriculture may yield a great amount in the short term, such production tends to be restricted to one or few investors, while reducing or eliminating the various type of production which previously went to many individuals in the community.
(vi) Reduced economic flexibility
Reducing the diversity of productive activity limits the options for adjusting to new economic conditions when they occur later on.
(vii) Crop pest risks
Large areas of monoculture, such as rice growing, are always susceptible to pest invasions. While this in principle might be dealt with by agricultural control methods, these can be expensive and difficult to manage, and beyond the capacity of the wetland developer.
(viii) Health problems
When people come into increased contact with static and unpurified water, as in rice-growing or many other farming practices, an increase in the incidence of bilharzia infections can be expected. This would have a grossly debilitating effect on the community using the wetland calling for unnecessarily heavy investment in health facilities that would have otherwise been avoided.


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"When you're a teenager, the worst possible thing that can happen to you is isolation," he said. "Even if you're in a room full of people, if you're not with another teenager losing their hair, going through what you're going through, you feel alone. We bring those kids together. We give them a common experience, and within two days, the wigs come off and they don't have to worry about their scars, their missing limbs. It just doesn't matter anymore."
Big parade weekend kicks off in Nola →
Bailey said the trips give patients a break from treatments and the opportunity to spend time with teenagers going through similar experiences.


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|No such thing as a small change
Comment on
|( #3333=superdoc: print w/replies, xml )
|Need Help??
Each time the OP appears, (has to be asked), and the response is so low-key and dismissive, la petite mort goes a little deeper; spreads a little further; lasts a little longer.I think I agree with you. However, this makes me glad because I don't think the responses are dismissive or low-key.
Also, I remember a time when it was oft asked if C++ would replace C and clearly both of those languages today enjoy vibrant lives and even a mild form of cultural symbiosis. I expect that 10 or 15 years from now it will be similar for Perl 5 and Perl 6.
In reply to Re^5: Will Perl 6 Replace Perl 5?
by duff


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The new Southwire SIMpull® CoilPAK™ Wire Package addition to the company's SIMpull® Circuit Management System will change the way electrical contractors plan for and install branch circuit wiring, offering an innovative advance that helps enhance productivity.
The Southwire SIMpull® CoilPAK™ Wire Package is a prepackaged solution that helps contractors improve jobsite productivity and safety, while offering a highly effective way to manage installation costs. The SIMpull® CoilPAK™ Wire Package is available with both solid and stranded cable options, with all product manufactured using Southwire's SIM Technology® process meaning increased speed of productivity and less worker fatigue during installs. The Southwire SIMpull® CoilPAK™ Wire Package includes Southwire's patented NoLube® SIM Technology® circuit-sized wire coiled using a proprietary winding process. The convenient tote is molded with a handle that makes it easy to carry around a job site. The package can stand upright when in a resting position and can lay flat or stacked, when pulling wire from the package which eliminates the hassles of tangled wires and managing multiple individual wire reels.
"When used along with the Southwire SIMpull® WireBARREL™ wire drum, primarily for homerun type installations, and the MAXIS® Bending Table, the Southwire SIMpull® CoilPAK™ Wire Package completes a comprehensive circuit wire management system," said Norman Adkins, president of Southwire's Electrical Division. "The SIMpull® WireBARREL™ Drum has proven itself on jobsites, both big and small, for homerun pulls. The introduction of the SIMpullI® CoilPAK™ Wire Package extends this same innovative concept to the rest of the job, helping make the entire circuit wire installation safer and more productive."
Southwire's new SIMpull® Circuit Management System is yet another SIMpull Solutions® product that contractors now have at their disposal, offering unprecedented control of branch circuit wiring jobs, reducing installation time, cutting waste and eliminating steps in the process created by traditional wire wagons and individual reels. The SIMpull® CoilPAK™ Wire Package simplifies material management and can therefore help contractors improve margins. Contractors can now eliminate the need for circuit-sized spools. Each SIMpull® CoilPAK™ Wire Package weighs less than 50 pounds and has the wire size and length the industry needs, including 10 gauge, up to 1,250 feet; 12 gauge, up to 2,000 feet; and 14 gauge, up to 2,500 feet.
"Like Southwire's other SIMpull Solutions® products and services, Southwire's SIMpull® CoilPAK™ Wire Package eliminates steps in the process and can therefore help enhance installer performance," said Adkins. "We want to help contractors beat their circuit branch wiring budgets by eliminating wasted time caused by having to handle numerous wire spools on a job site. Southwire's goal is to make each job more predictable and easier to manage."
Southwire SIMpull Solutions® products and services have racked up a variety of industry awards from various sources that recognize the products as being a smarter, faster, safer and more efficient way to handle the wire installation process.


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Mentoring for Teachers
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Picture Of The Day: Volleyball Rules!
Irina Shayk Is The 2011 Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue Cover Girl (Pics)
Just a few days ago we provided you all with a stunning gallery of the gorgeous Irina Shayk, who we introduced as Cristiano Ronaldo's latest girlfriend. Now we are reintroducing her, this time as the 2011 Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue cover girl. The 25-year-old Russian first appeared within the pages of SI's Swimsuit Issue back in 2007 and could be found in every issue since. This time she will be featured on the cover, as was revealed on The Late Show with David Letterman Monday night.
If being tagged as Ronaldo's playmate wasn't enough to put a giant spotlight on Irina, this should do the trick.
The shoot takes place on the beautiful beaches of Maui, although, one could pretty much shoot this heavenly creature anywhere and there is little doubt that it would be hotter than hell. The photographer was Bjorn Ioss, who was working on his first shoot for Sports Illustrated, and his initiation couldn't have been any better than what they put before him; Irina on all fours with the white Maui sands beneath her. Welcome to the job kid.


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BETHESDA, Ark. (KTHV) - Around 7:45 a.m., the Independence County Sheriff's Office responded to a call from the small community of Bethesda.
Once they arrived, police found two men dead. Chief Deputy Jeremy Qualls said they will not be releasing the names of the victims or the cause of death at this time.
Qualls said they have not yet ruled out homicide. They will continue to investigate the scene and deaths, but will not release any information until Monday.
Bethesda is located a few miles west of Batesville.
Stay tuned to THV11 and THV11.com for more information.


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Pakucho Organic Color Grown Cotton Chunky Flamme & Plyed
Certified Color Grown Organic Cotton, Fair Trade & Vegan!
Made in Peru
This is a gorgeous chunky thick & thin flamme roving twisted with a fine thread. It is decadently soft. This yarn is hand brushed with a lofty feel. This yarn like most organic cotton does not have a chemical finishing like conventional cotton so it not smooth and polished, but natural and rustic.
Offered in 12 beautiful colors below.
NEW September 2016: 10 Ply Chunky in a beautiful mix of both melange & solid colors
March 2017: New Swallowtail Grande Handspun (worked on #19 needles) Available Below
NOTE: The colors are a bit more muted then the standard Pakucho yarns, especially the greens. This allows you to keep the color as is or deepen it with hot and/or machine drying. You have the choice!
If you want to make a more informed choice and you like to see and feel yarn in person then you should consider purchasing one of our sample cards. The sample cards will be an extremely helpful tool so that you can place an order knowing you will get exactly what you want while taking the guesswork and any doubt out of the equation. Keep in mind (as with all yarns) that color lots can vary. It is a lot of work to put the sample cards together, but it is also well worth the price!
Go to care instructions for washing and color change information for Pakucho Color Grown Certified Organic Cotton Yarn.


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Topic: Good USB drive speed tweak
On my g300nh I was getting horrid results on writes with time dd tests, around 8 MB/sec.
I found a tweak that helped it go to 19 MB/sec after looking at some linux forums.
You can add this line to /etc/sysctl.conf and reboot or run sysctl -p.
or if you prefer to put it in a startup script or run it one time.
echo 1024 > /sys/block/sda/device/max_sectors


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She was born on June 14, 1944 in Lindsey, California, to Mr. and Mrs. Ruby and William Simpson. She was a resident of Manteca for the past 20 years and previously of Tracy for 10 years.
Raylene is survived by her beloved husband of 30 years Johnny Cooper of Manteca. Her children are; John D. Cooper of Manteca and wife Lourdes, Ricky A. Simpson of Tracy, and Cynthia L. Hooe of Stockton, one sister Rosa Lea Wittwer and husband Barney of Oregon. She was also blessed by 6 grandchildren Erica, Cassandra, Samantha, Kristena, Frankie, and Adam as well as, several loving great-grand-children.
Raylene worked for the Lawrence Livermore Laboratory for 14 years. She loved to travel with her husband in their R.V. She was an exotic-animal lover and enjoyed fishing and traveling to antiques shows. Yard sales and flea markets were a great joy to her especially when she found that perfect buy. Raylene always made special quality time with her husband, children and grandchildren. She loved them deeply. Raylene will be remembered as a loving devoted strong woman who will be truly missed.
Mrs. Cooper's services are being handled by P.L. Fry & Son Funeral Home of Manteca. A Celebration of Life services will be held on Thursday, March 26, at 11 a.m. at P.L. Fry & Son Funeral Home 290 N. Union Road, Manteca.
Charitable donations in memory of Mrs. Cooper can be sent to A.S.C.P.A. or any animal shelter.
Manteca (Calif.) Bulletin
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009


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Walsall to land Tonge
Walsall are set to sign 21-year-old Dale Tong from Championship side Barnsley on a loan deal.
Tonge, who last appeared for the Tykes back in December, is an attacking midfielder and would add strengh in depth to the squad.
He was set for a run out in the reserves this afternoon before completing his move to the Bescot.


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Artists sue Harlem Shake creator over failing to get permission for samples
Two artists featured on YouTube hit seek compensation from Baauer, claiming he used their work without permission
The creator of Harlem Shake could end up returning 100% of his earnings from the viral video hit after neglecting to clear two of the song's most recognisable samples.
The No 1 song in America begins with a line in Spanish: "Con los terroristas," someone growls, as the crescendo builds. At the 15-second mark, another voice entreats listeners to "Do the Harlem shake". This is a key moment for the thousands of videos that turned this obscure dance track into a YouTube sensation – the signal that transforms each clip into a rowdy, air-humping bonanza.
Unfortunately, Harlem Shake's 23-year-old creator Baauer didn't record either of these vocal snippets. And he didn't pay to license them. Instead, the two artists he sampled are demanding remuneration for what has become a worldwide hit.
"We can turn around and stop that song," Javier Gómez, the former manager for reggaeton artist Hector El Father, told the New York Times. "[It's] a clear breaking of intellectual property rights." El Father is the voice that purrs "Con los terroristas" ("With the terrorists") at the opening of Harlem Shake. The line first appeared on 2006's Los Terroristas, and Gómez says it is one of El Father's "trademarks".
As for doing the Harlem Shake, that advice was taken from a 2001 rap song called Miller Time. "It just got stuck in my head for a while, so I used it," Baauer told the Daily Beast. A rapper called Hennessy Youngman, from the group Plastic Little, delivers the line. According to the New York Times, Youngman told Baauer he was happy someone was "doing something useful with our annoying music".
But happiness doesn't pay the rent. Both El Father – whose real name is Hector Delgado – and Youngman – who was born Jayson Musson – are negotiating licensing terms with Baauer's label. "Hector will get what he deserves," Gómez said. The price could be very high: Harlem Shake has sold more than 816,000 copies in the US and earned more than £50,000 from YouTube.
Baauer's worst-case scenario is what happened to the Verve in the late 90s. After using music from a Rolling Stones song, the Verve ended up relinquishing the complete publishing royalties for Bitter Sweet Symphony, their best-known single.
© 2013 Guardian News and Media


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Rei Kawakubo (Japanese, b. 1942) for Comme des Garçons (Japanese, founded 1969). Dress, 1983. Black wool jersey. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of Muriel Kallis Newman, 2003 (2003.79.21).
The impact of Rei Kawakubo's designs in Paris in 1983 was groundbreaking. Her runway presentation, with its unconventional models wearing body-obscuring layers rendered in coarsely textured materials, was received as transgressive and anti-fashion. In fact, the all-black collection was related in part to Punk styles seen on Kings Road, but it was all the more provocative for its Zen-like austerity and self-abnegation at a time when Christian Lacroix's brightly colored pouf dresses were the rage. Anti-glamour and asexual, the collection repositioned feminine identity in a way that confounded many fashion journalists and critics. Some saw the designs as nihilistic, and a few even characterized them as misogynistic. But, as Kawakubo said at the time, she had merely wanted to make a statement that was "strong."
This jersey chemise from this period of Kawakubo's earliest international notoriety encapsulates her desire to test the limits of what is defined as beautiful or ugly, appealing or repugnant, diminishing or enhancing. Adopting Chanel's strategy of reverse chic, she took lowly black wool jersey and transfigured it into a designer dress, an item of value. For both designers, the apparent plainness, even meanness, of their dresses represents a higher, more sophisticated aesthetic system. Their knowing client responds not to the immediate seduction of rich effects and materials but to the more elusive refinements of subtle finishes and detail as well as to a mode of self-presentation that seeks to avoid any suggestion of ostentation. Kawakubo's design, with its interweaving of sleevelike bands across the torso, recalls the criss-crossing straps of a straitjacket and the body harnesses of Punk bondage apparel.


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Monday, 27 October 2014
Looking at new GW releasesTHE GLOTTKIN
Nurgle has been crazy generous the last few weeks! First we had Putrid Blightkings & Gutrot Spume and then we had Nurgle Maggot Lords but this week we got the mighty THE GLOTTKIN! This model does not fail to impress from the pictures and the big guy is one of the other two guys brother!!! Anyways enjoy the review!
Posted by leigh murphy at 16:20 Links to this post
Labels:warhammer fantasy age of sigmar 40k 40000 fantasy, new releases, nurgle, the glottkin, warhammer
Sunday, 19 October 2014
Looking at new GW releases Nurgle Maggot Lords
The last couple of weeks i have been looking atg the new Games Workshop releases on YouTube and they seem to be pretty popular compared to my other videos. I will try upload one every new release and TRY to remember to upload it here aswell. My reviewing skills are not the best but im getting better and im still figuring out a good format for the reviews (eg my last one ran 20 minutes for 3 models!) so from now on i will video each new model separately. Enjoy!
Posted by leigh murphy at 23:06 Links to this post
Labels:warhammer fantasy age of sigmar 40k 40000 fantasy, maggot lords, new releases, nurgle, warhammer
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If you're aiming to buy or sell a single-family home in San Francisco, it's important to take note of the selling patterns in the city's various neighborhoods. You've probably read my blog post from earlier this week on the hottest condo markets, but when it comes to overbidding on houses, the landscape looks slightly different.
The neighborhoods where buyers are overbidding most intensely are varied, and there are many. Continue Reading


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Blueberry Boys
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Connor Graham is a city boy—a celebrated fashion photographer in New York. When his uncle's death drags him back to the family blueberry farm, all he wants to do is sell it as quickly as he can. Until he meets his uncle's tenant farmer.
Jed Jones, shy and stammering, devout and dedicated, has always yearned for land of his own and a man to share it with. Kept in the closet by his church, family, and disastrous first love, he longs to be accepted for who he is. But now, with his farm and his future in Connor's careless hands, he stands to lose even the little he has.
Neither man expects the connection between them. Jed sees Connor—appreciates his art and passion like no one else in this godforsaken town ever has. Connor hears Jed—looks past his stutter to listen to the man inside. The time they share is idyllic, but with the farm sale pending, even their sanctuary is a source of tension. As work, family, and their town's old-fashioned attitudes pull them apart, they must find a way to reconcile commitments to their careers and to each other.
Finalist: Best Gay Romance in the 28th Annual Lambda Literary Awards!
This title comes with no special warnings.
Caution: The following details may be considered spoilerish.
Click on a label to see its related details. Click here to toggle all details.
Chapter One
Blueberries. Row upon row, acre upon acre. Connor's arms ached with the memory of his first summer job. The dew glinting off the grass and leaves set his heart thumping thickly in his chest. Six said it was nostalgia, half dozen said grief. He lifted his camera from where it hung heavy around his neck and snapped a few photos. It was early yet; the golden hour hadn't arrived, so there wouldn't be any magic in the images. But he hadn't come out here to make magic. He'd come to make a eulogy.
How many times could one man say good-bye to the same place?
He heard the diesel engine long before he bothered to turn around. This would be Bruce's—no, Scott and Connor's—tenant, probably wondering what Connor was doing here. Sure enough, the dually rumbled to a stop beside him, and a slender man about his own age stepped down from the cab. Brown hair and eyes, a hint of crow's feet around the latter, unremarkable and yet appealing. Beautiful in that way strangers were, before you learned they hated cats or liked the wrong kind of country music.
"This is pr-private property. You c-can't shoot pictures here." The tenant's voice was quiet, but with a firm set to his chin, he clearly meant business.
"It's okay." Connor tried to find a smile to offer him, but all he had was his name. "I'm Connor Graham."
The man's smile faded, and he ducked his head, swiping his Red Sox hat down and into his palms. "Man. I'm s-sorry. About your uncle."
"Thank you. You're the tenant, right? I'm sorry, I don't know your name." I hold his future in my hands; I should know his name.
"Jed J-Jones."
Hell of a name for a man with a stutter.
Jed extended his hand slowly, like an afterthought. Connor reached to grasp it and ended up holding the hat. Jed flushed, grabbed it back, and placed it on his head with an exasperated huff. Then he took Connor's hand in his, shaking firmly.
Jed's hands were thin like the rest of him, fingernails stained purple around the edges. Connor didn't know whether that spoke to his work ethic or his grooming habits, but found these farmer's hands striking. He let go and lifted his camera.
"May I?"
"It's your farm." No bitterness there, just acquiescence.
"No, I mean, may I take your portrait?"
Jed's face shuttered. "W-what for?"
"Because the first hour after sunrise, the world turns gold and gorgeous. Any minute now, the light is going to catch every bush here on fire—it's going to be amazing. You're here, you're part of it, and I'd like you to be in the photograph."
"Out here with b-burning bushes?" Jed raised a soft brown eyebrow and smiled.
"I guess." He shrugged, then took off his baseball cap again. His hair was flattened close to his head, but puffed out a little around his ears. Hat head. Not something Connor was used to seeing in the city among the darlings of the male model set. And yet Jed lifted his chin with a model's instincts, and the line of his jaw, the jut of his cheekbones were thrown into prominence. Beautiful.
"Here." Connor pointed to the end of a row of bushes. "Stand just to the right of this one." He stepped back and waited for the light. Jed studied Connor for a long moment—bemused or annoyed, Connor couldn't tell—then turned his face to the east and watched in silence.
Jed was painted in gold and rose as the sun crept above the horizon. All around him, the sunlight caught on dew, limning the branches and leaves and casting a halo around Jed's hair. It was almost enough to make Connor believe in angels. But not quite.
The clicks of Connor's shutter sounded rapid-fire, loud in the morning stillness. Sure, he'd come out here to take photos of the farm, but this, this was so much better. This was the kind of portrait that won awards—a modern farmer, his baseball cap under his arm as he greeted the dawn. It felt intimate, sacred even. Connor wasn't a lifestyle photographer, nor a documentarian. A photograph like this, of a man in his element, seemed surreal to someone who plied his trade in the carefully crafted falsehoods of fashion photography.
Jed turned his face back to Connor, smiled, and said, soft as can be, "Ch-cheese."
Connor snapped a last shot and then lowered the camera. "Thanks."
Jed ducked his head and nodded.
"I'll let you go back to work." Connor gestured to the truck. "I'll take a few more photos of the farm, if that's okay."
"It's y-your farm." Jed repeated with a shrug. "I just work it."
Connor nodded, awkward in the face of Jed's acceptance of his place here. A place Connor didn't feel a claim to, and didn't want to. "Okay, thanks."
Placing his hat on his head, Jed tipped it gently in Connor's direction and climbed back into his truck. Connor watched him drive away, ignoring the temptation to photograph the tracks he left in the mud like so much graffiti. Jed was here. He wasn't what Connor had expected when Marty Sullivan told him there was a tenant living in the main house and working the land.
The farmers he'd known as a child had been men like his uncle—big, brawny, and well used to a day's work. Jed Jones was built like he'd fall over in a strong wind, with a body more in common with the lithe young things Connor photographed than with the rednecks who'd had no patience for Bruce Graham's chubby sissy-boy nephew.
Models didn't say "Cheese."
Connor took more photos, following the light across the landscape—still golden and glorious—but the feeling of capturing something special had ridden away with Jed Jones and his dually.
Not twenty minutes later, a truck rolled up and gangly high school kids with their braces and their awkward flirtations piled out and set to work removing berries from the bushes. The wet thunk of berries dropping into the buckets they wore around their necks made Connor smile as he remembered working next to his friend Kyle Bauer, trying not to stare at his muscular legs, or to laugh harder at his jokes than anyone else did. That summer, Connor had still thought he had secrets.
"Hey Connor, check this out!" Kyle held out a blueberry the size of a half-dollar. "You ever seen one this big?"
Connor shook his head, wiping sweat from his eyes, and dumped the contents of his bucket in the carrier at his feet. Purple pints today. An expensive variety. Bruce didn't usually trust the teens with these.
"Here, you have it, if I eat any more blueberries, I'm gonna be sick."
And then Kyle's hand was at Connor's mouth, stifling a gasp of shock by slipping the berry between open lips. The dry brush of Kyle's thumb whispered across Connor's lower lip and the sweetness of the berry broke across his tongue.
Connor shuddered, remembering the innocent touch and Kyle's awkward smile, followed by a shrug. They'd both had boners tenting their shorts, though neither had said anything. What'd ever happened to Kyle Bauer?
Several rows down, another truck dropped a crew of adult workers who spoke a language Connor didn't recognize, laughing easily with each other. This crew was mostly women, but with a few men too, and they worked with an efficiency the kids lacked. They would harvest twice as many berries as the kids, but they wouldn't enjoy themselves half as much. Once they spotted Connor, there was a grimness to the way they moved, and they gave him curious glances, eyeing his camera warily. Time to go.
Lights shone inside the farm offices when he returned to where he'd parked his rental car, so Connor headed up the familiar steps to the little trailer where Bruce used to hand out paychecks. He knocked, which felt weird because he owned it, but appropriate because he was a stranger to whoever worked inside. He'd just get an email address to send the portrait to, and then he'd be on his way.
"Come in!"
Stepping into the trailer was like stepping back in time. The same ugly desk and chairs, the same card table—though a new microwave. The same stifling lack of air conditioning. On the floor next to the desk, a toddler in a diaper made engine noises as he pushed his blocks around on ancient stained carpet. The kid had the same light-brown hair as Jed Jones, and he flashed Connor a drooly smile.
"Can I help you?" The woman behind the desk smiled expectantly. She was familiar in a way that made Connor think she was from around here but not Blandford. He racked his brain for a name, finally gave up, and introduced himself.
"I'm Connor Graham."
Her face fell, and she extended her hand. "Of course, I should have known. Hannah Jones—you probably don't remember me from school, I was a freshman when you were a junior—my maiden name was Bradshaw. I'm so sorry for your loss."
"Hannah Bradshaw," he repeated, suddenly placing her. "You played Éponine when the high school did Les Mis. Better than at least one I've seen on Broadway." Easy and completely untrue flattery, but it made her blush and smile, so he couldn't regret the lie.
"You're kind to say so."
The door opened behind him and Jed walked in, pausing when he saw Connor. He pulled off his hat and gave a gruff nod, which Connor returned.
Jed glanced at the child on the floor and sort of grimaced, then said, "Hannah, we got sh-shoestring in the Rancocas. Can you call M-Mike and get him out here to help me? S-same pay."
"You got it." She picked up the phone on the desk and started dialing.
Jed turned to Connor. "You get all the p-pictures you need?"
Connor nodded. "I was just leaving. That thing, the shoestring thing . . . is it serious?"
"Hopefully it's j-just the one plant. Won't impact the value of your land."
"But your crop?"
"Is n-n-none of your business."
Gone was the soft-smiling man Connor had met in the field at dawn. In his place was another hard-faced farmer, worried about pests and disease and scowling at children. God, they were all alike, weren't they?
"I wasn't asking because I was worried about money. I was worried for you. Forget it."
Jed's face softened. "W-we'll be fine."
"Okay, then. I'm going to go. Do you have an email address? I can send you the photos I took."
He glanced at his shoes. "We're on F-Facebook. The f-farm. You can send them there."
"I'll look you up." Connor offered his tenant—because that's who Jed was, not a model to be photographed, but the man renting Connor's land—a hesitant smile, then backed his way out of the trailer.
Jed watched out the window as his new landlord got into a little silver rental car and drove away. He was only halfheartedly listening to his sister-in-law call Mike to ask for help. It had been a long time since Jed had examined the blueberries and seen anything other than profit. Or loss. That it was his new landlord who made him see poetry there—well, he wasn't quite sure what to think about that. Wasn't sure what to think about the way Graham had regarded him either—meeting his eyes and lighting up like he saw poetry in Jed, too. It gave him all kinds of butterflies in his stomach. Damn. He shook his head and glanced over his shoulder, just in time to see Billy trying to climb the card table.
"W-whoa, little buddy. That th-thing is not g-gonna hold your weight." He scooped up the toddler. "You sick again?"
Billy stuck two fingers in his mouth and laid his chubby head on Jed's shoulder. "Thed," he said around his fingers.
"Yeah, B-Billy."
"Mike'll be here shortly, he just needs to finish up a brake job." Hannah came around the coffee table to take Billy. "I'm sorry I had to bring him with me today. Dev can't take the kids if they've had a fever within twenty-four hours, and he had a small one last night. I think it was just teething, but what can you do? I'm sorry I didn't tell you ahead of time."
"J-just took me by surprise."
"So, that's the new landlord." She jutted her chin toward the door. "I went to high school with him. He remembered me in the class play. Isn't that a queer thing to remember?"
"Yep." Jed peered out the window again, even though Connor Graham's car was long gone. He didn't know if Hannah meant queer like weird, or queer like him, but he wasn't about to ask.
"Think they're gonna sell?"
Jed's stomach turned. He hoped not. His current lease had fewer than two years left. Finding a piece of land to farm was hard when you couldn't afford to buy your own. And what else could he do? It wasn't like he could take a job working with people to tide him over until he could afford to buy. If Connor and Scott decided to sell . . . Bitterness swept over him. Some men, men who could talk freely, could call the world their oyster. Any pearls destined for Jed were close to home and to the people who tolerated his stammer.
"I d-don't know."
"Are you going to make an offer if he does?"
"I c-can't. D-don't have e-e-enough. Still paying off my student loans. Maybe—maybe when the l-lease is up."
Hannah placed a soothing hand on his arm. "I didn't mean to upset you, Jedidiah. I just wondered."
"I'll be in the Rancocas. Send M-Mike out."
Four. Four infected plants identified by the time Mike arrived. They could be removed and burned, but if aphids were spreading the disease, who knew how many plants had been compromised already? Jed grimaced and moved to the next bush.
"Here's another one," Mike called from the end of the row as he tied a strip of bright tape around a limb. "What are you going to do?"
"I don't f-fucking know," Jed muttered. "R-reconsider organic certification?"
Mike scowled. "Why you even bother—"
"I b-bother because it's my j-job," Jed snapped, moving to the next bush. Because I love it. Because growing things matters. And growing them right—that mattered too.
"You can come work at the shop for me. You're good with transmission work—and small engines. We could add a new specialty."
"I'm n-not a mechanic; I'm a f-farmer. And it's n-not like you have enough w-work to go around." Because in the end, in Mike's shop? It always came down to not enough work to go around, and Mike had kids and a wife, and Jed only had himself.
"I think you should pray about it, Jedidiah. Maybe this is a sign."
"Wh-what?" Jed glared at his brother.
"This disease. The landlord dying. All happening at the same time."
The fuck it was. Jed loved his older brother—had damn near worshipped him at some stages in his life—but drew the line at accepting the idea that God randomly destroyed shit to prove a point. Not just because Mike thought he should "pray about it" and maybe "come work for me."
"I d-don't b-believe that's how the L-Lord works."
"Isn't for you to say, bro."
Lots of things weren't apparently. Jed stomped his shovel into the dirt and grunted. Had Mike's theology or his self-interest provoked that remark? And who was Jed to question his brother's motives?
"Isn't for you to say either, Mike."
Chapter Two
The Law Offices of Marty Sullivan occupied half of an office duplex on a rundown corner in Westfield. Connor winced inwardly as he fucked up pulling into the parallel parking on the street. He was worse than a teenager, rusty after years living car-free. He flushed, hoping no one had seen his disgraceful second approach, which left him in the spot, but running late.
Marty was an old family friend—he'd been Bruce's lawyer, and was now Scott's. Connor hoped, as he approached the entrance, that old loyalty would forgive a few minutes of tardiness. The broker next door had one of those signs like a clock, the ones with the hands you moved to let people know when you'd be back. The clock read twelve thirty, but it was half past one now and there was a woman standing in the entryway, knocking.
"You know where he's at?" She gestured to the door.
"No, sorry." Connor shrugged apologetically, brushing by her to let himself into Marty's suite.
"Figures." She scuffed her foot along the floor, scowling. "Thanks anyway."
He was still nodding at her when he pushed through the door to Marty's, and ran smack into a familiar face.
"Amanda!" He steadied his sister-in-law with one hand—or ex-sister-in-law. Were Scott and Amanda exes if the divorce wasn't final yet? "What are you doing here?"
"Ow, fuck, Connor." She rubbed at her forehead where she'd collided with his chin.
"You okay, Mandy?"
"Yeah. I'm fine." She ran a hand through her hair. "Since, um, since Bruce left you guys the farm, and Scott and I are still married, I have to be here. God, I don't know why. So fucking awkward in there. I needed a cig."
Connor studied her expression—lines creased her forehead and dark circles hung like angry moons above her cheekbones. "I'm sorry things didn't work out for you and Scott."
She sniffled and nodded once, a sharp, tight motion. "Me too."
Connor glanced down at her hand where a diamond sparkled. Not the one Scott had given her. "You're getting remarried?"
She gave him a long, exasperated glare. "Yeah."
"I guess . . . Congratulations?"
She rolled her eyes and started packing her cigarettes against the heel of her hand. He opened the door wide for her.
Watching her walk away, he felt a strange pang he couldn't identify. There was no love lost between Connor and his brother, but he'd liked Mandy. She seemed brittle and cold now, not even the same woman he remembered. Maybe that was the price one paid for being married to someone like Scott. His brother had never been easy to live with, and he'd always liked his beer and his friends more than spending time with family.
Did Scott even consider Connor family anymore? Or was Connor adrift now—family-less, anchorless? Despite the years he'd spent trying to forget where he'd come from, the thought left him hollow.
"Mr. Graham?"
Marty's paralegal-slash-secretary had called Connor "Mr. Graham" since he was seventeen and had run errands for Bruce. She was seventy if she was a day, and proper as all get-out in her pinstriped suits and severe bun. In the years since Connor had been home last, her hair had gone from a steely gray to pure white, but aside from that, she hadn't changed.
"Hi, Mrs. Kennedy."
"Can I get you a cup of coffee? He'll be a few minutes—he's talking to Mandy's lawyer, and Scott is back there—" she nodded toward the hallway leading to the offices "—glowering."
Of course he was. All of Connor's life, Scott had been angry. Why should today be any different?
"No, thanks, Mrs. K."
Connor took in the ancient wood paneling and the worn carpet. A photo of a much younger Marty in uniform hung on the wall. The place was exactly how it had been when Connor was a teenager. How was it that coming home felt more like time travel than a couple hours by car?
"Connor," Marty called from behind him.
"Mr. Sullivan." Connor extended his hand for a shake.
"Terrible business, son. I'm sorry about your uncle." Marty covered Connor's hand with his own, wrinkled and age-spotted, as he shook it, a surprisingly sympathetic gesture from the gruff old lawyer.
"Let's get to it. Come on. Kennedy, coffee."
"Yes, sir." Mrs. Kennedy stood up with a sharp nod.
The small conference room hummed with the buzz of fluorescent lights, and Connor sank gratefully into a soft leather chair as Mrs. Kennedy placed several cups and a coffee carafe in the center of the table, then marched out, easing the door shut behind her.
A few minutes later, Scott came in, red-faced and surly.
"Con." He jerked his chin at Connor in what might pass as a greeting between near-strangers. Connor swallowed back his resentment and stood, reaching for a handshake.
"Good to see you, Scott."
Scott sneered down at his hand and grunted, finally shaking it gingerly, like he was afraid he'd catch something. He all but wiped his hands on his jeans afterward. God, what an asshole. Connor straightened his shoulders.
When Amanda came in, she was followed by a young man in a well-tailored suit who gave Connor a curious glance. This had to be her lawyer. They both nodded to Marty and sat down without saying anything.
"I want to sell," Scott said. He glared over at Connor. "If you want to keep it, you'll have to buy me out."
Connor shook off the twinge of sadness at the thought of the farm belonging to someone else's family, and nodded. "Yeah, I want to sell too."
"Okay, that can be arranged, but any sale is subject to Mr. Jones's lease." Marty poured himself a cup of coffee and studied Connor over the edge. "I'm surprised you don't want to keep it. I know you lived on the property awhile."
In a world where there was money enough for him to own the family farm and expand his studio space to include a gallery . . . yeah, he'd want to keep it. But he didn't live in that world. He lived in the one where the money from the farm would cover the construction costs for the expansion. "Is Mr. Jones a potential buyer? I was over there yesterday; he seems to know the farm really well." Connor thought of the tense expression on Jed's face when he told Hannah about the disease in the Rancocas, and the way it softened when he mentioned the farm's Facebook page. He obviously cared about the place.
"He might be. How's the crop?"
Connor shrugged. "I'm no expert. Seemed okay."
"How urgently do you need to sell? I don't mean to sound all doom and gloom about the prospect, but this economy . . . with the land subject to a lease for another two years . . ."
"I'm not in a hurry. It would be nice to get started on the expansion on my place in New York, but I don't have any financial problems and I live well. It's not urgent."
Amanda cleared her throat.
"I'd like to get on it as quick as possible." Scott glared at his wife. "Since it seems it's going to affect my divorce proceedings."
"All right, I'll get it rolling. I have nothing else that requires both of you to be present. Scott, we'll cover how this affects your divorce separately." Marty stood up. "Connor, walk with me a moment."
Connor followed him into the hallway. As soon as they were out of the conference room, Marty asked, "How are you holding up?"
Connor flinched at the question. He didn't know how to answer. He was fine. Sad, but somehow it still didn't feel real.
"I honestly don't know." The words slipped out.
A dark expression clouded Marty's face for a moment. "I know in some ways Bruce was like a father to you. Take it one day at a time. You'll be okay."
"I am okay," Connor insisted, though thinking of Bruce that way, as a parent, twisted him up inside—a hot tangle of longing and rejection. "I guess it hasn't sunk in yet."
"You have someone?" Marty winced. "A young man or someone to be there for you when it does?"
Connor resisted the urge to tease the old man about inquiring into his relationship status. "I have my work. I have my friends. It's enough, you know?"
Marty made a dubious face. "Work doesn't keep a man warm."
"Spoken like a man who's never spent a day on a photo set."
"You're a smart-ass, son. But you know what I mean."
Connor nodded. "Thanks, Marty. I'll be fine."
"Scott . . ." Marty looked back toward the conference room. "I know he doesn't treat you like family anymore."
He never did.
"I'm just saying," Marty continued, "Bruce was a very close friend. And he'd have wanted you to have family. If you need to talk to someone, you give me a call, okay?"
"Thanks, Marty."
"All right. I'll call Jed Jones and let him know what's going on."
"I appreciate it."
Bruce was the kind of guy to make his own funeral arrangements, which suited Connor fine.
Had been. Fuck.
Scott had freaked out and tried to take control, but the owner of the funeral home had reminded him that Bruce had known better than anyone what he wanted, and had paid for it in advance. Connor had been relieved when Scott had given up trying to be in charge and just it go.
They'd been born eleven years apart, and it might as well have been a lifetime for all they ever bothered to know each other. Scott had been everything small-town America reveres: a football star, local boy makes good—until he blew out his knee playing college ball.
Then there had been Connor—the shy, fat faggot. There was no football scholarship to pay his way through school, so he picked blueberries until he was old enough to get a job at Burger King, and then flipped burgers to pay for books. The art program at Westfield State had been his ticket out of town, and when he graduated, he'd been both broke and determined. New York had beckoned, and he'd made Brooklyn his home.
And here he stood in the new cemetery, sweating in a suit too expensive for Blandford, staring at the hole where a minister had just prayed over his uncle. The town was a stranger now, though it had shaped him like nothing else. He hadn't just left town. He'd abandoned it, and he'd never looked back.
Scott and his friends stared at him—curious and disdainful. How was it that those stares could make him feel seventeen years old again? Bitter and lonely and completely lost.
"Connor!" a voice behind him called. A jolt of recognition—Bethany Tyler, round with pregnancy. A smile stretched across his face as she picked her way along the gravel path toward him. They'd been childhood playmates, even through the "girls are gross" years. Older now—and tired, with two little ones clutching her black maternity dress—she was beautiful in that glowing-pregnancy way. Out of habit, Connor tapped at his chest, the absence of his camera a heavier weight than the camera itself.
"Beth." He hugged her, and her belly bumped his own, provoking an awkward laugh from both of them.
"I wish you'd come home sometime when nobody died." She patted his shoulder and pulled away from the hug.
"This isn't home." The words came automatically. It's what he'd said to his mom when he left for New York. It's what he'd said to Bruce after Mom died. He'd said it so many times since leaving at twenty-two years old, he could almost believe that this place had no hold on him and never had.
Bethany's face crumpled a bit, but she soldiered on. "Where are you staying? Would you like to come over tomorrow? It's game night."
"At a bed-and-breakfast in Otis. Game night? You still do that?" He smiled at the memory—gin rummy with Beth and her sisters at her mom's Formica table. Beth's eyes glowing in triumph as she displayed her winning cards. There had been good times, even if they were hard to remember since he only came back, as she said, when someone died.
"You know it." She rubbed her belly and grinned. "Chutes and Ladders and Candyland with the kids, then after they go to bed, we play card games. It was poker for a while, but lately we're on a Cards Against Humanity kick."
"Who comes over?" The thought of seeing his old classmates filled Connor with dread.
"Hannah and Mike Jones usually. Some of Aaron's friends from the plant might come by with their wives too, but don't worry, Scott doesn't hang with their crowd."
Oh, thank god.
"Hannah Bradshaw-now-Jones? So she's not Jed's wife?"
Beth laughed. "No, she's his sister-in-law. I forgot she helps him at the farm. He sometimes comes too."
"No single gay men?" Maybe Kyle would be there, and they could catch up.
"The only one I ever knew moved to New York after college, so I guess you're shit outta luck." She slapped his arm. "Anytime after six. Say you'll come by."
"I'll come by."
"We bought the old Garten place, on Main Street. You know the house?"
God, of course he did. All these years away and he still knew houses by the names of the people who'd lived there when he was a kid.
"Yeah, I know the place."
"See you tomorrow, then!" She waved as she deftly maneuvered her offspring toward the parking lot, leaving Connor to stare after her, wondering what he'd just agreed to.
Chapter Three
The old Garten house—Beth's house—a seventies-era split-level on Main Street, glowed with strings of Christmas lights even though it was summertime. Yet the effect was festive, and not as out of place as Connor expected. Standing beside his rental car, he snapped a photo. Several vehicles lined the driveway; a few parked in the yard. Aaron's friends from the plant were here in force—and Connor probably had gone to school with most of them. He double-checked to make sure he wasn't blocking anyone in, and locked the car. Unease filled him. He wasn't great in big groups, and a group of people whose last memories of him were his awkward teenage years? Agreeing to come to game night had been a colossally dumb idea.
A child's squeal pierced the air and a small form hurtled out from behind the house and tumbled down the hill, rolling to a stop at his feet. A dirty face smiled at him, and the kid—A boy? Girl? With long hair and no shirt, who could tell?—grabbed on to his jeans and pulled to their feet, then raced back up the hill, shrieking again.
Beth appeared in the doorway at the front of the house and called down, "Hey, we're on the back porch. Go on around where Madison just went." She disappeared into the house, and Connor started up the hill, trying to find the part of himself that fit in here. It was like trying to put a shoe on the wrong foot—familiar and almost right, but uncomfortable and awkward. It was exactly the feeling that had sent him running to New York as soon as he had graduated. Did it matter if he was the foot or the shoe if they both rejected each other?
He followed the shrieks around back to find the porch lit by citronella candles and tiki torches. Faces flickered over hands of cards. On the floor, a game of Candyland lay abandoned, and out in the yard, six or so kids chased each other and fireflies. A wave of nostalgia hit him. Sure, there were fireflies in the city, but somehow, he'd hardened himself against caring about their early-evening show.
"C-Connor?" A soft voice called from behind him. He twisted to see Jed Jones standing a few feet away, a six-pack in hand and a tentative smile on his face. Hannah came up beside Jed carrying a plate of cupcakes. God, he hadn't brought anything, not even a bottle of wine. He knew better, and here he was perpetuating stereotypes of rude New Yorkers.
"Hi, Connor." She smiled. "Bethany said you might be joining us. It's nice to see you. Bruce's service was lovely yesterday."
"Thank you." Oh god, that was absurd. Thanking someone for a compliment on a funeral service self-arranged by the uncle he'd practically abandoned. Connor flushed.
Jed's lips twitched like he knew what Connor was thinking. He turned his attention to Hannah. "Mike changing diapers in the backseat again?"
She laughed. "Yeah. I promise he won't leave it in your car this time."
"Thank you." He nodded, then brushed past Connor, lifting the beer. "Gotta st-stick this in the cooler."
Connor watched him stroll up the back steps to Bethany's house to be greeted enthusiastically by the cardplayers. Jed's lanky grace was a compelling contrast to his stammer and silences. When a woman gestured for Jed to come sit by her, Connor forced himself to pull his admiring gaze away, and faced Hannah.
"Can I take those for you?" He reached for the cupcakes.
"And let you take credit for my culinary masterpiece?" She feigned shock, then handed over the plate. "Absolutely."
Just then, the chubby toddler from the farm trailer ran between them, buck naked and giggling. Connor almost dropped the cakes.
"Billy!" Hannah shouted and chased after him.
A bigger, brawnier version of Jed came around the corner, red-faced and carrying an armful of toddler clothes. "Billy!"
"I think Hannah's got him." Connor smiled at the newcomer. "I'm Connor."
"Mike." He grunted, giving Connor a once-over. "You're Scott Graham's little brother?"
"Sorry for your loss."
"Thanks. You must be Jed's brother?"
"Yeah. I'd shake hands, but I can't be sure there ain't kid shit on mine. Damn diapers." He shook his head ruefully. "You got kids?"
"Um, no?" Connor was taken aback by the question. It's not like he'd ever seen the inside of the closet. Could there be a person in Blandford who didn't know he was gay? Not that gay men couldn't have children, but he didn't expect the town's perception of homosexuality to have changed any more over the years than the town itself had—and the town never changed.
"Huh. Well, if you decide you want 'em, my advice is to adopt one already potty-trained. Excuse me. Hey, Bill-y!" He followed his wife toward the shrieking children.
Up on the back porch, Connor handed the cupcakes to Bethany, who kissed his cheek, and joined the card game, accepting condolences and introductions with equal ease—which is to say none at all.
And it got worse.
Everyone remembered him, and treated him like one of their own, but he still felt like he was sitting at a table full of strangers. His memories of them were frozen in childhood—that guy won the third-grade spelling bee, and that girl once threw up in gym class—but they weren't kids anymore. And they knew each other. They laughed and teased with the familiarity of people who'd literally spent their entire lives together, occasionally jostling Connor and saying "Remember that time . . ." and all he could do was search his memory and nod.
Throughout the evening, he kept hoping Kyle would show. Someone he remembered fondly from his teen years besides Beth. But maybe Kyle wasn't friends with their old crew. Hell, maybe he'd even escaped, gotten out of town. Hope flooded him, a rush of warmth through his veins as he pictured Kyle living out-and-proud in a city somewhere—maybe Boston or even New York—dancing in gay bars by night and working an office job for some nice, progressive company by day. He liked that picture—he liked it a lot.
As the game wore on, he noticed Jed politely ignoring the flirting from the woman next to him. She'd lay a hand on his arm, and he'd find an excuse to reach for the cards or his beer. She'd flip her hair and lean close, and he'd shift his chair. It was subtle, nothing that would necessarily trigger suspicion in either the woman or the others at the table, but it caught Connor's attention. At one point, Jed's gaze flicked up to his, and a wry smile danced around his lips. Unlike the careful deflection toward his female admirer, the expression Jed gave Connor was warm, flirtatious—hell, even encouraging. He couldn't have been more blatant had he winked. But surely Connor was reading that wrong?
After a while, Beth herded the children inside and presumably to bed. She came back sometime later, smiling.
"They're out," she whispered as she took a seat next to Connor. "Sorry that took so long."
Connor nodded and asked the question that had been nagging him all evening.
"Hey, what ever happened to Kyle Bauer?" He glanced around the room. "Don't you guys hang out anymore?"
Silence fell across the table. Everyone grew really interested in their cards, and unease crept through Connor's gut.
What the hell?
Finally, Jed spoke. "K-Kyle shot himself in the head two years ago. Left a w-wife and th-three kids."
Oh fuck.
Connor didn't remember standing up and leaving the table, or the screen porch door slamming behind him. He just felt an overwhelming urge to get the hell away from all those people, their happy game, the cloying familiarity that wasn't, and the next thing he knew, he was pacing in the front yard.
"Hey," Jed called from behind Connor. "You okay?"
Connor nodded, but the nod changed into a shake as he sat on the front steps. "Yes. No. I don't know, actually."
"You want t-to talk?" Jed sat beside him, brushing their thighs together as if by accident. He didn't move away, just let his leg touch Connor's. It was a nice, comforting touch. Connor wanted to turn into Jed's body, bury his face in that slim shoulder, and howl out his pain. Of course he couldn't do that, because that's the kind of intimacy grown men didn't share unless they were lovers, and sometimes, not even then.
How was it that the death of Kyle Bauer hit so much harder than that of Connor's own uncle? Because Kyle's was suicide and Bruce's was a heart attack? Because Kyle's happened two years ago and he never knew? Or because Kyle left a wife and kids behind and Connor's family was so broken? Wife and kids.
"Did he leave a note?" Connor's voice was tight and raspy, even to his own ears.
"Nah." Jed shook his head. "Big m-mystery."
"Did you know him?" Connor searched Jed's face.
"Knew him well enough to know he was qu-queer." He shrugged, jutting his chin. "Not many people in town knew that."
"That doesn't make his life less valuable," Connor hissed.
"Didn't say it did." Jed shrugged again. "M-might make it m-more so. To s-some people."
Connor closed his eyes. "He wasn't my lover."
"We were friends. I guess I always hoped he'd come out too."
Jed snorted. "Not here. You th-think he could come out, sit in his family pew at the big white church, and face judgment from the closed-minded people in this town? You think K-Kyle fuckin' Bauer was strong enough for that?"
"You have strong feelings about what it takes to be gay in Blandford? Or maybe about who deserves to sit in that church? Christ, and people act like they don't understand why I left."
"Please, d-don't take the Lord's name in v-vain," Jed whispered. "I have a lot of st-strong feelings about that too."
"Of course you do." Connor stood and paced into the front yard again. "You drop the f-bomb like it was Kyle's middle name, and you're offended I said 'Christ.' I fucking hate this town."
"I'm not this town— Hell, half the t-time I hate it too. If you hate me, j-just say it."
Connor stopped short. "I don't hate you."
"D-didn't think you did."
"You confuse the hell out of me."
Jed cocked his head to the side and stared. "Why?"
"Are you gay?"
Jed wouldn't meet his eyes. "That's a c-complicated question."
Connor sat again, not caring if their legs touched. "There's nothing complicated about it. You like dick or you don't."
"I'm a Christian."
"The two aren't mutually exclusive."
"In th-this town? In my family? Yeah. They are."
"Bullshit. I was gay in this town. I don't know your family, but Hannah and Mike seem like good people. Would they treat you differently?"
"This from Scott Gr-Graham's brother?"
Connor didn't have anything to say to that, but Jed had his curiosity piqued. "Why are you telling me this?"
Jed snorted and looked away. When he spoke, his voice sounded tight, strained. "I was home-sch-schooled, did you know that? That's why you and I never met when we were younger. You must've w-wondered."
Connor had wondered. He couldn't take three steps in this town without seeing someone he'd gone to elementary school with, or someone who'd painted his face at the fair, or someone who'd picked blueberries for Bruce. "What does that have to do with it?"
"My parents say it was so we could have a r-religious education. I think they didn't want me to be g-gay. If I went to public school, with other boys, I might be tempted." His lips quirked ruefully, not quite into a smile. "I had a crush on John D-Denver."
"They homeschooled you because they thought it would keep you from wanting to bone John Denver?"
He chuckled and ducked his head. "It wasn't about b-boning. I just . . . I just thought he had the nicest smile. Don't you think he had the nicest smile?"
"No," Connor said softly. "I think you do."
Jed's smile faded, and he shook his head. "I d-don't know how to take a compliment from an attractive man. I don't know if you're f-flirting or just being nice. But thank you."
"You're welcome." Connor bumped their knees together. "You didn't answer my question."
"Be-because you remembered Kyle. He and I . . ." Jed shook his head again, exhaled slowly, then held out his hands as if in supplication. "K-Kyle. It would have been adultery. He w-was married."
"You and Kyle?" Connor could picture it, oddly enough. Yes, Jed was exactly Kyle's type. Quiet. Thoughtful. Closeted.
"I'd h-have gone to hell for that man. But n-no. Not while he was married."
His words hit like a punch. To have a love like that, and lose him? So much unsaid, but Connor could see naked grief on Jed's face.
"I'm so sorry."
"M-me too."
"You really believe that? That you'd go to hell for being gay?"
Jed dug the heel of his hand into his eyes. "Half of f-faith is d-doubt. I d-d-don't know wh-what I believe some days. I don't think being g-gay is a sin. Sex outside of m-marriage? L-l-lying? Adultery? Th-those are sins."
A firefly flashed just in front them, a flicker against the darkness of the front yard. Connor let his leg brush Jed's again, and he didn't pull away. Tempting as it was to wrap an arm around Jed and take some of his pain, Connor knew the gesture would be unwelcome. So they sat, tied together by their loss, until Hannah and Mike came around the corner, Mike carrying a sleeping Billy.
"Hey." Hannah smiled awkwardly, twisting her hands together. "Time to go."
Jed nodded and shot Connor a resolute glance. "Good night, Connor."
"Good night."
Following his brother and his sister-in-law to the car, Jed took one last peek over his shoulder. It was too dark to see his expression, but his tentatively raised hand was as good as a smile.
Jed handed his brother the keys, and watched Connor sitting on the steps until they pulled out of sight. For a big man, Connor appeared tiny in that despondent circle of light. Jed hated having to tell Connor about Kyle. Kyle had been his—what they'd had together had been beautiful, precious, and secret. But then, that was the problem wasn't it? Too many secrets ate away at a man's soul; Kyle was proof of that. The sharp ache of loss and blame ate at Jed. He'd been the one with the ultimatums and the demands, and if he'd known? If he hadn't pushed Kyle for more, where would they be now?
And that Connor Graham would come home, the town's own prodigal gay, and be welcomed with open arms? Jed shuddered, a bolt of loathing working through him, but whether it was aimed at himself or Connor, he wasn't sure. Everything he admired about Connor, he rejected in himself. He was jealous of Connor's out-and-proud lifestyle, and he resented that Connor had known Kyle first.
How dare he ask about Kyle, call him a friend, harbor these, these hopes for him—and stay away all those years when Kyle had needed people to love him?
But in spite of his jealousy, he had a bond with Connor now—another gay man here. Jed longed to connect with this stranger who knew more about him than his family did. That made it hard to hold on to jealousy.
"Okay, brother?" Mike glanced across the front seat at him.
"Just s-sad. Thinking about B-B-Bauer."
"Yeah. Can't believe he didn't know. Those two were tight years ago."
"He's n-n-not . . . n-not— Fuck." Jed glared at his brother, willing him to understand the words he couldn't seem to stammer out: He's not one of us anymore.
Hannah reached forward from the backseat and patted his shoulder gently. "Shhh, Jedidiah. Take your time."
"S-sorry for sw-swearing in front of Billy."
"Billy's asleep; he didn't hear anything."
"W-when he left. C-Connor. He didn't look back." Jed sighed at the relief of getting through the words.
"And it's like he forgot he was ever here?"
"Like w-we forgot too." Like the whole damn town had forgotten that one time the closet door opened.
Jed stared out the window at the darkened countryside around them; the trees, fields, and old houses loomed, so familiar. They seemed almost alive with their disapproval of his sudden desire to forget and be forgotten. To slip away from family and obligation, to find some little pocket of earth to cultivate somewhere free of the expectations of others. Was it really so wrong to covet the freedom that Connor had?
Hannah's hand found his shoulder again and gave it a squeeze. He was sure she meant to be reassuring, but for a brief moment, her touch felt like a restraint.
[H]eartwarming, positive, and hopeful. . . . [E]xactly the kind of wish fulfillment romance readers read for.
This is some of North's best writing. Every word is important, yet without pretention. . . . [Jed and Connor] are permanent residents inside my heart.
[B]eautifully put together. The sweet chapter headings and lovely illustrated blueberries strewn throughout the book made the romantic experience even more charming. Well-paced, wonderful characters, a tender realistic romance with sensual, smoldering sex, plus a lovely layout makes this an A+ book!
This is a 5 Star read for me. It's going on my comfort re-read pile. It was just beautiful and I can't recommend it enough.
The connection between the two characters left me breathless and begging for more. I'm a sucker for a good, character-driven story and this one definitely hit the mark.


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Bank Branches Disappear From Poor Neighborhoods Like Longwood, Bronx
After opening more than 15,000 branches across the U.S. in the decade leading to the financial crisis, banks are retreating from lower-income neighborhoods, even as the industry posted its second most profitable year on record. Lenders have shut 1,826 branches since late 2008, and 93 percent of closings have been in postal codes where the household income is below the $52,762 national median, according to census and federal banking data compiled by Bloomberg.
The decline limits access to basic financial services for people who don't have bank accounts and forces them to pay fees for such activities as cashing checks and settling utility bills. "It's very hard for people to get an economic toehold in neighborhoods without banks," says Sarah Ludwig, co-director of the Neighborhood Economic Development Advocacy Project, a New York-based community support center.
About 10 million U.S. households lack bank accounts, according to a study released in September by the Federal Deposit Insurance Corp. An additional 24 million are "underbanked," using check-cashing services and other storefront businesses for financial transactions. The Bronx in New York City is the nation's second most underbanked large county—behind Hidalgo County in Texas—with 48 percent of households either not having an account or relying on alternative financial providers, according to a report by the Corporation for Enterprise Development, an advocacy organization for lower-income Americans.
More than 96 percent of the 47,300 people who live in the Longwood neighborhood of the Bronx are black or Hispanic. Median household income in the postal code is $22,458, less than the 2011 national poverty line of $22,811 for a family of four, according to the U.S. Census Bureau. Two bank branches remained in the neighborhood by June 2012, down from five in 2008. The branches, a Popular and a Chase within 300 feet of each other on a busy street, are outnumbered by pawnshops, gold-buying stores, and check-cashing businesses. "There used to be a bank over there," says Amar Ndiaye, gesturing at a fast-food restaurant across the street from the table where he has sold electronics accessories for more than a decade. "We used to have more choices."
A dozen people stand in line wait-ing to use one of Chase's four ATMs as a No. 2 train screeches above on its elevated track. "People here are in a desperate situation," says Greg Jost, deputy director of the University Neighborhood Housing Program, a New York nonprofit group. "They're living paycheck to paycheck, and they're paying higher fees than people in Manhattan to make the same transactions." About eight miles south of the Bronx, the Manhattan neighborhood that includes Union Square has 34 banks, up from 26 in mid-2008.
In the past, banks were accused of "redlining"—refusing to do business with people in low-income neighborhoods. The banking withdrawal from such neighborhoods has occurred on the heels of a "reverse redlining" epidemic during the housing boom that saw lenders targeting minority residents with mortgages that carried ruinous credit terms. Banks acquired the loans from brokers, securitized the loans, and sold them to investors before the housing bubble burst. Major financial institutions settled federal complaints that their policies encouraged reverse redlining, paying more than $500 million in penalties.
The number of branches nationwide peaked at 99,540 in 2009, up 20 percent from 1998. Branches generally require $40 million of deposits to be profitable, according to estimates by Paul Miller, an analyst with investment bank FBR Capital Markets. Celent, a con-sulting firm, predicts that the number of branches could fall by as much as 40 percent within the next decade.
Officials at the biggest U.S. banks say income levels had nothing to do with the departures from less wealthy areas. "We've got a moral and regulatory obligation to be in those places and serve those customers," says Pablo Sanchez, JPMorgan Chase's national director of consumer banking. "We're not walking away from them."
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http://ietf.cse.ucsc.edu:8080/bugzilla/show_bug.cgi?id=65 Summary: Table of Contents missing Product: WebDAV-RFC 2518-bis Version: -06 Platform: Other URL: http://lists.w3.org/Archives/Public/w3c-dist- auth/2004JulSep/0156.html OS/Version: other Status: NEW Severity: trivial Priority: P2 Component: Other AssignedTo: firstname.lastname@example.com ReportedBy: firstname.lastname@example.com CC: email@example.com The TOC is gone. Please bring it back in the next draft. ------- You are receiving this mail because: ------- You are on the CC list for the bug, or are watching someone who is.Received on Saturday, 27 November 2004 14:35:35 UTC
This archive was generated by hypermail 2.3.1 : Wednesday, 7 January 2015 15:01:31 UTC


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Author has written 5 stories for Teen Titans, Legend of Zelda, and Avatar: Last Airbender.Hello! I havn't changed my profile since the last time I was on Fanfiction...when I was a Teen Titans FREAK. Oh dear...what to put now. How about, I don't lie about who I am? Sounds good.
-Name: Gill
Shippings I support:
Avatar: The Last Airbender
Teen Titans (despite the fact I no long watch the show)
Fruits Basket
Of course, that's not all I support...But I suppose that's all I can think of right now.
For every Woman, she Hates her own fangirl:
Future stories:
so yea...
Sunday 14, 2006: School starts tommrow, so expect slower updates.


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December 8th was the night of our second annual Christmas Curry where 35 socials gathered to drink Cobra and House Red, eat poppadoms and end the year with a hurrah! It was a fabulous if not raucous night.
Part of the tradition is to ask 5 people to talk in 5 minutes about something loosely related to innovation. And as ever the talks were brilliant and so you don't miss out - here is a quick precis...
Matt, founder of Congregation Partners, kicked off by talking about why he hates the title Innovation Director / Chief Innovation Officer. He is not against innovation per se - but rather creating a silo within organisations where only one person is responsible for innovation as opposed to the entire organisation. This is a debate that's been raging since the first Innovation Director title appeared - the fun was Matt was making the argument in front of several Innovation people. Never the less they gave Matt a big cheer - the Christmas Spirit was strong with Innovation Social that night.
Something that is very common to the Innovation Socials is their pursuit of new business ideas outside of the day to day. Last year Dan Thwaites spoke about his new gin start-up, Jam Jar Gin. This year Daniele spoke about his new venture - a designer ping pong brand called W+B. Daniele has long been passionate about Ping Pong - as well as being a mean player - and this sees the fruition of passion and business. Still in development keep a look out for it or contact Daniele directly for more information.
Jonathan Lindon, founder of Source, is another person with more than one string to his bow as he is in the process of setting up a rather different education business called Digital Futures. Described as an "educational movement seeking to harness the expertise of the industry to train and employ the young innovators, makers and doers of tomorrow." he is looking for experts to get involved to help close the digital skills gap. If you're interested you can get hold of Jonathan here.
Then it was my turn and I spoke about The Great British Diversity Experiment, something I've co-founded with Daniele, Alex Goat, Jonathan Akwue and Laura Jordan-Bambach. The communications industry is so deeply undiverse - just read The Drums diversity census for details, and The Experiment seeks to prove once and all that diversity works. The hope is that it will prove hard evidence to the industry giving it confidence to change hiring practices. The Experiment launches on 11th January at Google HQ - and if you want to get involved contact me here.
Last up was Jon Burkhart asking for support for his workshop premiering at SXSW called The Ballsy Brit's Guide To Better Brand Trolling. Jon as ever was brilliant at rallying the crowds, bringing tears to everyone's eyes and making the point that bad content (cuntent) is just not acceptable. If you're at SXSW do go watch.
Now I've purposefully not mentioned an earlier talk from Lorenzo Wood at DigitasLBi about an Innovation Workshop he held with a client recently. When asked what they thought the definition of Innovation was they paused...looked paniced...then said..."where's Dave? He knows.". Taking us full circle from Matt's talk - Innovation should never be a silo and the sole responsibility of one person. Because you never know when Dave might be on the loo.
A huge thank you to Jonathan Lindon and the Source team for sponsoring the Christmas Curry and Innovation Social through-out 2015 - you are AMAZING. Thanks for making 2015 such a great year for Innovation Social. And a big thank you to Will Harvey for the photos!


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Kasomel ™ 1112
Prayon S.A.
Kasomel™ 1112 is an alkaline correcting salt. It decreases the pH value of processed cheese by 1.2 to 1.3 when used at 3 % on the raw materials. It can be used with any other salt when a strong pH increase is required. Its ion exchange capacity is very weak; no visible creaming reaction occurs.
The Kasomel products are melting salts especially designed to act on dairy proteins. Their action on the protein is defined by the ion exchange capacity and the creaming capacity. The ion exchange induces the hardening of the melted cheese. A high ion exchange capacity is advised in case of block cheese production.
Prayon S.A. manufactures a wide range of phosphates for the Food, Beverage and Nutrition industry. Phosphates are essential for health and growth and are building blocks for DNA, teeth, bones, cells and the nervous system. Benefits include regulating the body's acidity, helping vitamin absorption and preventing fat deposits in arteries. Prayon also manufactures calcium, sodium and potassium salt.
Prayon S.A.
Prayon S.A.目前只在以下作出标识的区域展示其产品资料:
类别产品类型 Categories
- Additives ~ Thickeners ~ Phosphate
- Additives ~ Raising Agents ~ Phosphate
- Additives ~ Emulsifying Salts ~ Phosphate
- Additives ~ Anti-caking Agents ~ Phosphate
- Additives ~ Acidity Regulators ~ Phosphate


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(Mostly) Aunt Aggie's Christmas Pudding
If you like it, save it!
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Author Notes: As told to Alice Medrich by Frances Bendixson. —Alice Medrich
Makes 1 pudding, serves 8 to 10
For the pudding:
- 45 grams (generous 1/4 cup) all-purpose flour
- 1/8 teaspoon freshly grated or ground nutmeg
- 1/8 teaspoon ground ginger
- 1/8 teaspoon mixed spice (in Britain), or an extra pinch of nutmeg and ginger and a pinch each of cardamom and mace
- 1 small lemon
- 1/4 teaspoon salt (generous)
- 115 grams fresh breadcrumbs
- 115 grams grated or ground suet [Editors' Note: We used butter]
- 140 grams chopped tart apples (I like Pippins and I don't remove the skins, but you can)
- 30 grams golden raisins
- 90 grams chopped almonds
- 60 grams candied citrus peel
- 60 grams pitted prunes
- 115 grams raisins
- 115 grams moist brown sugar
- 2 large eggs
- 3 tablespoons brandy, plus more for flaming
- 1/4 cup stout (I use Guinness)
- Hard sauce, for serving (see recipe below)
- Butter the pudding basin liberally and press a round of parchment or wax paper into the bottom and slightly up the sides of the bowl/basin.
- Mix the flour, nutmeg, ginger, mixed spice, and salt in a large mixing bowl. Grate the zest of the lemon directly into the bowl to capture the spray of lemon oil along with the zest. Add breadcrumbs, suet, apples, raisins, almonds, candied peel, prunes, currants, raisins, and brown sugar. Mix thoroughly with you hands. Either cover the bowl and let the mixture rest overnight, or just carry on with the recipe now…
- Cut and squeeze the juice of half of the lemon in a medium bowl. Whisk in the eggs, brandy, and stout.
- Scrape the egg mixture over the dry ingredients and mix thoroughly to make a sticky lumpy batter.
- Turn the batter into the prepared basin/bowl and pat it level. Place a round of parchment or wax paper on top of the batter. Cover the bowl with a large cloth napkin or square of foil. Let the napkin drape over the sides of the bowl; for foil, press down the sides to cover the rim with plenty of margin. Tie a piece of string under the rim of the bowl to hold the napkin or foil in place. If you have used a napkin, tie the ends as follows to make a handle: Bring two opposite corners to meet on top of the bowl and tie them together, repeat with the two remaining corners.
- Set the bowl in a large pot and fill it with water about halfway up the sides of the bowl. Cover and steam 4 to 5 hours (or for 8 if you want to reduce final steaming time to 1 hour). Let cool and store in a cold place (a larder in England, or a fridge in California). Steam for another 4 to 5 hours before serving (or for 1 hour if you have already logged 8 hours). Serve hot.
- To serve, unmold the pudding onto a warmed serving platter. Peel and discard the paper liner. Ask someone to kill the lights in the dining room while you warm 2 to 3 tablespoons of brandy in a small saucepan. Set the brandy on fire with a match and pour it over the pudding before entering the dining room.
For the hard sauce/brandy butter:
- 115 grams (8 tablespoons) unsalted butter, slightly softened
- 115 grams confectioners' sugar
- 3 tablespoons brandy
- Beat the butter and confectioners' sugar together until blended. Beat the brandy in gradually. If the mixture curdles, beat in a bit more confectioners' sugar or 1 or 2 tablespoons of boiling water. Refrigerate until serving.
- This recipe is a Community Pick!
More Great Recipes:
Topics: Baking, Christmas, Dessert, Holiday Entertaining


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Swansea City Reserves Lose 3-0
Swansea City Reserves lost 3-0 against Southampton in last night's totesport.com Combination match.
Marek Saganowski, who was strongly linked with a Summer move to the Swans in the Summer netted a brace and Matthew Paterson also got on the scoresheet.
Reserves boss Colin Pascoe named a strong line-up for the match, fielding a number of senior players including Marcos Painter, Guillem Bauza, Besian Idrizaj and Stephen Dobbie but there were unable to get through the Saints.
David Cornell; Jazz Richards, Daniel Sheehan, Radanfah Abu Bakr, Marcos Painter, Matty Collins, Scott Evans (Casey Thomas, 73'), Chad Bond, Stephen Dobbie, Guillem Bauza, Besian Idrizaj (Lee Lucas, 73').
Not Used: Daniel Alfei, Adam Orme.


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Pros: interesting case
Cons: somewhat clunky exposition
The Collaborator is not as luminously written or entrancingly constructed as Alice Kaplan's previous book, French Lessons. But few books are! That book used up her best materials on studying French fascism, learning and teaching French, growing up in Minnesota and France, and attending Yale. The Collaborator is about a trial rather than being about the author's development. A finalist in the biography category of both the National Book Awards and the Pulitzer Prizes for 2000, The Collaborator is a study with almost as many weaknesses as strengths.
Kaplan is not absent from this book about the trial of Robert Brasillach, an extreme right-wing journalist who admired the Nazi conquerors, wrote fawning praise of them, called for the execution of the French leaders of the prewar Third Republic, and called attention to enemies of the Reich in print. He was an extremely vitriolic literary critic before the war and also wrote childish soft-focus fiction. After a one-day trial in January of 1945, (i.e., before the German surrender) Brasillach was executed -- the only writer of any importance executed by de Gaulle's (unelected) government. He was not tried for complicity with genocide, but for the capital offense of undertaking "intelligence with a foreign power or its agents with a view towards favoring the enterprises of this power against France" in wartime. This offense is less than crystal-clear, and whether France was at war after its surrender to Germany in 1940 is a particularly vexing legal question. Kaplan does not have anything as straightforward as a simple murder trial to explain!
The Collaborator sometimes seems rambling, and its succession of capsule biographies is positively clunky. Moreover, there are some repetitions from earlier chapters in the long central chapter on the actual trial. (Did the author expect readers to skip the earlier character-establishing chapters?)
The book also shows that is not true that one can find out anything with research (as she claimed n the book's dedication page). For instance, Kaplan did not find out the jury vote or whether the prosecutor held the defense attorney's speech against him. Too, she seems oddly reticent to press what seems the most compelling reason to execute Brasillach: the precedent of his own arguments for executing the leaders of the Third Republic. She notes that evidence of his complicity in genocide was not presented by the prosecution, but it also seems there was no proof that those he denounced (in print) were rounded up by the Nazis. In finding him guilty of the ambiguous charge, there was a rush to judgmenteven though the judgment was probably right.
Kaplan is careful to distinguish the widespread perception that Brasillach was homosexual from any direct evidence that he was (or that the judge, a "lifelong bachelor" with a longer life, was). No male sexual partners have been revealed, and from the extensive writings Brasillach left behind and the pallidness of personal experience portrayed in his fiction, one can easily believe that he had no sex life of any sort. However, the assumption of Brasillach's homosexuality and a very prejudicial link between homosexuality and worshipping fascist domination was used by the prosecutor.There was a rush to judgment and from there to quick execution.
Kaplan's forthright criticisms of Brasillach's novels -- for their sentimentality and the remoteness of their narrators from human (especially sexual) experience -- show that she is not a postmodernist unwilling to make judgments of literary worth. She carefully explains why Albert Camus and other Resistance writers sought clemency for Brasillach, including praise of his writing with which she obviously does not concur.
I am surprised that a Duke literature professor does not discuss "performative" speech (à la John Austin, not Judith Butler) in regard to wartime denunciations. I'm equally disappointed that she does not comment at all on the treatment of the World War II treasons of indisputably major writers, such as Ezra Pound in the US, or the collaboration of Nobel Prize-winner Knut Hamsum in Norway (another occupied country). At least she does render her own final judgment on Brasillach's case, however, and that's something. Although the book doesn't entirely gell, it includes many interesting analyses and a clear narrative of a very slippery case in a place where writers are taken more seriously than they are in the US.
© 2005, Stephen O. Murray