The morning after
the day after
the day after
the night before Xmas
The killer awoke
put his boots on
and he walked on down the Hall
and he came 2a door
looked inside
and spake thus:
doc
ima gunna STONE YOU
--- I dream of making pesto with acorns by, uh... NUN E. MUSS
The Alchemist, Geoff, was in a purple haze.
"Thus spake the Prophet," Maryam to the gathered children, dryad youth assembled under bearing branches of Her Sacred Oak in the Grove of Plenty. Rapt faces receive the light of wisdom, Herstory of Herwakening, arising on the wings of Phoenix from the ashes, Petroleum Aged.
Awakening to the Return of the Mother.
God is Love.
Mother love.
Goddess is the Mother.
Amen.
Woman, you are Noise
in my life.
When She created the world,
the Earth so perfectly formed,
did she rejoice? No.
It was not good.
Some thing was missing.
St. Thomas tells the tale:
Long She considered
what the element could be
which rendered this perfect picture of creation
sterile.
Void
and without form.
Then Her other half,
the Trickster,
with Coyote cunning spoke.
Spake he thus: "Add noise."
And it was good. It was. Glorious!
I returned to the smell
of incense in the air
Her favorite from monks
in Italy
Did you throw incense in my fire,
I asked,
perturbed and wondering its effect
on the Seed to be roasted.
No, She said and I saw
by the bed
the small censer
with their offering
So I returned
to the fields
gathered murta and louro
and two times seven Seed
sprouted and not
And took in my hands
the iron submitted to Her Will
Opened and placed the offering
of myrtle
laurel
and acorns within,
covered,
and placed on the ashes
of Her desire.
And in the fullness of Time,
O Patience! of Time,
they opened, the Fruits offered,
spreading wide their riven shells
to expose
the naked essence,
perfumed in Glory.
He left his car in Ardrossan and took the ferry, crossed over.
Climbing slowly, stopping to enjoy the pleasant day, take
photos with his Master’s eye. He listened to the bird song, smiling as he imagined
their innocence, their free flight in the groves, their beauty, and the crunch of
their little bones between his teeth.
The trail was quiet as he climbed, the day reserved for him,
the Quiet One, to observe and measure, as was the Talent granted by his Master.
That One waited as he climbed, pleased with the work in progress, with himself,
looking forward to the festival afterward. So pleased indeed that he did not
note at first, nor care when he did, the fog that rose with his ascent. It came
slowly, inexorably, surrounding and caressing him, the faithful one, with the
tenderness of a gourmand.
The Quiet One stopped, puzzled, a sound? A chuckle?
The mist cleared beneath him on the trail, and he turned,
saw, the master, his Master, standing, a smile on his red, bloody lips.
Master, he said with some alarm, You startled me.
Were you behind me?
I am with you always, the apparition replied. Well
done, my good and faithful servant, he spoke with a warmth that penetrated
the chill of the morning fog.
The Quiet One felt it then. The ground beneath his feet.
Opened. And he fell.
Contract fulfilled, the Assistant smiled.
The names of good people have been changed to protect their privacy. For some bad ones, I've changed the names when I am no longer as angry with them as I once was, or if I do not wish to embarrass them or those close to them or descended from them. Or, if I think that some fool might try to sue me, maim me, or even kill me!
I'm a writer, not a Warrior, for all my dabbling in the Arts.
Sometimes, the names of Evil remain unchanged, as I have no fear to speak ill of the dead, especially if they are well buried. Or of some living, who hide in the shadows still and are dead to me. The dead cannot sue, they can but haunt me in my dreams, and the worst of them do that already. May I haunt them back.
Madness! the Assistant shouted, slamming his fist on the desk. The Editor looked up, blinking. I warned you, he continued, the man cannot write a cookbook to save his life! He is utterly insane! And slapped a printout down before Him. Cancel his Contract!
A pause.
Not yet, the Editor replied softly.
The names of good people have been changed to protect their privacy. For some bad ones, I've changed the names when I am no longer as angry with them as I once was, or if I do not wish to embarrass them or those close to them or descended from them. Or, if I think that some fool might try to sue me, maim me, or even kill me!
I'm a writer, not a Warrior, for all my dabbling in the Arts.
Sometimes, the names of Evil remain unchanged, as I have no fear to speak ill of the dead, especially if they are well buried. Or of some living, who hide in the shadows still and are dead to me. The dead cannot sue, they can but haunt me in my dreams, and the worst of them do that already. May I haunt them back.
He woke, not at first light or before as had been the custom of weeks, but after mid morning, the light of day blocked by curtains heavy and hanging. Reached to the bench, gathered things, unsure by feel of what they were with his fingers now numbing again, apart from the warmth of Her Fire. Passed through the door, to the kitchen, took the loaf of Seed and cut, twice, looked for the butter. And found naught.
So he anointed with oil, placed the slices both, face to face, raising the couple with his two hands high, above his head and invoked
Of this, Her body, i do gratefully partake.
Then he walked farther, out the door, into the fog filtered morning, through the fields, down the path worn by Others, foxes and boars and goats, and to the waters, Her holy Waters, and across, to Her Grove, where She lay in repose, the incarnation Quercus.
All very nice, but... this shit has to stop.
Where's the fucking recipe??? --->
The names of good people have been changed to protect their privacy. For some bad ones, I've changed the names when I am no longer as angry with them as I once was, or if I do not wish to embarrass them or those close to them or descended from them. Or, if I think that some fool might try to sue me, maim me, or even kill me!
I'm a writer, not a Warrior, for all my dabbling in the Arts.
Sometimes, the names of Evil remain unchanged, as I have no fear to speak ill of the dead, especially if they are well buried. Or of some living, who hide in the shadows still and are dead to me. The dead cannot sue, they can but haunt me in my dreams, and the worst of them do that already. May I haunt them back.
Give to him that asketh thee, and from him that would borrow of thee turn not thou away.
– Matthew 5:42 (KJV)
She entered Senhor João’s garden and dropped the bucket full
of acorns on the ground behind him, causing him to jump at the unexpected
noise. He turned and said boa tarde, good afternoon.
“Will you teach me to make acorn bread?” she asked eagerly.
“No!” he replied sharply.
Shock. But… why? “Please!” she pleased, eyes filling wet.
He looked long at her, and it came, the rain, let it fall as
it did from her and on her, on him, as it falls on us all. He saw the gentle
rain, washing him, stripping slowly the mask of his reluctance, leaving the
naked skin of his nakedly apprehensive face.
Well… I don’t know, he came again, the waters washing him
with pure intent. I’m not supposed to.
What? said she, surprised. But you said, you told me, all
the things, delicious to make from these…
… seeds of life he whispered quietly…
and you refuse but why not fair the cupboards bare and my
mother oh so fears
… as do we all in these times, softly…
won’t you show me the way, I need the truth, light the fire
and let us bake the bread and break the bread, oh please old father my father
she screamed in flash and bang and blood in the night and flight so far away
away away in a land far far from home
… and the rain fell, down on him, a torrent, crushing and
carrying him in the flood across the dry lands of death, the waters deep in
death the depth of suffering and silence of lambs where there should be
laughter, be play in the free meadows of light…
and says who forbids your mother that’s rich the cakes the
cookies the braided breads of holidays high on the altar of Light now dark and
fading, despairing
… he watched her silently.
After a while, she sneezed. Not a pleasant thing in a mask,
really. Softly, sobbing: “I’m sorry. I thought… well… my mother has no work,
and…”
… still he said nothing. She picked up her bucket to leave.
As she turned, he said, “Wait. There’s a way.”
What? a little spark, hope, struck her heart and rose,
singing her throat a little as she struggled to form the words in her still
rudimentary Portuguese. Como?
“Well,” he said quietly. “I could induct you into the
guild.”
Guild? What’s that?
It can be a lot of things, he told her, depending on the
context. In my garden, it is a community of complementary plants around a
principal tree. That’s part of permaculture’s teaching. But in this case, the
society.
Society? Of what? her small voice a puzzle of crystalline
fracture.
The secret society. Of alchemists.
An interlude, the author wakes after a night of trampling mares
and a dawn, gentle and loving --->
The names of good people have been changed to protect their privacy. For some bad ones, I've changed the names when I am no longer as angry with them as I once was, or if I do not wish to embarrass them or those close to them or descended from them. Or, if I think that some fool might try to sue me, maim me, or even kill me!
I'm a writer, not a Warrior, for all my dabbling in the Arts.
Sometimes, the names of Evil remain unchanged, as I have no fear to speak ill of the dead, especially if they are well buried. Or of some living, who hide in the shadows still and are dead to me. The dead cannot sue, they can but haunt me in my dreams, and the worst of them do that already. May I haunt them back.
How can the world put its arms all around me? I feel lost in the city.
- – Yes, Heart of the Sunrise
Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye have done it unto one
of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.
- – Matthew 25:45 (KJV)
The old neighbor cleared his throat, and began, in his
English patched with Portuguese and sometimes French words, to tell her a story
from behind the mask covering his face. Maryam, also masked, sat respectfully,
a few meters away in his garden, listening. It was early December, the time when
the churches, closed now to protect the public health, told the stories of that
birth long ago and all that followed. The old man spoke of the flight of Joseph
and Mary to Egypt, to escape the murderous intentions of a mad king.
She could relate to that story. It had been quiet in their village until that night. Then the knocking, more persistent, the crash of a broken door, raised voices, and shots. Her father and brothers still, a red stain spreading beneath them in the quiet restored.
They left that night. Boats and borders a blur, fear and
hunger gnawing at her gut as they crossed dark waters into the unknown. At
last, though, some normalcy, a place of refuge and humble, much needed work for
her mother, gratefully cleaning the houses of their merciful hosts. Until the
sickness.
The people were afraid. Soon, her mother was at home, without
work, as people feared carried contagion among them. School, too, was different
now: no games at recess in the yard, no whispered secrets with friends behind
the gymnasium. Before the pandemic, she had begged for more screen time. Now,
all she wanted was the open sky and grass beneath her feet.
Her mother, pleading, on the phone in her broken Portuguese,
begging help, so little left until the end of the month, a Christmas perhaps
without even pão on the table. No bread? Was it really that bad?
She remembered the old man telling other stories, of a life
in poverty, daily wages of a loaf of bread or half a sausage. So it’s come to
that now, thought Maryam, except there are no wages now, just the kindness of
strangers with little to share themselves, and some small relief from their
host government.
She remembered hearing how he got his first shoes at the age
of 12, and how in some hard times before that they had survived in his
fatherless house, by eating acorns stolen from the fields. Stolen by children,
because the lords of the herdades would shoot trespassing adults. A
beating was a small price to pay for survival.
Acorns?! What about them? she thought. Ah, but the
big trees were far out in the countryside, too far for her without
transportation. But… hadn’t she seen something like that in the bushes behind
the school?
That night, when she asked her mother for another portion of
noodles, there was quiet, and in a small, choked voice: there are no more. So
it was.
Early the next morning, she woke first, dressed quickly and
then walked the half kilometer to the slope behind the shuttered school. It
would be another two hours before her class was to meet online in the dreaded Zoom
chatroom.
There they were: small points of brown in the bushes. These
looked nothing like the great cork oaks which had fed the old man as a hungry
young boy. But the leaves, a bit like others she had seen on some big trees,
but different. She gathered pockets full quickly, scratching her hands
and arms on the prickly leaves, then hurried back home. She was wondering what the
acorns would be like, surely substantial and delicious to have saved so many
hungry children long ago. The anticipation was too much: she had to know.
Stopping, she scanned the ground and found some rocks, took one in her hand and
placed an acorn on another and smashed. The creamy whitish meat of the
acorn was revealed in a mess of broken shell; she picked out a fat bit, stuck
it in her mouth and chewed. Mmmmm. Not bad, kind of nutty, like hazelnuts maybe
or cashews, but different.
Then the bitterness came, turning that initial pleasant
taste to an astringent awfulness quickly spat onto the ground. Bah!
As she approached her home, she saw the old man in his
garden, burning some trash and old sticks. She approached him and said, bom
dia.
Bom dia, Maryam, como estas? he replied.
Not so good, she said, my mouth feels nasty. I don’t see how
you could live on acorns!
You ate some? he asked.
Just one. That was enough. It’s so awful and bitter!
The old man began to laugh. You didn’t cook it, I assume.
You have to do that for some of them. It depends on the kind you have.
She reached into her pocket, grabbed a few and held them out
to the man. These! Yuck!
Again, a chuckle. Quercus coccifera, Kermes oak, he
said. He had been a teacher and knew a lot of strange words. You’re right, they
are bitter. But better if you cook them, or soak them for a while in water to
take out the tannins.
What are tannins?
The things that make the acorns bitter. Other fruits have
them too. Like persimmons.
Well how do I get rid of them?
There are a couple of ways, the old man said slowly, looking
around the garden. He spied an old can, walked over and picked it up, then
returned to Maryam and held out his hand. She gave him the acorns, which he
dropped into the can and placed it onto the coals of the fire in the garden.
Heat can destroy the tannins, he said. But sometimes that’s
not enough. Sometimes you have to soak them in water after you roast them.
For how long, she asked.
It depends. Maybe just an hour. Maybe a day. Maybe a week or
longer. Every tree is a little different from others like it, and the
environment of the tree can affect the taste and the bitterness a lot.
Her eyes strayed to the can on the coals. She could see that
some of the acorn shells had split, revealing the insides, without the need to
smash them. Wow, that’s easy, she thought.
Can I try them now? she asked.
Well, said the man, taking the hot can carefully at the upper
rim and dumping its contents on the wet garden grass, give them a minute to
cool, then go ahead.
The long minute passed, and she reached out, took a split
acorn in her fingers and pulled at the edges of the split a little. A golden
nut dropped out, giving off an interesting, caramely odor. Smells good, she
thought. Popped it in her mouth and chewed. The same interesting taste she had
at first before was there, but richer, and it was a bit like the filling of a
special chocolate bar her mother bought for her at times. She chewed,
swallowed, took another, then another and ate them all. Then she realized: no
bitterness.
She reached into her pocket, grabbed another handful, threw
it in the can, which she put back on the coals. Just wait.
The old man told her many different things that could be
made from acorns: bread, paterniscas, meatballs without meat, more. But
people have forgotten these things, he said quietly. They say acorns are food
for pigs. Do I look like a pig?
She laughed, bade him adieu, and as she walked through the door of her house
to share the breakfast bounty with her mother, visions of… so many delicious
things danced in her head, visions of that Christmas table, full of unexpected
blessings.
Maryam is ready now to bake the bread. Will you join her? --->
The names of good people have been changed to protect their privacy. For some bad ones, I've changed the names when I am no longer as angry with them as I once was, or if I do not wish to embarrass them or those close to them or descended from them. Or, if I think that some fool might try to sue me, maim me, or even kill me!
I'm a writer, not a Warrior, for all my dabbling in the Arts.
Sometimes, the names of Evil remain unchanged, as I have no fear to speak ill of the dead, especially if they are well buried. Or of some living, who hide in the shadows still and are dead to me. The dead cannot sue, they can but haunt me in my dreams, and the worst of them do that already. May I haunt them back.
In a recent Facebook post asking about tips for achieving more self-sufficiency, I responded that my recent return to an interest in acorns had led to discoveries which theoretically make us 100% self-sufficient for food if we care to be. Then I was asked
For the roasting method, that 1a2 step is very important! Acorns with a lot of moisture inside can burst explosively if there is nothing - like a cut in the nut - to allow steam to escape. And the uncut ones that don't burst often have their texture and taste ruined by excessive steaming inside the intact shell. With a cut, the shells will split wider and dry, so that acorn meats often simply fall out intact."Our acorns are quite low in tannins as I mentioned, so depending on what you're working with changes may be needed. I am having trouble sourcing bitter acorns here, so there it's more theory than verified practice.
"Completely forget all those stupid hot water (boiling methods). Forget the streams and toilet tank BS for the cold extraction methods.
"1. Shell acorns. The fastest method for this is roasting, but if you want to avoid that
"(a1) dry for a while or in a desiccator and
"(b1) Cut lengthwise (wear butcher's gloves and use a narrow, long knife, employing the tip end as a fulcrum) and pry out the nut - a grapefruit spoon is the best aid I've found for difficult cases, and its serrations can be useful for scraping off bad bits
"OR, for roasting
"(a2) cut a lengthwise slit in the acorns, drop into water to soak for some hours (I sometimes use a modified olive slitting tube with two cutting vanes removed) and
"(b2) roast in a cast-iron pan over a campfire or in a fireplace for that nice smoked tang or roast for maybe 15-30 minutes in the oven at 230 degrees C or so; the roast is done when the slits open wide, some so much so that the nuts just fall out. Don't worry if the acorns become very dark, even black - they are carmelized, not burned usually - yum!
"2. Then taste the acorns, and if bitter, drop into water in a 1 gallon plastic water bottle or other container; soak and change water every half day or day, tasting each time until you feel that the debittering is completed to your satisfaction.
"3. Take the nuts, dry them briefly and grind them in blender, using a sieve/screen to sift the fine flour from the grits, the latter being a good form to roast as an ersatz coffee. Use fresh/moist within a week or so, dry it for longer storage at ambient temperature or freeze it for use months or years later (depending on your freezer conditions)...."
"... woke at 5 am, put on my robe and gathered acorns from the terrace as it rained, and as I washed and slit the fresh nuts to prepare for roasting in the fireplace, to open them up, make them easy to shell and convert to acorn flour, the main part of our breads and other dishes for a few weeks now, I found myself singing "Imagine" quietly as I pictured industrialized monoculture fields of wheat gone from our landscapes, replaced by groves of oaks in guild permacultures, once again giving renewable wood for fuel, crafts and construction, cork bark to keep us warm in insulated walls and to hold our fruit harvest wines in their flasks, and producing their regular crops of acorn grains above, squashes and hops (for acorn beer) climbing those trees and the understories of lesser trees, fruit bushes, herbs and fiber plants spread below and between them, asparagus close in and peeking through shrub twigs, truffles below the earth, and the sounds of a thousand birds at every level of branches and across the ground. Imagine that. It's easy if you try."
