CWS4322
Chef Extraordinaire
That's what I thought but didn't go out and check. You gotta admit, most DCers wouldn't know that
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DC's own coffee klatch
- Thread starter vitauta
- Start date
The friendliest place on the web for anyone that enjoys cooking.
If you have answers, please help by responding to the unanswered posts.
If you have answers, please help by responding to the unanswered posts.
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They are definitely House Elves, I got them from Diagon Alley, across from Gringott's. Met them in a pub there and they offered their services.
Yeah, that's true. I had to check because Swedish makes its plurals slightly differently than Danish does. I was also checking on the plural of Smörgåsbord, 'cause BT asked.That's what I thought but didn't go out and check. You gotta admit, most DCers wouldn't know that
vitauta
Executive Chef
vitauta
Executive Chef
okay, coffeemates, work with me here for a minute? a few easy steps, and you will be rewarded with this special recipe for a crumpets and chorizo-maple syrup breakfast.
all you need to do is go to the search window at tasting table, enter 'crumpets'. then, click onto 'crumpets, not just for tea'. then, scroll down the page to find these two mouth-watering recipes. let's do it, who's with me?
*instructions for using link in post #564 above.
all you need to do is go to the search window at tasting table, enter 'crumpets'. then, click onto 'crumpets, not just for tea'. then, scroll down the page to find these two mouth-watering recipes. let's do it, who's with me?
*instructions for using link in post #564 above.
I don't want maple syrup with anything that has meat.
vitauta
Executive Chef
aww really, taxy? why not? well, what about the bacon marmalade, then? i just love the interplay of the maply sweetness with the salty-spicy savoriness of the browned sausage. (or smoky bacon mixing it up with the sweet marmalade). yum...
you could still try your hand with the crumpets....
you could still try your hand with the crumpets....
I'll make sausagey crumpets, but have them with butter. But, right now The Voice is on...
vitauta
Executive Chef
i know, i KNOW!
the voice was crazy good right out of the gate this season! love the affectionate bickering between shakira and adam, the good-natured competitiveness of the panel members. got me a couple of favorites already. i like michelle, doing 'i kissed a girl' and the older chick, tonight, with the raspy voice? man, the talent carson daly is bringing in to this show, ZOMG!
I don't really have time to be making crumpets now. I'm up to my eyeballs in tax returns and it's going slow on account of visual migraines and headaches.aww really, taxy? why not? well, what about the bacon marmalade, then? i just love the interplay of the maply sweetness with the salty-spicy savoriness of the browned sausage. (or smoky bacon mixing it up with the sweet marmalade). yum...
you could still try your hand with the crumpets....
No bacon marmalade, nope. No glaze on my ham. I tried some chocolate chip cookies with bacon at a party. Nope, in my opinion it was a waste of bacon and a waste of otherwise good cookies.
I have to admit, I like Shakira a lot more than I like Christina...Shakira is real and isn't pulling that Diva crud.
Sasha just kicked butt!!! I still have goosebumps.
vitauta
Executive Chef
oh taxy, i'm so sorry you are suffering with migraines, and right at your busiest tax time, too!
maybe when taxes are all done, you can take some time for yourself, a much-deserved vacay....(hugs)
Addie
Chef Extraordinaire
Next Monday is the dreaded Tax Deadline for the rest of the country. But here is Massachusetts we get one more day. For us Monday the 15th is Patriot's Day. A legal holiday. The day of the Boston Marathon, the reenactment of "the ride". You all remember that day.
Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,–
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm.”
Then he said “Good-night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,–
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,–
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,—
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
I want you to know that this was mandatory reading all through Middle School. Some teachers had the students memorize the whole dang thing. And all the goody two shoes did. I only memorized the first twelve or so lines.
Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,–
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm.”
Then he said “Good-night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,–
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,–
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,—
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,—
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
I want you to know that this was mandatory reading all through Middle School. Some teachers had the students memorize the whole dang thing. And all the goody two shoes did. I only memorized the first twelve or so lines.
vitauta
Executive Chef
pf, that girl's voice grabbed me in such a way that i actually got goosebumps for a sudden minute this MORNING at the very MEMORY of her voice from last night's performance! sasha, she's got the power....
adam gets most of the best talent on his team (except for country) 'cause he is so articulate, and has a good pitch.
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Anytime an artist raises goosebumps I know I must be loving it at some level. So that is how my choices go.
vitauta
Executive Chef
BLIND AUDITIONS one more time, on the Voice at this very moment! shakira and usher, the new kids on the judging/coaching block, have already brought ratings up for the show. 4% higher than last year's finale brought! you gotta love 'em, and all the enthusiasm they bring!
c'mon, have a cuppa, and watch the Voice with us, won't you? c'mon, taxy, enough with the income tax work for today!
c'mon, have a cuppa, and watch the Voice with us, won't you? c'mon, taxy, enough with the income tax work for today!
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I still have 35 minutes...waiting is...
vitauta
Executive Chef
oops,that's right, pf, but soon, then.
i keep catching myself Smiling watching this show--what fun--great voices, great vibes, great times....
taxlady, I'm with you on the sweet/savory mix. I don't understand mixing bacon in with chocolate. Ruins both IMO. I'm not a fan of sweet glazes on meat, nor do I like fruit with meat. No apples with pork, no pineapple on ham, no cranberry with turkey. I know, I'm a heathen. Sorry.
I haven't been watching the voice, but I'll hang out with you tonight. I'm going to veg on the couch alllllll night.
@Addie, I'm glad Paul Revere was American. I'd have been POed at having to memorize all that.
I haven't been watching the voice, but I'll hang out with you tonight. I'm going to veg on the couch alllllll night.
@Addie, I'm glad Paul Revere was American. I'd have been POed at having to memorize all that.
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