Book View Cafe is a consortium of writers, as I've mentioned before. The last four months, several people have worked really hard on completely redesigning the book store from scratch. This is what companies pay big bucks for, but since none of us have big bucks, it's all volunteer labor.

If you have the time, we'd appreciate it if you would try this link and poke around. There is a place for comments, if something is buggy, confusing, you think something would be better.

If you choose to buy a book, great! Let us know how that goes, but just poking around is a big help. Here is the comments link where the designers will actually see them. (I don't think any of them read my blog, so I am going to try to close comments here.)

Thanks!

kith_koby sent me this link. As you're watching, see the effect of personal history on the map, and other elements. At least I found it mesmerizing.

I just had one of those labor-saving strokes of genius that I need to share with the world. Which is to say, the easiest method ever in the history of popovers.

Here is my basic popover recipe:

2 tablespoons solid fat (butter or animal fat (duck fat, mmm) or solid shortening)
3 large eggs, at room temperature
1 cup (250 ml) whole milk, at room temperature
1 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 teaspoons sugar
1 cup (140 g) all purpose or white whole wheat flour
1 tablespoon vital wheat gluten

This tactic assumes you own a wand blender and a wide-mouthed quart Mason jar and a microwave. If not, just make the popovers the way you normally would--or if you are missing the wand blender but have a normal blender, you can melt the butter in a different container and use the normal blender.

About an hour or two before dinner, take your Mason jar. Put the butter/whatever in it. Put it in the microwave and melt it. (If you are making Yorkshire pud and are waiting for the roast to be finished before you add the fat, skip this step for now, and stir the fat in before you bake the popovers.)

Add the milk, eggs, salt, and sugar to the butter in the Mason jar (or blender)(or just put them in the blender if you are adding the fat later). Do not put the eggs directly into the hot butter before diluting it with the milk. Otherwise you will have scrambled eggs, which are nice, but not popovers.

Whiz them all up with the wand blender.

Add the flour and the wheat gluten.

Whiz that too, until you have a nice smooth batter.

Let the batter sit on the counter until dinner is nearly ready. If you are roasting something at 400 degrees, you're good; otherwise preheat your oven to 400 (F). (200 C) 

Liberally grease 9 cups of a 12-cup muffin tin, or if you are making Yorkshire pud, drizzle a little of the fat from the roast into the bottom of the cups. If you have one of the giant-sized six muffin muffin tins, then you will have bigger popovers and they need to bake a little longer.

Using silicon cups for this results in popovers without stumps or a lot of loft, as they just levitate themselves out of the super-slick cups entirely. They still taste good!

If you are using fat from the roast you're making, add it now and stir it in.

Divide the popover batter between the nine greased cups. You can just pour it from the blender or the Mason Jar.

Stick in oven. Do not peek! If you open the door before they are set, they won't rise properly.

Bake for 35 minutes or until deep mahogany brown.

Pull pan from oven. Tilt popovers in cups, or remove them to a rack or basket. Pierce each one with a bamboo skewer. (careful of the steam!) The purpose of these two procedures is to (a) prevent them from getting soggy and (b) prevent them from collapsing.

Eat.

However you meant to eat them. Do not plan on leftovers.

Wash your one. dirty. dish. Oh, and the wand blender, sure. And the muffin tin. But that was inevitable.

---

ETA: Nota Bene

For even more loft in your popovers, preheat the muffin tin with the grease in it in the 400-degree oven for a few minutes before pouring the batter in. This is a bit tricky, though, and can be skipped.

invaderxan offers a beautiful artist's impression of sunset on Venus. With bonus rising evening star--Earth and its Moon, in this case.

http://nielsenhayden.com/makinglight/archives/013915.html

Earlier this month Doyle and I found ourselves in mid-state New Hampshire quite early in the day. We had a few hours before we were to arrive at where we wanted to be next, so the thought came to us, "Why not visit Joseph Smith's birthplace?"

Yes, we get thoughts like that more often than we'd like to admit.

So, from Lebanon, New Hampshire, where we happened to be, we went cruising up I-89 (Vietnam Veteran's Memorial Highway), to Exit 2 in Vermont, for Joseph Smith was a Vermonter. At Exit 2 we headed south on VT-132 to its end (not terribly far away) in the town of Sharon, an entirely quaintly picturesque New England town (as almost anywhere more than 500 yards off the highway tends to be in these parts). At the end of the road we turned west, cruising along VT-14 along the banks of the White River (best known, perhaps, from a town a bit farther downstream called White River Junction, where the White River and the Connecticut River meet; a town that once boasted seven rail lines and four depots). So we passed from Sharon into Royalton, Vermont, still along the banks of the White River.

This is farming and dairy country. Spring plowing (and fertilizing) was underway. Farther on we came to the junction of VT-14 and Dairy Hill Road (by no means a misnomer -- the road had a section of 12% grade, and dairies lined the road on both sides). There, at the junction, we spotted a sign:

JOSEPH SMITH MONUMENT
Mormon Prophet's Birthplace. Joseph Smith, founder of the Church of Jesus Christ of Lattter-day Saints, was born near here on December 2, 1805. A visitor's center and a 38½ foot tall monument, considered the world's largest polished granite shaft, commemorates his life and is located at the birthplace 2½ miles up Dairy Hill Road. The site is open year round.

Sounded like the right place, and who doesn't want to see the world's largest polished granite shaft? We went up (and up, and up, and up) the road.

Sure enough, a couple of miles farther on, off to the right we spotted LDS Lane. That was it, all right.

LDS Lane went back quite a way from Dairy Hill Road. Past a Mormon church. Past a small graveyard. Past a field. Past the bus parking. Past yet another welcome sign. Then, suddenly, without warning, there it was on the left: The tallest polished granite shaft in the world.

They don't make 'em like that any more.

It was still pretty early; we were the only ones there. Up at the monument itself, starting on the south face, the inscription reads:

Sacred to the memory of Joseph Smith, the prophet. Born here 23d. December 1805, martyred, Carthage, Illinois, 27th. June 1844.

On the north face, the inscription reads:

TESTIMONY OF JOSEPH SMITH.
In the spring of the year of our Lord 1820, the Father and the Son appeared to him in a glorious vision, called him by name and instructed him.
Thereafter heavenly angels visited him and revealed the principles of the Gospel, restored the authority of the holy priesthood and the organization of the Church of Jesus Christ in its fullness and perfection.
The engraved plates of the Book of Mormon were given him by the angel Moroni. These he translated by the gift and power of God.
He organized the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints on the sixth day of April 1830, with six members.
He devoted his life to the establishment of this Church, and sealed the testimony with his blood.
In his ministry he was constantly supported by his brother Hyrum Smith, who suffered martyrdom with him.
Over a million converts to this testimony have been made throughout the world; and this monument has been erected in his honor, to commemorate the one hundredth anniversary of his birth, by members of the Church which he organized they love and revere him as a Prophet of God, and call his name blessed forever and ever. Amen.

An inscription around the monument, beginning on the south face and continuing onto the east, north, and west faces, reads:

IF ANY OF YOU LACK WISDOM LET HIM ASK OF GOD THAT GIVETH TO ALL MEN LIBERALLY AND UPBRAIDETH NOT: AND IT SHALL BE GIVEN HIM. James 1:5

It was still early; we hadn't had any coffee. The welcome center wasn't open yet (and I had a sneaking suspicion that even if it were coffee wouldn't be on the menu). So we retreated back down the hill to the town of Sharon, where we'd seen a place that advertized breakfast. Given that this was a farming community, and given that they opened at 05:30, I expected that coffee would be available. And so it was that we came to Sandy's Drive-In Lunch.

When we pulled up to Sandy's we were the only folks there. There's a small inside dining room, though mostly it's set up to be an order-at-the-window sort of place. We went inside, and got our coffee. Which was good coffee.

Mostly it was just us: me and Doyle. A gent did come in and had breakfast while we were hanging out nursing our coffees, but not much other custom. So I had a chance to talk with the waitress, Cheryl. Sandy's only re-opened in March of this year. They'd been pretty well devastated by Hurricane Irene. Cheryl brought out her photograph albums and we paged through them. The place had been a wreck. The water level had been even with the bottom of the roof. (She pointed out the line on the wall, above my head, that had been the high-water mark.) When you consider that the White River is across the road and, on the day we were there, the water level was about twenty feet below the street level ... well, I was impressed. (Amazed that the building was still standing would be a better way to put it.)

The fire station, just up the road, had apparently been devastated. (The building with the red roof to the left of Sandy's in the photo is the firehouse.)

Sandy's didn't have flood insurance, but that wasn't a bad thing, I heard. The folks who did have flood insurance never got any money out of it. Going to year-round service rather than three-season was to pay off the loans they'd had to take out to rebuild.

Sandy's is apparently right on the shake/frappe line: They advertised both shakes and frappes on the menu tacked to the wall, with different prices for each. The breakfast special omelet smelled pretty good. But Doyle and I had lunch planned for later on, so didn't have anything to eat right then.

And so we departed, and carried on with the rest of our day.

So I'm finally catching up on the last three episodes of Criminal Minds. And damn, I really like "The Company."

Happy Mother's Day to all who mother. Today's post is Adults who loved young adult literature--why, what suggestions do you have?

I'd like to flush some recommendations out of the woodwork besides highly publicized urban fantasy series, but on the other hand, if people want to talk about those, fine!

I've been using Kindle to explore YA of a century ago and more. One of the reasons why I can't read the 'steampunk Victorian' series is because the Victorian veneer is so thin. There is a huge audience who loves modern people in historical dress up novels. I tend to reach for the ones that try to evoke the worldview as well as the details of a different time, so of course the Real McCoy is going to do that. With all its warts.

The thing is that Victoriana is not all repressive conformity. It's such a variety, from the cheerful crudities of Jorrocks (extremely popular at the height of the period) to Kipling (much later, but very difficult to peg into any hole) to the sharp insight of George Eliot.

The YA of the later years seems to have flourished around the school story. And a writer almost unheard of now, who wrote a tremendous amount for girls, was L. T. Meade. Her stuff was impossible to find except at high prices in this country. I still haven't seen a print copy of any of her books. But these, like those of Talbot Baines Reed, are surprisingly good reading. The latter is a strong influence on Wodehouse, with mostly funny school stories for boys. L.T. Meade also wrote school stories, but the interesting thing about hers is that she began writing when schools for girls were becoming more common.

They'd been around for a long time--we have Jane Eyre as evidence for that.Ditto finishing schools. But general education for females seems to have taken off latterly in the century, and what Meade writes about are all kinds of schools. She never sets anything at Girton (which was a new experiment when she was writing, and it gets referred to it that way in a couple of her novels.) She makes up schools--from bigger ones to small schools run out of a home by either widows or by wives of indigent professors.

There are patterns in her stories, as one tends to find in writers who turned out a lot. The most frequent pattern is the "bad" or "wild" girl who won't be tamed. There's one in almost every single book. The main thing I noted is that the so-called bad girl, except I think in one, always has a good heart. And she isn't always tamed. Her adversary in many of these is the perfect Victorian girl, what we would call deeply repressed. And a lot of these don't get a happy ending, unless they learn to relent. Though in most respects the manners and mores are what one expects for the time (but oh, the details of daily living, manners everyone understood, etc!)this thread of breaking free is a constant, and these books were apparently very popular.

The best school stories are a rich fund of Victoriana, full of interesting characters, but scrupulously divided by gender. I guess that kept them safe for kids. (Also, these writers weren't great with adult stuff. I only read one of Meade's romances. It was drippy, dreary, a Grand Misunderstanding that should have been wrapped up by chapter two dragged out for an entire book.)

 I'm now working on my third pair of socks, this one the same yarn (Ella rae Classic, 100% wool) but bright green, and I'm still tinkering with the design.   (For instance, this pair has a four stitch decrease spread around four needles  just below the cuff ribbing.)    For the heel flap, I decided to go with one of the "reinforcing" stitches, and went with Eye of Pigeon just because I hadn't seen it before.   Turns out it's kind of a finicky thing (for someone who likes to knit in a rhythm and just rock along thinking of something else.)   This means I'm slower on this heel flap than I was on the previous ones, and this on a pair of socks I really need to get done pretty quickly, before I go to a convention. 

However, here's where I am on one of the socks (having speared the heel flap with a knitting needle to keep it from curling so much I couldn't photograph it.)


        

(R) Eye of Partridge stitch above, stockinette below      (L) Wrong, or "inside" of heel flap showing EP purl above, regular below

I don't think I'll be using it on heel flaps again--will try "heel stitch" instead--but may use it on small decorative areas, as on afghan or scarf segments.   Also don't think it looks much like a partridge's eye, but as there are thousands of stitch patterns, finding unique and appropriate names for each one must be difficult.  

Since I didn't do the sensible thing and do a pattern swatch before starting it, I know it's affecting my gauge but not how much.  (Yes, sometimes it really is smart to do that swatch ahead of time.  Sigh.  Well, I have two more balls of green yarn to play with, if these socks turn out to be a very difficult fit...) 

Another bit of advice-from-experience: don't try a new stitch pattern when you're in a hurry and have a hard deadline on when something must be done.  Too late now for me, but maybe that will help someone else.   If I'd just knitted the heel flaps in stockinette, as I did the first two pairs of socks, I'd be a lot closer to turning the heels (which I'd planned to do today...I would've finished the heel flaps yesterday or early today.   Minor adjustments done with fitting, like the 4 stitch decrease mentioned above, don't slow you down nearly as much as having to remember which row you're on for patterning.  If Interrupted, I can stop stockinette anywhere--I'm either knitting or purling whole rows at a time, and all the knit and purl rows are the same.  Here...no.

So, basically, all I want out of a toothbrush is that it will clean my teeth. I have no brand loyalty, I don't care about fancy bristles or contours, I just want a goddamn toothbrush so my teeth don't rot and fall out of my head. Okay?

I went to brush my teeth this morning and noticed that my toothbrush looked like a dandelion clock. Aha! says I. The last time I was at Walgreens, I thought to purchase a new toothbrush. So I fished it out of the bag where it was reposing with the cough drops . . . and discovered that the manufacturer felt it necessary to package the toothbrush so impregnably that it required scissors to get at it. No, really, they say so themselves: CUT HERE. And you can scrabble at the package with your fingernails as much as you want--you ain't getting in.

I found a pair of scissors and cut the package open. WIKTORY! THE TOOTHBRUSH IS MINE! Threw the package away, turned toward the sink, and thought, Why am I suddenly in a cloud of artificial mint?

I looked suspiciously at the toothbrush.

It was all blue and green and contours! and fancy bristles! because you can't buy a toothbrush at Walgreens that isn't, and I just went for the cheapest one that wasn't some eye-wateringly awful color because I really do have better things to do with my time than comparison-shop the toothbrushes.

And, yes, it smelled of artificial mint. Strongly of artificial mint.

I turned back to the wastebasket and fished out the package. And here I quote, because I could not possibly make this up:

SCOPE® Scented Handle
Enhances brushing
experience through
release of fresh Scope®
scent from the handle.

o.O said I. And also O.o

But I needed to brush my teeth and the goddamn toothbrush was already in my hand.

I've never thought particularly about my brushing experience before, but I have to tell you that it is not in the least enhanced by the release of Scope® scent from the handle of my toothbrush. Frankly, I feel disturbed. And weirdly disenfranchised from my own dental hygiene. And like a tiny army has invaded my head wielding weapons soaked in artificial mint.

O.o I say. And also o.O

But this is apparently what you get if you don't stand in the aisle of Walgreens and read the packaging of the toothbrushes.

Here, mintily, endeth the lesson.