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Continuing
Time passed: winter changed into spring, spring changed into summer ... and winter gave spring and summer a miss and went straight on into autumn... until we decided that it was the proper time to host a housewarming party for all our new friends and colleagues here in Russia.
But first, I had to take several relatively short trips to Western and Eastern Siberia. To Kazakhstan, to Uzbekistan, to Kalmykia, to Dagestan, to Chechnya, to Ukraine, to Georgia, to Latvia, to Lithuania, to Tajikistan, to Estonia…didn’t get a lick of work done for my company, but sure met one hell of a lot of folks and got info on many, many different projects.
It was basically ‘pump-priming’, or ‘testing the waters’, or whatever the hell you want to call making initial contacts, spending huge amounts of company money on flights and ‘entertainment’ expenses. As well as meeting people from well over 1.6 million different countries.
I had a most burgeoning Rolodex, not Rolex, as if anyone here would remember those things. I carried a brick-like satellite phone which was monstrously expensive so I used it as much as possible. Had binders full of business cards and I had more visas for more different countries…strange thing, though. With my red Diplomatic Passport, I could sail right through the vast majority of border control points. I guess they were still jittery after the not-so-amicable breakup and were loath to cause any ‘Diplomat’ any grief.
I got away with such shit those days.
Smuggling? “Of course not! I’m a Diplomat!”
Are those rocks of any value? “Of course not! I’m an international geologist and those are but shiny, faceted, green, blue, and red crystalline hand samples!”
Are three cases of vodka really just for ‘personal use’? “Of course not! You’re right. Let me get another one to stuff into the Diplomatic Pouch.”
So, one bright spring day over bilberry-jammed blinis and freshly Samovared-coffee, Esme and I decided that since the kids had such good friends in the complex, we’d farm them out on one Friday night. Then we’d throw a house-warming party for all our new Muscovian friends.
The party was to include several of my Siberian friends and some actual real Muscovites; who we had to strangely invite via registered letter so they could be allowed entrance to our compound.
That was one of the things I didn’t care for in compound living. But, that’s the way it was; and nothing I could do, even grouse about the rules, would change anything.
Esme had invited her entire American Women’s Club, which was composed of North and South American women. They would be bringing their husbands.
We made it sort of clear that this was an adult’s night out. As much as we loved their little ankle-biters, carpet-crawlers, and curtain-climbers; they all needed to take this one as a time out.
It was parent time in the Motherland. I already had ordered up 3 half-barrels of beer and an equal number of cases of vodka. This was not a time for puberty, it was time for adultery.
No, wait. That’s didn’t come out right…it was parent time. A time for parents...
To socialize. To get to know each other. To eat, drink, and act like a bunch of goofy teenagers.
You get a general idea.
Anyways, there were going to be Russians, Siberians; and yes, there is a difference, Czechs, Brazilians, Scots, Americans, Canadians, Dutch, Brits, Australians, Moldovans, Chinese, Nepalese, several from various Stans, Botswanans, Danes, South Africans…ah, hell, there were going to be a lot of the globe represented.
All united by the common threads of bar-be-que, free beer, and ample smokeables.
Luckily, it was fairly equable outside, weather-wise, and we were in-between the seasons of the Spring *Rasputitsa *, or mud season, and the early summer thunderstorms. I had arranged for several large tarps on poles to be erected over the front dais of the house and even more in the back yard.
The back yard would hold all the troughs full of ice, beer, and soft drinks. There would be a separate one for the vodka, cognac, and sweet girly champagne that the local women seemed to really enjoy. These tarps also covered the bar-be-que grills I had made to order a few months previously.
One of the oilfield service companies took some 8 foot-long sections of 42” line pipe, sandblasted them and sawed them in half lengthwise. They were hinged together in back and handles were welded front and back for transport. Set on four stout pipe legs, interior racks were repurposed from some Russian appliances of one sort or another. The ends were welded shut with caps and suddenly, there were a couple of very Texas-sized bar-be-que grills in my backyard.
The company had stuffed the grills into their industrial autoclave and heated the things to 2 or 3 million degrees C. to burn off all the nasty oilfield schmoo. While they were still warm, they were powder coated with electronegative paint, and re-kilned. The result was the grills and racks were surgically clean and coated in a blast-furnace-heat resistant covering of melted porcelain-like glass.
One was red, of course, and one was blue. They were works of art and are still with the service company that created them as I willed them to the company when we left some years later.
Now, bar-be-que and outdoor grilling might be as dull as dishwater to us Norteamericanos, but it was absolutely thrilling for most of our new friends. Many knew of cooking over an open fire, but only during camping, hunting, fishing, or times of natural calamity.
To cook outdoors when it wasn’t really required? Such Western decadence. This was all something thrillingly new and potentially dangerous.
I had arranged for some charcoal to be flown in from Finland, as the stuff available locally just couldn’t cut the mustard, so to speak. It was more loamy and peaty than charcoal-y. The Finnish stuff was as hard as anthracitic coal.
We were going to grill up a half-side of cow, several small suckling pigs, a load of pike-type fish, and just because, a couple of locally sourced briskets, some ‘gamburgers’ and hot dogs.
Just because it was a barbeque. Of epic proportions. Of Rocknocker-esque proportions.
Esme tried several times to reign me in, but after the truck showed up with an entire side of beef, she realized it was a lost cause.
“Rock”, she cooed to me as I tried to stuff the side of beef into our tiny kitchen, “I knew that sooner or later, you’d twist off. You’ve been under a lot of stress lately and I guess it’s finally arrived. I just want to let you know, I love you greatly and if I should disappear, I wouldn’t have gone far. I just don’t want to get caught in the crossfire.”
“What’s that, m’dear?” I asked while I tore the kitchen apart looking for the Old Bay spice and Dave’s Insanity sauce we smuggled in on our last trip.
“Oh. Nothing, dear.” Es smiled, “Go nuts. But please, be careful.”
“Oh, sure. Yeah. No worries.”, I smiled as I found that ceremonial Gurkha knife, “This will work a treat in cutting up the beef once it’s done.” as I swung the massive thing around like Darth Vader confronting a Rebel contingent.
“Kids”, Es called, “Isn’t it time to go to your friend’s house?”
This all started on a Tuesday afternoon. Es and I had to prepare the menu and then I’d get after what needed getting after.
Besides a half-side of beef on the bar-be-que, as I mentioned, we’d have some stuffed and grilled pike, hot dogs, ‘gamburgers’, a few suckling pigs, a couple of big, meaty briskets, currently corning in the kitchen, and maybe some form of poultry or two.
It’s a meat-heavy menu for a meat-heavy diet round these parts.
I took care of the beer, vodka, champagne, cognac, and gin, well, there’s were going to be some Brits in attendance, soft-drink mixers, and ridiculously expensive citrus fruits. I had the country store on-site crank up their ice machine and had standing orders for all the excess ice they could produce over the next few days.
Roger, my Texan neighbor, confidant, and mechanical engineer buddy who kept to a work schedule which closely mimicked mine, decided he couldn’t let this hapless Baja Canadian handle these whole two grills on his own.
Truth be told, Roger was a major help in fabricating the necessary rotisseries and pipework to spin the pigs and side of beef above the fire. He was keen and adept at drawing things up on paper, but pretty worthless in translating them from two to three dimensions.
That’s where my adroitness and past experiences with a pipe cutter and welding torch, again, ‘borrowed’ from the oilfield service company, along with their pipe-rack truck, came into its own. He designed, we both cut the appropriate metal, and I metal-glued them in place.
Roger ‘located’ a couple of large electrical motors, one capable of turning the 300 pounds of cow on the one spit and one efficient in handling the ‘pig basket’ of about 250 pounds of young piglet that was going to be prepared. Each was several dozen horsepower in displacement and heavy as a motherfucker. They stood alone on the ground, while Roger fabricobbled up a drive-train system and electrical controls for each.
What began as a simple ‘C’mon over for a back yard bar-be-que’ had turned into something of which NASA would have been proud.
Picture this: 2 eight-foot-long, 42” diameter pipe grills, one gleaming red, one shining blue, with a Rube Goldberg set of pipe contraption A-frames making a pair of rotisseries; one driven by a 30HP 3-phase electric motor, the other by one only churning out 20 HP. There was a separate control tower Roger ginned up which contained the start-stop switches and rheostats which controlled the rotation of the beeve and baconators.
With all that, we still had room for four stuffed pike, each at least a meter in length, my briskets, a few butterflied chickens, hot dogs and ‘gamburgers’.
“Nothing succeeds like excess”, I said to Roger as I toasted him with the second or eighth beer of the morning.
He agreed with me and stole yet another cigar.
The beef was turning slowly over a low fire of finest Finnish hardwood. This was calculated to take at least 2.5 days to complete. The suckling pigs I’d start the next morning. If all went to plan, we’d have everything ready for dinner by 1700 that Friday.
Well, the meat’s taken care of, as were the drinks.
Esme and Linda, Roger’s wife, grabbed Valosh and made a trek into downtown to Stockman’s Pantry for some typically American repasts.
Cans of baked beans, fresh lettuce, rocket, radicchio, romaine, and other salad-y makings. Several varieties of fresh fruit, Emmenthal cheese and melting Dutch chocolate for the fondues that Es set up every single time we had a gathering.
It was a tradition.
We’d source much of the remainder of the party munchies locally. There was a bakery just around the corner of the compound and after buying our bread there for months, we got to know the proprietors quite well. We explained the concept of the “tortilla chip” and damn if they didn’t create a very passable Russian version.
We created our own flavorings for dusting over them, and I think we were the absolute first to come out with a caviar-flavored chip. Potato chips were easy enough to make, as were soft tortillas, but we were coming up shy on dips.
Substituting unflavored Greek yogurt for the more usual labneh back in the Middle East, I converted some of our imported biryani masala, lamb masala, curry mix, and other Middle Eastern spices into chip dips.
You haven’t lived until you’ve had Red Caviar flavored Russian tortilla chips with a healthy dollop of garam Masala and yogurt dip.
As Emmanuel from Argentina sniffingly said: “It’s a brilliant antihistamine.”
I contracted with a batch of local school-aged kids to pick fresh mushrooms for the party.
Russians are just crazy over mushrooms. However, as we were to find out, they will only eat them cooked; having them raw for dipping or in salads really gave them pause.
Ah, just another twist on the usual house warming party.
The cow continued cooking, the porks were happily spinning along in their private horizontal merry-go-round and the Finnish cooking wood was holding out well. The smells emanating from our corner of the compound had many, many people wandering over wondering who was opening the restaurant.
Thursday slid into Friday. I took the car and made a mad dash for the Mitino Ramstore to replenish our butter, paprika and vodka stocks. Seems all those Russian bottles had holes in them…
I was actually using a good supply of the stuff in cooking. Take a cup or so of good vodka, taste-test it, just in case, restore to proper measure and heat it gently as to not incinerate your eyebrows. Add a cup or so of berries, and a cup of sugar, and a smidge of molasses. Heat until just right. Repeat until you have enough drunken berries to fill a pie crust; graham cracker or otherwise.
You can freeze this and serve it with whipped cream frozen or bake it until the berries bubble; then you can serve it with ice cream.
I made homemade ice cream as well for the evening’s festivities. To a standard vanilla base of sugar, egg yolks, and hot heavy crème, you whip this stuff until it can’t take it any longer and it goes all custardy. Then you add your flavorings and churn the hell out of it over rock salt and ice.
Result?
Mint chocolate chip with Cornish crème de menthe.
Rum raisin with Jamaican dark RUM.
Watermelon ice and spirit. Spirt is homemade Siberian rocket fuel. Pretty close to 200 proof as one can get.
Rocky road with pecans, marshmallows, caramel, chocolate truffle, and Napoleon cognac.
Bourbon vanilla with fresh Madagascar vanilla-bean vanilla.
“You can’t get booze to freeze in ice cream!” I hear some wag yell.
“You can if you freeze the stuff with liquid nitrogen!” I yell back.
I have access to all sorts of fun, sciency stuff. Liquid nitrogen is as much a cooking staple as is liquid oxygen.
We’ll save the Great Grill Meltdown story of 2002 for a later date.
Friday morning, as I was out tending the grills, several of Esme’s friends from the compound showed up to help set up for the evening’s festivities.
“Great”, I thought, “They’re in there, I’m out here with the vodka and beer. All is right with the world.”
There was a flurry of activity as each of Esme’s friends busied themselves with a different portion of the party. One was handling the desserts, one was preparing the salads, one was setting out the plates, cups (first time for red Solo Cozy Cups in Russia), and silverware. It was going to be a very informal sort of party, but evidently, there was a certain protocol to follow.
Flowers appeared from the Babushka Mafia; where we had a standing order. A huge centerpiece filled what seemed half the dining room table. A fire was started in the fireplace.
Why?
Because.
Reasons.
OK.
Me? I just stayed out of their way.
Esme started up her fondue pots; ones we’ve had since day one of our marriage. Into one went a four-cheese mixture of Emmenthal, edam, cheddar, and brie cheese, along with some light white wine. Into the other pot went a kilo or so of melting chocolate, imported from the Netherlands or other European someplace. Some very expensive, 45-year-old cognac went into that pot to facilitate meltage. There was some nutmeg, cinnamon, saffron, and other spices as well.
Potato salads were made and brought out, covered under chilled cheesecloths as the fridge was hopelessly full at this point. Green salads were made, with and without locally-produced mushrooms. The whole table groaned after a fairly short time from it’s covering of fruits, breads, beans, salsas, salads, and other party fares.
The ice creams I had made were up at the country store near the entrance to the compound, We had no room and they graciously ‘rented’ out some of their freezer space. All it cost were a few rubles and a couple of quarts of ice cream.
The horse troughs out back were stocked with kegs of beer, tappers, and bottles of booze, all on ice. There was one smaller trough full of Russian soft drinks, juices, fizzy and still waters, and other things that would probably stave off if not prevent total alcohol poisoning.
Olga, our house girl, insisted on stuffing and preparing the pike for the grill. She was a wonder. She was teaching the girls, and truth be told, Es and I, Russian and Ukrainian. She insisted on making dinner anytime Es or I wandered into the kitchen looking for a sandwich and generally made us feel like some sort of privileged class. We didn’t want that at all and went out of our way to make certain we treated her like family.
She was scrupulously honest, and when we included 250 extra rubles for her first week since all the extra work she took upon herself; she actually chewed us out for being too “credulous”.
“People will take advantage.”, she scolded, “I agree to weekly pay, no more. I will not make you more naïve.”
I finally got her to take it for payment for the language lessons.
She was a real polymath. She helped the girls with homework, ran interference with any local entanglements, and could cook like there was no tomorrow. She was a peach, pure and simple.
Plus, she liked my cigars and loved cognac.
We got on like a house afire.
She also knew her way around a fish. She had those four-meter long critters gutted, scaled, stuffed and trussed as good as any Michelin starred chef in any international seafood house.
They went on the grill, just to the south of my briskets. The chickens would only take a couple of hours over this low and slow heat and the aromas of them comingled with the other proteins were intoxicating.
Or it might have been the potato juice and beer marinades I was using for the various bits of animal carcass.
Vodka, melted butter, smoked Himalayan salt, and smoked Hungarian paprika was brushed liberally over the butterflied chickens. Many times during their grilling tenure.
Beer, a tomato reduction sauce, molasses, maple syrup, and cognac graced our rapidly caramelizing roasted piglets.
Bourbon, coffee, treacle, and a few secret ingredients made up the sauce for the beef. It went on every 100 or so turns.
The brisket and pike were left alone, except for some fish masala for the pikes and Old Bay mixture for the briskets. The grill was closed on these and they were allowed to continue more or less unmolested.
The day drew along and it was soon noon. The house was decked out very festively. The girls were going directly over to the neighbor’s after school so it was now T-5 hours to party time. But with all our help, there’s wasn’t much to do. It was all pretty much done.
Roger assured me he’d stop over at the country store and pick up the pies, ice cream and extra ice in our amassed coolers when he returned from work, around 1500 hours. So that was taken care of.
Esme decided she wanted a shower and nap before the evening’s frivolities, and since everything had already been done I couldn’t agree more. We kissed and smiled at our good fortune and taste in friends and neighbors, as she headed upstairs for a bit of kip.
The cow was turning, the pigs were spinning, the pike and briskets were smoking and I decided to grab a lawn chair, fire up a cigar and sit out back enjoying the warmish afternoon in northwestern Moscow. Oh, sure; I nodded off a few times, but made certain my charges were well looked after. Be silly to get this far and have things go south.
Roger showed up around 1600 hours and I helped him move all the coolers into the garage, as there just wasn’t room in the house nor kitchen, it was that stuffed with party favors. The meat was approaching that point where it was done to if you’ll pardon the expression, a turn.
Roger sampled a piece of the spinny cow and declared it good enough for a Texas rodeo.
High praise indeed.
He left and would return with Linda in perhaps an hour.
I went to wake Es and got her in the shower with a cup of coffee. I decided to forego the shower and helped myself to another pre-party cocktail.
5:00 PM arrived and our guests…did not.
Roger and Linda, our only North American invitees showed up around 1730.
Es, myself, Roger and Linda sat around chatting and nibbling, wondering where the hell everyone else was. I even motored up to the gate to see if the officious guards were giving any of my local invitees any grief and thus holding them up.
No. They hadn’t shown up as of yet.
Back to the house, and now, I’ve dealt with the Arabic version of showing up for a meeting, party, or operation. These characters will be late for their own autopsy. I thought punctuality was more prized in the European community.
I fiddled around with the grills and turned everything to ‘warm’. I was, truth be told, a bit miffed at all this. I had spent a fair fortune on feeding these characters, you would think…
At that precise moment, the doors burst open. The crowds had arrived. All a bit ‘fashionably late’, but with their gird on and ready to party. There was no mention of their unpunctuality, but huge bear hugs, back slaps, and depositions of house warming gifts, all bottles of some form or another of alcohol, typically rare and reflecting the origin of the giver.
The party went from absolute silence to incredible raucousness in nothing flat. I still had to man the grills, so I dragooned Roger into being the ad hoc bartender. Esme and Linda were showing folks around the place, making the perfunctory tour before the inevitable feeding and drinking. Roger was busier than a one-handed paperhanger in a windstorm. I helped out best I could by tapping the kegs and passing around the Solo Cozy cups, which made a huge hit among the Western and Eastern Europeans.
Of course, the stereo was cranked up. Between Esme’s classical music and my 60s and 70s rock collections, the place began vibrating. Luckily, we had the forethought to invite the neighbors who lived immediately adjacent to us.
After the initial drinks were disbursed, it was time for the first rounds of nibbly bits. Being in Russia, one simply cannot have a drink without a nosh. Esme’s fondues were incredible hits. Since fondue is a Scandinavian invention, we figured it’d be more well known here. Evidently not as several folks had to be given instructions as to how to build a cheesy or chocolatey snack.
The dips, crudités, amuse bouche, and chips went over very well. We had people from Africa, Asia, Europe, both Americas, Australia and other ports of call not yet mapped. Everyone had their story of foods back home that mimicked our offerings. It was most entertaining to hear stories of the braai, pit roast, chuanr, yakitori, satay, khorkhog, tandoor, and the like.
But it was the whole, well, a half grilled cow that boinged everyone’s eyes. The whole suckling pigs, smoked stuffed pike, briskets, and chickens also got their share of gapes. I had some hamburgers and hot dogs in case anyone was about to go hungry.
Over more rounds of drinks, I announced that I’d be carving up the meat and setting it out, for everyone to help themselves.
Olga shouldered her way through the crowd with my Gurkha knife and a couple of large platters. First off were two of the whole smoked and stuffed pike. These were attacked with abandon, much to Esme’s alarm as people missed the salads and zeroed in straight on the protein.
Olga sorted them all out by pointing out proper party protocol and for people to take notice of the assortment of bread, salads, Jellos, and fresh fruits provided to accompany the meals.
Properly chastised, some sense of party decorum returned as the beer continued to flow, the empty vodka bottles stacked up and my cigar humidors went, for the time being, unnoticed.
I carved off great, bleeding hunks of cow. It was so tender I could have butchered the thing with a pleasant remark. Some were blue, some were medium and some, down the way along the beast, we well done. I carved up huge hunks of each for all to take that which they would please.
The chickens came off the grill next, and after a few deft knife swipes, were deboned and ready for consumption. The briskets were resting on a sideboard in the kitchen and Olga assured me she’d take care of them as long as I handled the disassembly of the suckling pigs.
Taking a quick restroom break, I was amazed to see one of our living room tables completely covered by bottles of wine, champagne, spirits, and who-knows-what. These were our inevitable house warming gifts from our assembled friends.
There was much greeting and handshaking as I tried to make my way to the facilities. I could hear Valosh and his wife somewhere in the madding crowd, but this was simply going to have to wait. Internal pressure was approaching critical limits.
I decided to keep station out by the grills as I still needed to handle the roast suckling pigs. I figured that if people were wondering where I was, follow their nose out to the bars and grill; I’d be around somewhere close.
Roger dragged a table over from his backyard to give me some room to disassemble the little porkers. He kept up with his bartending duties and I reduced those crispy little pork packets into more eatable size pieces. People had gotten the idea that enough with me bringing in the grilled food, they’d just come outside and get it fresh off the cooker.
The party was going into high gear. People were showing up who I didn’t know, and after quizzing Esme, she had no idea as well. Didn’t make a bit of difference; there was no way we’d run out of food or drink, and as long as we’re here, we international ambassadors of general amity. As long as these interlopers behaved themselves, no one had any objections.
There was one small incident where some local younger hooligans tried to swipe a couple of bottles of booze off the living room table. Some older Russian gentlemen, Heroes of the Soviet Union all, relieved the hooligans of their ill-gotten gains. Somewhat forcefully. They gifted them instead cuffed ears, kicks up the backside and swats on the back of the head as they admonished them off the property.
We learned later these older Russian gentlemen were both maintenance and security for the compound. We were most pleased to make their acquaintance and happy they could join us.
The house was packed, the front yard was packed, the back was really packed. Everyone was eating and drinking like there was no tomorrow. And as tomorrow was Saturday, the international day of rest and hangover nursing, and since we’re so far north, we’re starting to get into White Nights territory, this was going to be a long, long night.
The pike were gone. All four, consumed.
The briskets were as well. I was told they were ‘very good’. I’ll have to take their word for it, I never as much as got a slice.
Chickens? Disappeared. Gone without a trace.
Piglets? We had about one small half left.
The side of beef? Well, there were still a few steaks left, as I carved myself a healthy hunk, but I was amazed at the feeding frenzy we had just witnessed. It was mostly gone as well. Maybe enough for a few sandwiches come the morning.
The salads were most appreciated and devoured. Even Esme’s grandmothers bit-o-a-joke lime Jell-O with carrots and peas disappeared. Bread? Mostly gone. Chips and dips? Still holding out, but would never survive the night.
Esme and I were glad everyone was getting their fill.
Everyone was finishing up on the main courses and all helped pitch in to clean up any trash and do what few dishes Olga hadn’t yet gotten to. There was an actual lull in the gathering as now it was time for a post-dinner smoke and a bit of rest before dessert.
Roger and his teenage son went out in the garage and brought back the 4 coolers full of bespoke ice cream. One would think ice cream wouldn’t be terribly relished by denizens of the far north. Au contraire. The locals love the stuff. In fact, I haven’t found a single person who has actually refused a bowl of my homemade nitrogenized ice cream.
Esme broke out the plastic bowls and announced that there were homemade pie and ice cream available out back.
“Name your poison”, I chuckled.
That idiom took some time to explain across 20 or so different languages.
There was a problem though. People may be familiar with chocolate, vanilla and strawberry ice cream; but Rum Raisin, Vodkamelon ice, and Crème de menthe chocolate chip? This was ‘terra incognita’ for most everyone.
What better way to sort it all out by providing samplers of each of the flavors in one bowl?
I froze the plastic bowls in liquid nitrogen then placed smallish scoops of each flavor ice cream in each.
“Just a sample”, I said, “So you can figure out which you like best.”
It took a bit of translating, but soon everyone got the idea.
Once I dished out the mixed-berry pie, there was no clear winner on which ice cream flavor was the favorite. They were all consumed 100%. Some actually came back for thirds.
And the pie was good, or so I was told.
Once more, after the dessert course, the whole area was policed clean. Food, drink and various fun activities started to take their toll. Things were beginning to quiet down.
Then I forgot and went to my humidor and grabbed a smoke.
Over a couple of boxes of cigars, impromptu Bocce ball, lawn darts, and corn hole games broke out. I mean, it’s 2200 hours, you have a huge cigar, it’s still light. What better than tossing around heavy metal balls, pointed oversized darts, or bean bags at holes sawn in plywood?
Then Laurens-Jan and his wife, Fientje broke out the Absinthe Fountain.
An absinthe fountain is not for dispensing absinthe, but rather for dispensing water.
A typical absinthe fountain is an ornate vessel with several taps around its central water container, which permits a number of drinkers to louche their absinthe at the same time. On contact with water, absinthe will louche -- or develop a certain subtle clouding that will slowly transform the drink's color from deep emerald into a delightful shade of opalescent light green.
They had brought a couple of bottles of King of Spirits Absinth from Denmark with them.
Just for a side note, the stuff is 70% alcohol or 140 proof.
As if the evening needed another shot in the arm.
The Absinthe Fountain louched four drinks at a time. It did so in a mesmerizing and nearly hypnotizing manner so that when the drink was ready for consumption, one could scarcely decline.
OK, there was still a half-barrel or so of beer out in the backyard, probably a case or so of spirits of various denominations swimming around back there as well. There was an active absinthe loacher going on in the dining room, cigars were being had by most everyone and games of very little skill were being attempted out in the yard.
The party had found its high watermark.
People had achieved what we Baja Canadians would call ‘blissed’. It’s that feeling you get, sitting out under a basic roof, at a rained-out ballgame or after trekking all over a country or state fair, sitting with several pitchers of probably somewhat flat and lukewarm beer, feet up and just enjoying the hell out of the universe.
It’s a rare condition, but I think we attained it here.
Spontaneous card games erupted: cribbage, Schafskopf, Canasta, poker, and spit.
The music toned down and was more instrumental than the early electronica synth-pop of dinner. Conversations broke out. Friendships were made and cemented.
Bliss had been achieved.
One of those friendships came back the very next day to haunt us.
Dr. Dumitru Hurgoi and his wife, Dr. Anamaria Stelymes, veterinarians both, showed up at our door early the next afternoon; planned strategically after the girls had returned from school.
Seems Dr. Dumitru heard me lamenting the loss of our Lady McBeast a few years prior and how our daughters were missing having a pet or two around the house.
Drs. Dumitru and Anamaria ran the local chapter of the Russian version of the Society of Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. They had just taken possession of a litter of little, pure-snow-white Samoyed pups that had been abandoned at their clinic.
They made their entrance carefully, making certain the girls saw all 6 puppies as they spilled, oops, out of the box and into our villa. They were about 5 weeks old, very inquisitive and were immediately all over the house. It took us over an hour to round them all up.
Of course, at that time, we had a great deal of exposure to each of the pups.
Of course, we couldn’t be cads and refuse to take at least one for our very own. It was Khris, already starting her studies to be a large animal veterinarian, that ran each of the pups through her testing scales to see which would be the most appropriate for our family.
That all didn’t matter, as Tash glommed onto one little female and refused to give her up.
We took the smaller female puppy of the litter. It proved to be the best idea of the time because once she was removed from the bump and tussle of the litter, she really came into her own.
So, that afternoon, I signed the papers on the ownership of “Zima”, Russian for “Winter” due to her snow-white countenance.
Smart? Like a whip. Clever. Inquisitive? Oh, yes. A footwear thief?
Until we left Russia, I never had a matching pair of socks again.
To be continued

[Sweet Nola] - Chapter 12

Chapter 1
Nola sat at the dining table in the kitchen with her laptop in front. She scrolled through her college emails. She found out that her college results were going to be released next week. She was excited to see how high her results were going to be. She closed her email and switched back to a life simulation game she was playing. It was a sequel to an old computer game she had played in her youth. It brought back feelings of nostalgia.
She furiously clicked her mouse again, annoyed, ordering her avatar to go to work. Her character, which was created in her likeness, kept shaking her head. With a life of its own, her in-game self apparently had the audacity to refuse. It looked up above at the heavens and shook her fist.
"Ah! My character doesn't listen to me," she lamented to Allie.
"You have to do the recreation things," Allie said. He was sitting at the side of the table with colouring pencils spread in front of him. He was finishing off colouring a picture he did in the library's art club. "You can't force her to do things she doesn't want to do."
"I don't understand." She looked to him with pleading eyes.
Allie let out a moan. “Show me, son.” It was his new catchphrase. He had picked up some funny phrases over his time with Eleanor.
Nola shuffled over with her laptop.
"Your fun points are so low it's hitting double negative digits. Oh boy, you can die from unhappiness in the game." It was true, characters could enter into a spiralling depression that would eventually lead to a premature death.
"How high of a level are you in the occupation?"
"CEO."
"Whoa!" Allie's little eyebrows raised highly. "It takes twenty-four in-game years to grind to that level. Did you just skip out on building the social links?" The avatar's drooping expression said yes. All it cost was her happiness points. Allie didn't know if he had the gaming skills to reverse this. Lauren, the gaming god, might but she has moved out.
"Oh no, Allie. Look, her health bar is dropping by the second. She can't die now. I spent so much time manipulating and stepping on the other characters to max out my career points to become the CEO. The best part of the game is just about to start with all the cash I saved."
Allie got a idea. "What about your save files."
"I only use one save file," Nola said, "Just like real life, you only get one chance."
The avatar clutched its chest, the beginnings of the heart attack animation. Nola and Allie screamed hysterically. Then the doorbell rang.
"Silvie's here!" Allie face was exhilarated with excitement. "I'll get it!"
Nola opened the door with Allie piggyback riding.
"Silvie!"
"Allie!" Their second sister stood with open arms. The sunlight lit her long auburn hair. Below her eyes sat heavy eye bags due to jet lag. Nola and Allie had natural heavy eye bags unlike her.
Silvie hugged Allie through Nola.
Nola showed her the rooms with Allie on her back as they moved across the house.
"You can leave your luggage here. This is your room now. Our roommate just moved out. She's getting married soon. You have to tell me about the engagement with your boyfriend by the way."
Silvie threw down her luggage and threw her face onto the bed. She turned her head to Nola and smiled a sly smile. "Of course." Then she flipped over to face the ceiling, exhausted from her journey from France.
"Bigger than my old room at home. I hate to say it but I think this bungalow is better than our house. What do you think Allie? You like it?" Silvie asked.
"It's okay. I miss my stuff and my piano," he said while still piggybacking off Nola as she stood at the door of the bedroom.
"Ah yeah, he prefers it to the new digital one I got him. The location's really nice. We'll show you around outside later if you have the energy."
They went back to the sitting room where finally Nola dropped him off at the couch.
"I think it's time for some refreshments. Tea or coffee?"
"Orange juice."
"I'll have Tea."
Nola went into the kitchen. She took out some biscuits from the cupboard and then poured some orange juice into a glass. She could hear Allie's energetic chatter from the kitchen about the performance with Eleanor the night at the City Hall Theatre.
Nola came back into the room with the tray of refreshments. Allie laid exhausted on Silvie's lap. She gently stroked his silky, flaxen hair.
Nola looked at her with wide inquisitive eyes. “I’m dying to hear about your engagement. You sent me a picture of your boyfriend proposing to you in your Vienna holiday in front of a palace. How romantic!" she said dreamingly. "Tell me more."
"Alright, this is something I had to say in person." She took a deep breath with a hand holding her chest, "We sat there on the bench, I was sitting all clueless and disappointed. So the night before, he took me to the fanciest, most expensive restaurant in the city. We did everything a perfect date consists, we went through everything.
"We went to a café in a fancy area of Old Town. He told me he had to pre-book seats for the café. He had everything preplanned, literally planned it a year ago as you'll see with the restaurant he booked. Then we saw a romantic movie, it was in German and we couldn't understand a single thing. We went on this walk across this beautiful canal. I have more pictures I didn't send you. Here."
"Wow, it's beautiful," Nola said looking at her phone.
"Here's when we went to this open air museum. There were squirrels all over the little woods. Tim tried to catch one. It was hilarious. He's kind of like you."
Nola chuckled and she swiped Silvie's phone to see them standing beside a peacock. Silive's boyfriend was very tall and handsome. He had a neatly trimmed bread, always gelled up his hair and had a hyperactive look to him. He had a groovy demeanour and was the opposite to her sister whose resting facial expression was a cold, stern look. Opposite attracts, she thought.
"We went to Prater Park and timed it perfectly to see the sunset on the Ferris wheel. I was expecting it then but no. Instead, he told me that he booked a table at Amador. A three star Michelin restaurant. There's a waiting list for a year to get a table there. I was ecstatic about it and the food was fantastic. On level with my restaurant if I say so myself. So he snapped his fingers and called over a string quartet while we ate." Silvie laughed. "So at this moment, I'm fully expecting him to propose."
"Wait, how long have you guys been dating?"
"Three years. I was thinking it was about time as well. So the violinist was playing that violin piece, what was it? You know that really romantic one. Allie?"
Allie was half dozing on her lap, "Meditation from Thais by Massenet." Then he hummed the tune.
"Yes, that one! Then he got on his knees and everybody in the restaurant looked at him. Then he started shaking and I thought no, that absolute klutz. He ruffled through his pants' pockets then his shirt and jacket. He lost the engagement ring. The embarrassment! I covered my face in shame. I think the whole restaurant felt it. We all consecutively froze."
Nola cringed, they all cringed.
"We left the restaurant quietly. I don't even remember the rest." She sighed.
"What happened afterwards?"
She fanned out her fingers. On the ring finger sat a beautiful sapphire ring. "He proposed again the next day in front of Schönbrunn Palace." Nola and Silvie squealed like little girls and flailed their arms. Allie rolled his eyes.
"Bleh-" Allie stuck out his tongue. "Marriage."
"Con-gra-dua-lations!"
"I asked Tim where he found it and he said the restaurant called him when a waiter picked it up. I really doubt it. I saw him sneaking off in the morning. I bet he bought a new one."
Nola laughed. "What a klutz!"
"Look Allie, Is it pretty?"
"Too small. Give me a diamond this big." His hand formed a shape of a large bowl.
"It's not the size of the crystal that matters," she patted her handbag. "But the size of the wallet."
Nola slapped her on the shoulder, her sister had a cynical humour.
"It's the size of the heart, I meant," she corrected herself.
"When's the date?"
"Marriage date? Oh it's next year. By the time you graduated. You better have a boyfriend by that time. I wouldn't want my sister sitting all alone drinking on the happiest day of my life."
"Nola has me." Allie said in a tired, hazy voice.
"Exactly, Allie would be there beside me." She smiled looking at Allie.
The next day, they went around the neighbourhood and did the grocery shopping together. They came back from the supermarket with heavy bags of groceries. Nola did most of the heavy lifting while Silvie wheeled Allie in front. Silvie rolled up her sleeves. The ingredients they procured lay spread out on the countertop. Today she would show them what it means to be the head chef of a three star Michelin restaurant in the heart of Paris.
Nola sat looking at her phone on the kitchen stool. She scrolled though her contacts. She saw the updates from her friends and classmates. Her beta orbiters have flown back to their home countries, sharing happy pictures of themselves, some with girlfriends. The HDips who were graduating were asking for jobs on the group chat. Some were bragging about securing jobs and telling others of job vacancies around their area.
"Look."
"Look," Nola echoed her sister while rolling her eyes. Whenever her sister said look, it automatically invalidated whatever she was going to say. It was going so well.
"I found a doctor."
“In Belarus? Some mountain is it I guess? Where your mystic witch doctor resides,” Nola's eyes rolled back down having found a prepared retort. “Last time we went on that family holiday in Kazakhstan, we got off the bus and then you took us to an underpass where a homeless old Asian hag selling her shitty Chinese medicine, which was baskets of leaves and insect moults,” Nola said, eyes wide, nostrils flaring. “This witch, hag doctor was selling us, I don't know, eucalyptus leaves and cicada skins? That you need to boil it three hours and get Allie to chug a pint of it and he can walk again?!” She and her mother were the same. “Or that other time where that doctor felt his pulse and concluded that his iecur, whatever that is, was upside down and he prescribed some kind of goddamn concoction of celery and fennel stalks in a blender and forced him to drink a damn pint every morning. Remember how he ended in hospital with white boils all over his body. I haven't forgotten any of it.”
"This o-"
“He ended up in the hospital on an IV drip for over a fucking week! He still gets those boils showing up on his skin sometimes!” Nola had trouble containing her emotions. She gazed at her sister in anger. Her sister's back was turned preparing some dish. That's why he stays with me and not you, she thought.
"Anyway, didn't you say you wanted to invite your San Franciscan friend over?" Silvie changed the subject.
They were so frivolous, Nola thought, without any care or thought or responsibility. She could hear Allie's soothing piano playing in the other room and it calmed her down a little.
"I heard a lot about this mysterious person. You've got me interested with all the things you told me. Is it another Eleanor-like person?"
She sat staring blankly at her phone with another anxiety now. She decided to call him. He picked it up within a few seconds.
"Hi."
"Hey."
She gave him the details and he said he'll come over right away.
"Is your San Franciscan friend a boy or a girl?" Silvie looked at her with great interest over the kitchen counter. Nola was smiling now.
"You'll see," Nola said unable to hold a grin.
Within ten minutes, the doorbell rang.
"That was fast! Does he live close?"
"Not really."
"What does he do for a living?"
"He cycles."
"I'll go get the door. Go get dressed. I'm running a fancy diner here, not McDonald's."
"How dare you. Eating McDonald's hamburgers saved his bank account in the US."
Silvie ignored her, not even going for a retort and went to open the front door. She was expecting her friend to be some sort of a hobo. The door swung open and there stood a handsome, upstanding gentleman, Ben the former stalker of Nola. He had one hand ruffling his golden brown hair.
Wow, he's good looking. "Hello!" Silvie's eyes glittered, scanning him top to bottom and bottom to top. She extended her hand out to him. "I'm Silvie."
"Hi, Ben. Nice to meet you." the ruffled good looking youth replied. Nola had texted him to beware of her sister whatever that meant. He had predicted that she would shake his hand so he had his cycling gloves in the large pockets of his khaki cargo pants already. He had anticipated well to not appear awkward. He looked at her hand only to realise his plans were foiled. She was wearing oven mittens yet she expected him to shake it.
He let out a sigh and shook her oven mittened hands. Silvie was mature looking compared to her sister. Her eyes carried a stern and hard expression. They were small while Nola's eyes were large. They looked like they would be the opposite of each other, he thought. He wondered what she was like as he grasped her oven mittened hands.
Ben was thinking this must be some kind of character test. Perhaps with this, she's determined I'm submissive and meek or that I'm an airhead. Ben was thinking of the ongoing psychological warfare while Silvie was simply taken aback by his handsome, youthful looks. She eyed him, finally finding out what her sister's type was.
“I heard so much about the trip but she wouldn't tell me much of her mysterious travel partner.”
So she didn't tell her anything. Maybe she was embarrassed of him.
Silvie leaned uncomfortably close, her chin above his shoulder. "Did you guys bang?"
In a silence that felt like an eternity, Ben thought back to the already answered question that had forcefully persisted in his mind since the trip. He had deduced that it was unlikely that anything happened at the motel after he blacked out drunk following the strip club incident. For one thing, Nola wasn't drunk since she was able to bring him to a motel. If they were both drunk with animal instinct taking over, it would have been a different story. But one of them was not.
"I'm joking," she finally said and patted him on the backside. He was sure that he had fallen victim to her character valuation. She stood back at a distance. "Come in, come in."
Silvie led the way to the kitchen. He had been here a few times but today the kitchen was different. It was very different, like a high class restaurant. The curtains were closed and the room was lit with candles. The dining table itself was covered with a thick, satin, white table cloth. In the middle was a large wrought iron candle holder decorated with floral scented candles.
"Wow."
"Take a seat. Make yourself at home. Nola would be here in a second."
"I'll help out with setting the ehm... table."
"Oh no no, I can't have the guest doing the serving. Take a seat." She walked around the kitchen counter and twisted a knob on the oven. She was also a guest but Ben didn't say it. "Nola tells me you're quite the gourmet."
Ben and Silvie were exchanging deep culinary knowledge on food when Nola entered the room pushing Allie in front. Suddenly the air was silent. She had caught the male gaze. His gaze.
She stopped and bent slightly to fix Allie's collar. She wore a black, low cut dress patterned with large diamond patterns that gleamed from the candle light. In her cold shoulder dress, he could see her powerful shoulders bulged out with the fridge-like body of hers. She brushed back her unnaturally smooth blonde hair as she got up. She was beautiful in a strong menacing way
"Hi," Ben couldn't help but smile.
“Hi Ben,” Allie replied energetically. Noticing he was wearing a t-shirt, he said, “You need to wear a shirt to eat here.” Allie didn’t look much different. He wore slacks and a white dress shirt with a bow tie, the same clothes he wore to his concert at the City Hall Theatre.
“Hmm… I’ll forgive you this time if Nola forgives you.”
“Sorry, my mistake actually,” Nola looked up to him with the usual intensity in her eyes. “I forgot to tell you.” She laughed. She was her usual self but with make-up.
She lifted Allie out of his wheelchair and placed him at the seat at the top of the table. Nola took the seat opposite to Ben.
“My sister works as a head chef in Paris so we have to dress fancy to meet her standards. The restaurant itself is called-” Nola spoke up, “-La Aubergine.”
"It's L'Arpège, my god Nonna."
"Nonna is what they sometimes call me. Old Russian pronunciation. Parents were such dunces when they got here and wrote Nola instead," she explained.
"That's a big change," Ben said. He had accurately assumed that was the case before.
"You'll get used to anything. Especially when you're young." She leaned close to Ben, "Allie and I visited her in Paris once. Can you believe they wouldn't let a child under fifteen in the restaurant? French are such snobs," she whispered the last part so her sister didn't overhear at the kitchen counter. "She's the head chef of the restaurant now after the old guy got carpal tunnel syndrome from his gaming addiction. She's the best chef ever." she said the last part loudly so her sister would hear. "Ah, Allie. Tell Ben about Disneyland."
They chatted cheerfully over the appetizers of bread and olives about their Parisian holiday. It reminded Ben that he still needed to give Nola the holiday photos.
"-And they shot flames out of the castle with the fireworks, you could feel the heat from way over there. The fireworks were so loud. Eleanor covered my ears. She said she didn't me to damage them."
"The first dish has arrived."
"It smells so go-" Before Nola finished her sentence she looked down at the placed in front of her.
"This dish is called La Crème de chou de Bruxelles. You'll be surprised to know that all of the dishes from the three star Michelin restaurants are very simple. The secret is fresh ingredients." She looped around the dining table back to the kitchen to prepare the next set of dishes.
The dish was served in a plate that resembled an artistic dog bowl. A dollop of white creamy cream coloured cream dotted around the plate and in the centre of the plate, was a single Brussels sprout.
Ben, Allie and Nola traded confused glances with each other. They looked back at the plate. It was an aged looking Brussels sprout, meticulously placed in the most eye pleasing angle as possible. There was even a leaf growing out the top of the stud.
"Must be one of my sister's experimental dishes and we're her lab mice."
"I mean it looks... artistic to say the least. Subversive in fact."
"True, true," Allie added.
They forked the Brussels sprout, swirled it around the sauce and put it in their mouths.
"Wow! This is the best Brussels sprout I've ever eaten in my life!" Allie exclaimed.
"Incredible! The Brussels sprout's partially hallowed out. There's a broth injected into the centre. It's like heroin juice spurting out when you bite into it."
"It's good," Nola said with slight hesitation. The heavy drinking has not been kind to her taste buds. The full potential escaped her tongue.
The dishes piled on. Each one topping the next with the last meal containing illegal substance, black caviar. The meal finally finished four hours later with Allie dozing off halfway through eating.
Silvie left the kitchen with shaking legs after doing the work of a seven course meal without her line of chefs. Before she left the room, she gave Ben a pat on the back and they exchanged a glance of mutual understanding, as fellow gourmets. The producer and the consumer; the omega and alpha, and then wobbled to the sitting room to collapse face first into the couch.
They sat alone by themselves with a sleeping child beside them.
“Let me make you something too.” Nola got up and walked over to the kitchen table, hips swaying. She whipped out a bottle of white rum, pre-squeeze lime juice and a small bottle of simple syrup and poured them into a cocktail shaker. She shook it in a tango dance trying to draw a laugh from Ben and he did. She poured it into a martini glass and placed it gingerly in front of him.
"It's a daiquiri, it's really nice. Try it."
Ben tipped the drink to his lips.
"How is it?"
"It's great." Calms the nerves, is what he wanted to say. He had no more doubts with Nola, he was in love with her.
He looked at Allie, dozing on his chair. He was going to ask her out. If anything interrupted him, then so be it.
They sat staring at each other, locked in a mesmerised glance. The candles flickering.
In the end, Ben couldn't bring himself to ask the question he wanted to ask the most. He had never been in a relationship, never started a relationship with anybody, not even a friendship before he had met her.
"Looks like Allie's tired," she said, her eyes flicked over to the sleeping child.
"Yeah, I'm going to leave. It's late." He looked away as well, eyes dejected. "I'll come another day to give you the photos and videos."
"Come tomorrow. We'lI show it to Silvie and Allie together."
Nola led him to the door. He stepped outside and stood in the cold. A full moon stood above him, he turned around. Nola observed him, waiting; waiting for something, anything.
"I think you're beautiful by the way. Will you go out with me?" he said nonchalantly. He had pondered it enough over the weeks and was done with it, with getting nowhere. The scene called for it, he convinced himself.
After a long pause with another eternity passing under the moonlight.
"I can't," she said, "I'm in love with Allie."
"Huh?!" Emptiness washed over Ben. He was not expecting incestuous love if that was what she meant.
"But maybe next year," she paused mischievously, "I might bring you to the wedding."
"HUH?!"

AFTERWORD FROM THE AUTHOR

To any readers that lingered to the very end, thx for sticking around and I hope you enjoyed my little novel. I've finished fixing some typos, grammar and badly phrased sentences that I hope didn't annoy you too much when you were reading it. If you like my writing, you can get the definitive edition, a physical copy (It's beautiful btw) on Amazon at amzn.com/B08BDZ2K4V and also on the amazing Amazon stores of you country.
They say that everybody has one novel in them. I can say for myself that I had a manga as well. This is my 2nd work, the first being a manga called 'Imitation World of Synth' and then this novel. I am an author without much imagination and so my stories must draw a lot from my experiences. I will say that nothing in this book is made up but just a twisted account of reality and the people I've met.
Having finished it now, there was a morbid thought that I have ran out of inspiration. In a recent rereading of a certain novel (I leave it to the well-read reader to figure out its origin), there was a quote that spoke my mind. A thought that I had for the longest time since I wrote my first story.
"There must be thousands, and perhaps millions of people like me. People accustomed to death, who feel that the only part of their lives that really mattered is over."
And so there it is with all my worthwhile experiences written. Maybe I can keep pumping out the same types of stories over and over again like a washed-out genre writer. I feel like my strengths lay in the crude humour that you have read throughout the story. The next one, I suppose, will have to be of imagination more purer.
My main project now is to adapt, at least the 1st chapter, of Sweet Nola into manga form. I may possibly be the first writer to adapt their own work into a manga. Updates, unfortunately, will be infrequent but I hope that I'll definitely release a couple of pages every week. My excuse being that drawing is infinity more laborious and slower than writing.
I don't exactly have an approach on the 'vision' of the manga form of Sweet Nola. Novels and manga are different mediums and so my rough idea, if it can even be called that, is not a direct translation from blocks of text into manga strips, but to focus on conveying the visual aspects that manga readers appreciate more. In a way, it also rewards the reader more as a second reading where I don't do a direct translation with all its exposition and be minimalistic in drawing scenes. The manga will probably be rough and dirty so I can output it rapidly.
If you are interested in being a proof reader or editor or collaborator on the manga ver., shoot me a pm and I'll respond as fast as I see your message. If you hated my story, then now is the chance to refine it in a collaborative effort.
The first few pages of Sweet Nola manga can be found at: https://globalcomix.com/c/sweet-nola
Follow me on Twitter for updates as I'll twit whenever I get something uploaded: https://twitter.com/chikinstudio
It's easy to write swiftly but for a manga, it took me 2 days to draw 6 pages that only covered the first two pages of the story. We'll see how it goes...

Following up on the cooking post - here are a list of my tried and true recipes and some tips on where to get started with cooking

In response to the post from earlier, I thought it would be helpful to give people a starting point. I realize the irony in doing the emotional labor for men who should really just be able to take initiative. However, I know how discouraging trying a recipe that doesn't work can be so figured I'd share some of my tried and true recipes.

DISH	NOTES
BREADS
English Muffin Toasting Bread	Super quick and nearly full proof, I sub in almond milk
Extra-Tangy Sourdough Bread	Just for fun - sourdough is almost always more economical (when considering time) to buy
Whole Wheat Roti
Challah
Dinner Rolls
Naan	Very easy, nearly foolproof and an easy way to impress people, store bought naan is pretty close to this but fresh is much softer
Cornbread Muffins
Pizza Dough
Pie Crust
Cheddar Bay Biscuits
ENTREES
Tofu Makhani
Pasta al Limone	Good for a crowd, gets really oily when you reheat though so I try not to have leftovers
Mushroom Carbonara
Kadhi	I use my mom's recipe but Priya's recipe is pretty close
Quick Curried Chickpeas (Chana Masala)	About 30-minutes and there's enough down time to clean as you go
Vegetarian Enchiladas	Use whatever canned veggies you have in your cupboard
Nashville Hot Tofu Nuggets
Bhindi Masala	Adding a little bit of lime at the end will help prevent sliminess
Vada Pav	I never make chutneys at home - just buy them from the Indian grocery store. I don't have a strong enough blender to make them worth it and I don't think homemade is significantly better
Risotto	Good "formula" You can add any kind of cooked veg before you start adding the butter and cheese - it's good with mushrooms, carrots, butternut squash, broccoli, etc
Thai Red Curry with Vegetables	Also another good "formula" - just add whatever veggies and protein you have laying around
Dutch Baby	Good for breakfast and good if you're cooking for a small group - everyone can customize their dutch baby with whatever butters / cheeses / fruits / jams they want
Kachapuri	For the cheese blend, I use 15oz mozzarella, 4oz feta, and 4oz ricotta
Cast Iron Pizza	So crispy, so tasty - use whatever cheeses you have leftover + top with red pepper flakes + parmesan
Creamy Parmesan Orecchiette with Butternut Squash and Broccoli	You can use the base and replace the pasta with whatever shape you have + replace the roasted veggies with most other veggies (though these are "sweet" veggies / tend to carmelize) so it'd probably work best things like brussel sprouts
Grilled Cheese
Aloo Paneer
Sweet Potato Tacos	Delicious and a good way to use up leftover veggies, also good if you have a group with different tastes - you can have a "taco bar"
SALADS
Cumin Lime Chickpeas	Good for a party, good if you're trying to feed a crowd - it's pretty strong so
Arugula Salad with Parmesan and Walnuts
SOUPS
Curried Butternut Squash Soup	Good side dish or accompaniment to a meal
Tomato Soup	Roasting the tomatoes is critical - make sure you use a drip pan as the tomatoes release a ton of water
DRESSINGS, SAUCES, DIPS, and SIDES
Cilantro Pesto	Great way to use up leftover herbs before they go bad
Cowboy Caviar	Great homemade party dip and mostly just includes opening and combining cans
Arugula Walnut Pesto
Roasted Potatoes	Reheat SUPER well, I usually roast a bunch at the beginning of the week so I always have a snack
Roasted Brussel Sprouts with Honey Balsamic Glaze	An excellent side but don't reheat super well - best fresh out of the oven
Enchilada Sauce	Use with the vegetarian enchilada recipe above
Spicy Arrabbiata Sauce	Add to any pasta - especially filled ones for a filling meal
Cucumber Raita
Lime Crema	Super good on tacos and sometimes I just use this as a chip dip
DESSERTS
Lemon Ricotta Pound Cake	A great way to use of leftover ricotta from the kachapuri recipe
Baklava	V rich and hard to eat more than a couple pieces so I'd recommend baking this for a crowd
Apple Pie
Tiramisu
Snickerdoodle Cookies
Lemon Bars	Great way to use up extra lemons during citrus season

Good Sources for Recipes:

Veg Recipes of India - she assumes that you have the basic set of Indian spices but after that the recipes are easy to follow and she includes pictures which can be useful for seeing when you've reached a certain point
Budget Bytes - she has an "Ingredient Index" which is really useful for when you need to use up an ingredient
Basics with Babish - he mostly does recreations of food from movies and TV shows but he has a YouTube series called "Basics with Babish" which is an excellent starting point

Good formulas:
Of course, cooking an elaborate recipe every day is not practical and a good way to burn out. These are good "formulas" to use what you have on hand to make a good meal.

Curry - Sautee onions and garlic over medium heat until fragrant, add 8 oz tomato paste and 1 cup water + spices (cumin, coriander, turmeric, curry powder), add whatever you're cooking (chickpeas, potatoes, paneer, tofu, etc), turn stove to low and cover for 10ish minutes, when you move the curry in the bottom and it leaves a "line" that doesn't fill in right away, it has thickened enough and is ready
Thai Red Curry - Sautee onions, ginger and garlic over medium heat until fragrant, add red curry paste, add canned coconut milk, add veggies, add spices, simmer for 10 minutes, eat over rice
Pesto - Any combination of greens + garlic + nuts + olive oil + cheese will make a pesto that you can mix with your pasta for a quick dinner (my favorites are cilantro pesto and arugula walnut pesto) - this is also a good way to use of any leftover greens. Pesto is also amazing on bread as a quick snack.
Roasted veggies - At 425 degrees in the oven, check on them every 10 minutes. Softer veggies (like broccoli) take less time than tougher veggies (like carrots)

Tips / Notes:

Indian food dishes are definitely meant to feed a couple people and I always have leftover for days when I make it. As such, I tend to only cook it when I can at least split it with one other person. I love kadhi but I don't want to eat kadhi for the next six meals.
Substitutes are usually fine. Until you learn how an ingredient functions in the recipe though, it can be helpful to search things like "rolls with almond milk" to make sure that that specific ingredient is not critical to the recipe or that the ratio isn't something other than 1:1.
When substituting oil, remember that olive oil has a v low smoke point and burns quickly so don't use it if you're intending on cooking on high heat - it requires some babying. I generally use canola oil on everything unless the oil is a main component in which case I use olive oil.
Work on your ingredient management - this is one of the hardest parts of maintaining a kitchen in my opinion. Since I cook for only myself, it can be challenging to get variety + also not waste ingredients. I'm still working on this but my strategy is to think about one dish I really want this week (eg. curried chickpeas with spinach) and then think about what will be leftover from this (eg. spinach) and think about what else I can make (eg. pesto) and then to do it all in the same evening.
Canned and frozen veggies are great for anything that is going in a curry on in the oven as part of another dish (eg. casserole, enchiladas). Fresh are best if the ingredient is the star of the show (eg. roasted veggies).

Please share your favorite recipes and tips and tricks below or mention any problems you have run into while cooking and maybe the community can help out!

I Baked the Modernist Bagel Recipe - Here are the Results (and my Schmear Recipe)

What dreams are made of... Beige Chevron Chanel Boy GHW from Redden

Rocknocker's Russian Rendezvous.

That reminds me of a story…Part 1
BLAM!
BLAM!
BLAM!
BLAM!
FOUR shots ripped into my groin, and I was off on another adventure of a lifetime.
Well, not this time...but as long as I have your attention.
I was on another work trip over to Siberia. Typically, in Siberia in the winter, if the timber wolves don't do you in, the bouquet of those who think that water is merely for fish to swim in, rather than for them to bathe in, will.
Now that it's summer (and, Yes, Virginia, it gets fucking HOT in Siberia in the summer), if the deer-bot flies, gnats, no-see-ums, horse flies and mosquitoes don't do you in, the bouquet of those who think that water is merely for fish to swim in, rather than for them to bathe in, will.
Apart from the fact that it's hotter than the hinges of Hell, that there's a daily sandstorm the likes of which Alex the Great used to complain about after laying siege to an Iraqi type country and there's not a single fucking can, bottle or bag (yep, you heard right, bag) of beer in this entire misbegotten "city" of huge blocks of large clumsy huge blocks of large clumsy huge blocks of large clumsy apartments.
As I mentioned before, the old Soviet "style" of architecture is composed solely of enormous, falling apart, far-too-much aggregate, not enough cement, sheets of pre-fabricated concrete. Need a road? You need 600 of the "Soviet #1" concrete sheets. Need a fence? You need 600 of the "Soviet #1" concrete sheets. Need a building? You need 600 of the "Soviet #1" concrete sheets. I've seen buildings still being built that have their facades falling off. This does not engender a feeling of safety nor affection for what laughingly passes for architecture in this part of the world.
And to think that we were worried about the "Red Peril".
Horse chowder.
$50 to anyone who can come up with a Russian toaster that doesn't meltdown before the second slice. It must be the unfiltered 220 VAC that causes everything electrical (with the sole exception of the stove; that heats up like Chernobyl) to deliquesce into a little puddle by the second use. Well, perhaps that's not entirely fair. Russia is agonizingly beautiful in places (Jack London Lake in Yakutia, for one). But certainly not those places where the Soviet oil and gas companies have been fucking-up everything in grand environmental 3-D style for the last 50 years. Yet, I still go there to make a buck.
Anyways...
I finished up my requisite 2-day rotation in just a little over 34 days (something about jet-lag, liquid lunches and time zone frippery...) and bid a hasty retreat to the fusty oilfields of Western Siberia.
I got thoroughly mandatorily tanked at the Novyy Urengoy hospitality suite ("Look! TWO bottles!") in the airport, brassed my way onto a VIP flight to Krasnoyarsk (4 hours distant by "jet"; remember, this is early post-wall-fall-down Aeroflot we're talking about here) and headed ever eastward. I was to meet my good friend and comrade-in-bars Ivan, and we were going to go rafting, drinking, fishing, drinking, hunting and drinking our way up the Yenisei River, an absolutely wonderful waterway that has yet to be up-fucked by the local industrial populace.
I deplaned at the local aerodrome at 0900 and immediately kami-kaze'd-in on the lounge. I wasn't even into my third double vodka and vodka cocktail ("Well", I rationalized, "It's got to be noon somewhere...") when Ivan bursts into the room and grabs me in a rib-crushing bear hug.
"Hello, Ivan (watch the cigar...)".
"DOCTOR of ROCK! Good you come back. I know where you be! Come. We go now!"
I could see Ivan's English lessons were beginning to pay off handsomely.
He trundled me off to his pride and joy, an absolutely decrepit-from-the-factory vehicular monstrosity called a Niva Lada (the Soviet's attempt to Xerox a Fiat). Ivan's not quite my size (at just an angstrom or two over five feet tall), and he fits the Niva rather well. I, at 20 stone and 4.8925E^-15 light years height, did not.
With a little liquid encouragement and Ivan's incessant chortling, I managed to shoehorn myself into the car; aside a 2 cases of vodka, a case of cognac, batches and batches of beer ("Strong. Russian import.") and the ever present Siberian brand of Doritos (red caviar flavor).
My gear, tack and equipment for this fiasco in the making was securely roped to the roof of the car, with the most robust of Russian rope. If it's anything like the robustness of their edifices, the East Siberian countryside would soon be littered with North Face, Abercrombie and Fitch, and Coleman.
Not an auspicious beginning.
We left Krasnoyarsk, and pointed the Niva in a generally northward direction. As soon as we left Krasnoyarsk proper, the road did the same. What would pass for an intershire turnpath in the Middle Ages now turned into merely a pair of well-potholed ruts, filled with the most amazingly finely-grained manure-colored dust.
It was truly an exciting experience to be hurtling along in a vehicle as soundly constructed as a Fisher-Price Battleship, to be snuck-up upon by 28-wheelers loaded with pulp wood and piloted by newly-emigrated drivers getting paid by the load. What would be the cause of either a multiple fatality accident or impromptu gunfight in Houston, is merely the way these characters, to loosely use the word, drive. "Careen" is more appropriate. We spent more time traveling laterally than a sidewinder rattlesnake in a dust storm.
After 350 klicks or so of this nonsense, we slalomed into a wide spot in the road known as Yenesisk, Ivan's hometown. Only 5 more kilometers to Ivan's dacha and I could unfold out of the car and see if any part of my gear made it intact. Wonder of wonders, it was all there, but stained a most ghastly shade of yellow-gray; from the aforementioned dust.
"Great", I thought, "I've been inhaling this crap for the last 6 hours. I should be able to cough up an outcrop."
Ivan unties the ropes and begins tossing my gear dacha-ward.
"Easy, Ivan.” I implore, "I don't want you to break the gift I've brought you."
"Ah! You remember!"
"Indeed I did. You wanted me to bring you some of my 'dangerous brown liquor'. Right?"
Ivan, glancing skyward, "Some type of bird?"
"Yep. Both 'Famous Grouse' and 'Wild Turkey'."
I had an impromptu taste test designed.
After we unpacked and settled in for the 'night', (remember, it never gets dark here in the summer) and after a ration of ukha (the Soviet's attempt to Xerox gumbo), we broke out the glassware and fired up a brace of Turkmenistan double maduro cigars.
"First. An unprepossessing little number from the Isle of Scots; peat moss division. I think you'll be amused by its presumptions."
Ivan did his best to keep an open mind, although the grimace on his face made evident what I had always maintained.
"Strange taste. Strange smell, like taiga in summer.” Ivan summarized.
I have always admired Ivan's analytical abilities.
"Now, try this, Ivan. A supernal little potable from the Land of bangtails and Bluegrass.", as I proffered him a flagon of Kentucky's finest.
Ivan did his best to keep an open mind, although the grimace on his face made evident what I could have never imagined.
"And...you...like...this?", Ivan inquired.
I was crestfallen.
"Well, yes.” I stammered, "In fact, I like it very, very much."
"Too American.” Ivan noted. "Too dark to be Russian. Too heavy. Too говно…."
"Ivan?” I inquired.
"Da?"
"Gimme back my cigar."
We both broke up over this as Ivan rummages through his dacha (Note: Ivan is married, has 5 children and works as a geophysicist for the local Geofizika. He has a relatively modern home in the heart of downtown Eniseisk (pop.: 35,000), but a Russian "dacha" is the equivalent of the summer home in the Hamptons, a Wisconsin deer-camp, and Gulf Coast bait station all rolled into one. It is a place of almost austere inconvenience, typically without electricity, running water or indoor plumbing (perfect score for Ivan's place).
It's where Russians go to tend their garden, get away-from-it-all or bring slightly befuddled Ex-Pats who smoke huge cigars and drink vast quantities of booze without alienating the wife. Ivan begins rummaging around for something that we both enjoy. He finds a bottle of Moscovskaya and we proceed to send it to that place where happily drained bottles go when they're empty.
The next morning broke early; really early if you consider that here the sun hasn't enough sense to go down at night (I know, I know. The sun doesn't "go down at night", but, hey, I never claimed to be inerrant). The Yenisei River is one of the four grand rivers of Russia. It is an absolutely huge piece of slowly northward flowing water, roughly twice the width of the Mississippi in this location, pristine and absolutely teeming with fish. It is also only about 100 meters from Ivan's dacha.
Lucky for us.
We drag all our camping gear, potables, drinkables, fishing gear and a lonely bag of Siberian "damned-if-they're-not-Doritos" (what we will do with all this food still remains a mystery) into our expedition canoe and trailing "pack mule" inflatable raft. I gaze across the river, still clad in its early-morning, now just lifting, fog. It's achingly beautiful. The glass-like surface is only broken by the occasional water-skimmer bird and the soft 'thud' of insects hitting the surface.
The insects.
Insects in Siberia during the summer are like none anywhere else on the planet. To compensate them for the short growing season, evolution has balanced the scales by making them A.) large, 2.) impervious to assault and iii.) voracious.
The mosquitoes are brazen and will drain you dry if you are crazy enough to go out unprotected. The "soldiers" are Kaiser-roll sized horseflies with a taste for flesh. Like anything else relating to the military, they're somewhat slow. But mashing them on your arm is almost as gruesome as being chewed on by one of the little blighters. Finally, the best and most fun of Siberian nasties are the black gnats ("no-see-ums" to us in the know).
Absolutely brazen, and brave by the billions, little fuckers that will drive you to distraction with their incessant penchant for buzzing and flying into every available orifice. Trust me, you learn to piss quickly out in the old Sever 40. The locals rely on liberal dermal applications of bear grease to check these pests. I opt for something a bit less 12’Th century: 100% DEET. They seem to like that just swell. Next time, I'll know better and pack my trusty sawed-off double-barreled 10 gauge.
After securing all our gear into the aft raft, we shove off in our rather outsized touring canoe. Summer's in full swing in Siberia by now and we are treated by sightings of moose, elk, caribou, bear and other potential lunchables as we float lazily downriver. Ivan rigs up a couple of fishing rods and tells me that we'd better stock up now, that later the river gets to be too fast for comfortable fishing.
"You want to run that one by me again, Ivan?"
"Later. River goes through narrows. Right through Precambrian section, Riphean limes and Vendian sands. Such ripples! Very narrow, very fast."
"Um, Ivan.” suddenly becoming slightly uneasy, "You never mentioned anything about white-water on this trip..."
"White water to go with white nights!” bellowed Ivan, sniggering hysterically.
I was less than amused. But, I rationalized, he's lived here all his life and knows the river. I shouldn't be worried... I shouldn't be worried...should I?
The days ticked by desultorily. We'd fish, have our Sunrisers, paddle a bit, grab a cold beer, fall in the river, well-nigh freeze our collective nuts off, nearly drown, and laugh hysterically. The usual. At night, we'd camp on either the shore of the river or on some islands that I'm sure have never seen a Westerner, and probably not a Russian, since before the days of the Peter the Great. All this was straight 220 unfiltered VAC for the psyche. It was like I'd been recharged. No phones, no faxes, no computers.
The third day out we grew increasingly concerned by the ominous sounds we heard that seemed to be creeping up on us.
"What the hell is that noise?” I asked Ivan.
"Not sure.” explained Ivan, "Probably just imagination."
"Both of us?” I thought.
After a few hours, our imagination produced the generator of our hallucination. It was a cruise ship, the type of which regularly ply their way up and down most of Russia's larger rivers. Not huge like a Carnival cruise ship, but no slouch in size, either. I wanted to give bloody the thing a wide berth. Ivan, on the other hand, seemed intent on boarding, pillaging and taking no prisoners.
"We can trade them some fish. Maybe for vodka.” Ivan explained.
"Why? We've got near a case left...” realizing my mistake as I lifted the lid of the box.
"God Damn Russian bottles...” I complained. "Every one of the damn things has a hole in it!"
Ivan snickered in agreement.
We paddled out to mid-river, and generally made enough noise and waved our oars that not only did the bridge crew see us, they probably thought we were trying to beat the river into submission.
They rang three bells and slowed from flank speed, allowing us to swing alongside and heave to. Considering the wake of the thing, heave three and four as well.
We tied up with a line tossed by one of the able-bodied river-men. Ivan scampers up the ladder and begins a most animated, and gesticulatory, conversation with a group of the crew.
"Ah, Ivan. You think you could throw me the FUCKING ROPE?” I said as Ivan's knot tying ability, or, more specifically, the lack thereof, became evident.
Tying off, I clamber up the rickety ladder, so rickety in fact, that I nearly dropped my drink and cigar. Nearly. Ivan's obviously having a good time haggling with the crew, so I decide to take a wander around the ship and see who is home.
Wonder of wonders, I hear English being spoken, (after 6 weeks in country, English here sounds as foreign as Ferengi in a spaceport bar). Around whatever merchies call corners on their boats and up the ladder to the topdeck or whatever the merchies call the uppermost flat area of the boat, I see a group of what have to be Westerners (the garish Hawaiian shirts, sandals and black socks betrayed them immediately).
"So?” I inquired, "You all from the States?"
"Hey!” one of the crowd exclaimed, "You speak English. You American?"
Another bunch with a keen grasp of the obvious. I can only hope this isn't another church group.
"Yep.", I replied, "American as apple pie and napalm. Where are you guys from?", dangling participles all over the scenery.
"Us. Eh? We're not American, eh."
"Let me guess. Canadian, right?"
"Yeah, eh! How'd you know, eh?"
"Call it an inspired guess..."
Turns out that this was a group of Canadian film makers somehow tied up with the National Film Board of Canada, in country making a documentary about Russia's interior, its rivers and people. It was supposed to be the flip-side of life in Moscow, all pastoral and rustic; but it seemed to me that they were more intent on sampling every brand of vodka
Russia had to offer.
Soul mates.
They bade me to sit in with them and share a libation. I, being the ambassador of international amity and booze, could scarcely decline. They had a thousand-and-one questions. "How long have you been in Russia? How do you find the food? Where's a good cathouse in Moscow?" The usual.
As an added bonus, they had an expense account the likes of which I thought only us oil-folks could dream up. Like Ford Prefect at the Elvis Lounge, these characters were intent on seeing how many zeros they could pile up to the left of the decimal place.
Amid toasts (I demonstrated to them the role of 'Tamandar' (Russian toastmaster)), we proceeded to toast nearly everything in sight and probably a few billion errant brain cells as well. We were just about to toast Thursday ("Hey. Only comes once a week...") when Ivan stumbles up.
"Rock. Have made deal with crew. We can have case vodka, case beer and two hams."
"Hey, that's great Ivan. How many fish do we have to trade them?"
"Ah. Um. Well. No fish."
"No fish?"
"Ah. Um. Well. Yes. No fish."
"If no fish, how many rubles do I have to part with?"
"Um. No rubles..."
"Dollars?"
"Um. No dollars."
"Ivan. Listen carefully. What's this going to cost us?"
"Oh. Not much. Just one box cigars."
Oh, well, that's different...I didn't know you brought any cigars, the way you keep filching mine."
"Oh, you make big joke."
I wasn't laughing.
Seems my comrade has swapped one of my last 5 boxes of Turkmenistan hand-rolleds for the potables and smoked & cured pig parts.
"Is good! They wanted two boxes!"
I managed to keep up the "Damn. You traded MY cigars for what?" act for only a couple of minutes. Ivan, seeing that I wasn't at all upset but was giving him grief, responded with the classic "Rock...you son of bitch."
The Canadians were completely perplexed with all this. What they thought was going to be a bare knuckle boxing match ended up with even more toasts, this time in Russian.
It was good.
We stayed on the ship overnight, in fact, we didn't have much choice. Rather difficult to board a pitching canoe when the whole world itself is pitching. Trust me to mix vodka, kumiss and cognac again.
Sometime the next morning, we all sobered up enough to bid our friends a fond farewell and head off up river. The cruise ship was about to do an about-face and head back to Krasnoyarsk, and we still had a shitload of more klicks to cover.
With our new provisions (and minus one box of cigars), we headed ever northward. After a day of lazily floating up river, the ominous sound once again returned. No imagination this time, Ivan identified it as the sound of the Yenisei River as it goes over 'Blood Falls'. Lovely little moniker, there. Seems that a group of miners in the late 1800's tangled, somewhat unsuccessfully, with these falls. Hence the name.
"Um, Ivan, We're not going to duplicate the feat the earlier explorers attempted, are we?"
"Ha! No. Must walk around falls."
Portage.
Great.
Yet another little detail Ivan forgot to mention.
After a half dozen quick 6 kilometer walks around the falls (which were agonizingly beautiful, but, oh so dangerous), we settled back into our northward drift.
The river changed demeanor at this point. What was a wide, calm, flat and portly body of water went to Vic Tanney’s for a tone up. The river narrowed, got quicker, meaner, and much, much taller.
"Oh. Ivan?” I inquired, "You've traveled these rapids before?"
"Oh, yes.” he calmly replied, "But up river it gets really rough."
As he says that, we are caroming around boulders the size of minibuses, and the flat, fertile Siberian steppe riverside gave way to ever heightening sheer rock cliffs.
"Damn. There must be some great geology there.” I thought.
But we were going by a far too rapid of rate to see anything smaller than a good-sized office building.
"Now! This is where fun begins!” hollers Ivan, the river fairly effectively drowning out his whoops.
Like a Ping-Pong ball in an automatic washer, we were being bounced hither and yon. Up the side of one boulder, down the backside of another.
Lucky for me I had foregone breakfast, for at this time I'm sure I'd be chumming for lenok.
Ivan had the helm and did an admirable job of keeping us from being killed. After 15 or so minutes of all this, I relaxed slightly, appreciative that I might just survive this.
I should have known better.
I realized something was askew when I noticed this rather outsized pinnacle of rock between Ivan and myself. What was even more curious was that what was once a straight canoe now defied all Euclidian space and was now something resembling a large Moebius strip.
In other words, we wrapped our canoe around a rock like a Rebel drunk wraps a '65 Caddy around a telephone pole.
As providence would have it, our pack raft broke loose, but got wedged in some rocks only a few hundred meters or so upriver. Wedged, yes. Wedged and rapidly deflating. Luckily, the water here was only waist deep (although testicle-freezing and blisteringly swift), and we were able to, after a series of hilariously slippery pratfalls, to abandon our boomerang shaped canoe, gather what gear had not already slipped upriver and scrabble to a small, sandy shore.
"Well. That was fun. Now what?” I wondered aloud.
"Looks like we walk.” replies Ivan, ever the pragmatist.
What in the West would be grounds for a mammoth piece of litigation was over here a minor inconvenience.
"We had better see if we can retrieve the pack raft.” I observed.
"Difficult. Better leave it.", noted Ivan.
"But my cigars are in that raft, as well as the last of the vodka..."
We built a campfire to dry our clothes after Ivan had dove in and struggled to the raft. I had to follow to pull Ivan back to shore. The raft was a total loss (scoria is not terribly charitable to inflated rubber crafts), but we rescued my cigars, our fishing and camping gear, some food and the ever important vodka.
We took stock of our stock and I again wondered aloud "Now what?"
"We walk. Not far, only 100 kilometers."
"Dandy". I thought. Oh, well. It's not so bad. We have enough food, camping gear and sturdy boots. So I'll be a bit late getting back (we were to meet an Eniseigeophysicia Hind 20 in Kuretjka about exactly 100 klicks upriver). Precisely at the half-way point, we get marooned.
Resigned to our fate, we have a fine dinner of freshly caught lenok (local pike-type fish) and sit back with a fine cigar and a dram or eightyu-three of vodka and marvel at the bluffs of the Yenisei.
The next morning (hard to tell when the sun hasn't the sense to set) found us backpacking out of the canyon (for the lack of a better term) and heading generally southward. It was a bit unnerving to be someplace without a single vestige of human habitation, let alone civilization. No telephone wires, power lines, transmission towers, roads, nothing.
At this point I began to wish that I had not left my Kalishnikov 9.72mm pistol back at Ivan's dacha. There are nasties out here, other than the bugs; wolverines, bears and the occasional rogue reindeer. I hoped my cigar would keep them, as well as the fucking mosquitoes, at bay.
Day two of our forced march south found us still in good spirits (we had lugged along 8 liters of vodka each) and going slightly daffy from the lack of any sort of modern conveniences and an oversupply of insects.
That afternoon, after a hasty riverbank lunch of yaws and goiters, we came upon something about as expected as a laser-guided flying submarine.
A temple.
No shit! Out here in the middle of an absolutely forested beyond compare, of nowhere Siberia, stood a Buddhist temple
I shook my head and promised to go lighter on the hooch. Blinked once or twice, and asked Ivan if I was hallucinating or was that in fact a real temple.
Ivan didn't flinch.
"Yes. Is Buddhist place. They all over Siberia, but most close down after Revolution."
"You mean the 1990 revolution, right?"
"Nyet. 1917."
Damn.
It was then that we noticed the oddball in the flowing saffron-colored robes who was carrying a bunch of fish towards the temple.
"Hmph. Looks like this is one that's still in business. Let's go see."
We wandered over towards the priest, rabbi, guru, monk, or whatever-the-hell they call Buddhist adherents. Strange thing though, the faster we walked, the faster he walked the opposite way. By the time we reached the outline of the compound, we were in a flat run.
"Piss on this", I puffed. "We'll catch up with him later."
It was nearly noon, and we settled in to a quick lunch of blini and ukha (again...), poured a couple of double-double rounds of Russkaya and fired up another one of my now famous stogies, and contemplated our next move.
"What the blinkered hell is a Buddhist temple doing out here?” I asked Ivan.
"Many years ago", Ivan explained, "Buddhist people were persecuted by local peoples to the south." Seems the locals, with their animistic religions, were as keen on Buddhists as PETA is on McClintock Beef.
"And they were forced out of China and Mongolia.", Ivan continued. "The traveled northward" (I'm transliterating this, Ivan's still on English lesson #3), "and settled in areas that they thought were unpopulated. They built their temples and such from the local forests and basically kept to themselves. Over time, they were accepted by the local tribals as relatively innocuous; and all live together in mutual, although distant, cooperation."
"Much land here.” Ivan continued. "Too much to worry about. Buddhists were good and quiet people. They adapted to the north and the north people accepted them."
"What language do they speak", I asked Ivan.
"Mostly some sort of Chinese, Russian and English.” Ivan reported.
"English?” I fairly goggled.
"Radio.", explained Ivan.
"Radio? Explain."
"They, after many years, after Great Patriotic War, acquired generators. They provide generators to drive the prayer wheels and light shrines."
This is true, although I felt like I just slid into Azimov's "Nine Billion Names of God".
"And then, after electricity, came radios, mostly shortwave."
"Well, now what?” I asked Ivan, who was intent on killing another few billion more itinerant brain cells than discussing Marconi’s invention.
"Let's go and see. They good people. They like visitors."
"Yeah, sure.” I mused, "I'll wager they get a bunch out here in an area that's hardly been satellite mapped, much less laid out in an AAA brochure."
We broke our impromptu camp ("Pack out your trash", Old Russian saying), and sallied forth to infiltrate their domain and see just what was happening in the Siberian Buddhist world.
Through the ornately carved lintels and jambs of the encampment we went. I felt like a stranger in a very strange land.
"Odd", I thought, "It seems that there's no one home."
We wandered around the camp like Neil and Buzz on their NASA provided field trip.
"Where is everyone?” I asked.
"Oh, they are here. They worry. Probably think we are RVS or KGB."
"Since when does the KGB go wandering around the countryside half-in-the-bag and smoking cigars?" I asked Ivan.
"True", agreed Ivan, "They smoke Beleomorkanals. [Truly awful Russian cigarettes]".
Past wooden huts, wooden ashrams, and ornately carved also wooden icons we tramped.
Around a corner and smack into a group of 100 or so characters right out of the India scene of "Close Encounters of the Third Kind".
"Hello! Zdrastvweetcha! How's it going?” I'm nothing if not an ambassadorial polyglot.
A truly ancient character ambled over to us (probably in fact all of 60 years old). He was looking at Ivan.
"Russian?” he asked.
"Half right.” I replied. "You speak English?"
"You are not Russian.” he observed, with a keen eye for the obvious.
"Are you German?” directing a question at me.
"Well, my ancestors were.” I replied as Ivan snorted in the background.
He stiffened. I could tell he was positively terrified. "Of what?” I wondered.
We're just two totally unkempt, probably malodorous, bewhiskered characters toting a good portion of an Academy sporting goods store and a small Houston liquor store, smoking absolutely huge cigars.
"I am an American. My compatriot is Russian, but first a Siberian."
He relaxed a bit. But then froze stone rigid.
"American? With beard. Geologist?"
"Yes sir, you are correct."
"Oil company?"
"No. I'm not an oil company, but I work for one."
I found out later this is like admitting to being spotted-owl eating Oil Field Trash at an Earth First! Meeting.
"But I'm on vacation."
"You are not here on survey?"
"Nope. Like I said, we are on vacation."
"Vacation?” he replied, "In East Siberia?"
I have to admit, he did have a point.
"We were rafting on the Yenisei and got marooned. We hiked out and saw your place. We come in peace..." (Only now realizing how ridiculous that sounded...)
"Yep. Oil folks are a weird bunch."
I could see by his demeanor that he heartily agreed.
"Then you are welcome. Come, share your burden."
I already liked this guy.
We dropped our packs and extended the handshake of true friendship. I couldn't help but notice that we were under the cynosure of all eyes at this point.
"Meyna zavoot Rock."
I was greeted by a curious look.
"I thought that you might speak Russian."
"Is that what that was?” the leader asked.
No respect.
"I'm Doc Rocknocker, and this is my compatriot and drinking buddy Ivan. I work for KulOil and he works for Eniseigeofizika. We're friends out on a trek."
"I am Sakha. I am an elder of this set."
"And I am very pleased to meet you." I filled him in on our travails of the last week or so, although I must admit, he did appear rather skeptical.
"Only a fool or drunkard would attempt the river here."
"Hello?” I replied. "You called?"
"Somehow", Sakha replied, "That seemed appropriate."
About that time, some robe-clad character walked by with a meager bundle of fish.
"What's that?” I asked, "Lunch?"
"It is his time to provide for the clan", Sakha explained, "Troubling. That is a week's catch."
"That's it? Well, how does one fish around here?” I inquired.
"We set nets. But the water is so rough that when we get a number of fish, the nets tear. It is too far to walk to calm water. It is most unsettling." "Ever tried one of these?” I asked pulling out a balanced Shakespeare popping rod/bait casting combo.
"I have never seen such a device. How does it work?” blinked Sakha.
If ever there was an invitation to go fishing, this was the time.
Off we trundled, myself, Ivan, Sakha and a dozen or monks in tow to a likely looking spot in the river.
"See. It's not at all difficult.” I said, tying on a Mepps Meteor spinner.
They fairly goggled at my casting and retrieves. They cast aspirant glances as I repeated the scenario. They chuckled as I continued to do so without as much as a rise to my offerings.
Then they gazed in open-mouthed admiration as I landed an 8 kilo lenok.
"But, you made no offering.” complained Sakha, "Why do fish bite this?"
"What do you offer them by your nets, other than an invitation to the ukha pot?"
Puzzlement stirred the crowd, along with not a few nodding heads.
"It has to do with piscine territoriality, hunger and a severely bad case of attitude."
He accepted this, and the lenok, as we popped a cold one, lit huge cigars (at least, Ivan and I did) and settled in for an afternoon's fishing.
We fished the river for about 5 hours (and 3 cigars and two or six bottles of vodka) and presented our friends a batch of pike, perch and other Siberian finny unidentifiables. They were most appreciative and, I might add, rather impressed. We also presented them one each of my rapidly diminishing stores of cigars.
Seems like we wandered into an enclave of "Jack-Buddhists", as they also accepted, quite readily, thank you very much, our offer of a few hundred billion picoliters of potables.
"I thought you folk were denied the finer things in life?” I asked Sakha.
"Typically, yes.” he explained, "But is not every day that guests arrive. It would be ungracious, and irreverent, for us to refuse your hospitality."
"Well", I thought, "A truly evolving religion. And rather convenient."
I liked this place more by the hour.
We bundled up our gear and trundled ourselves up the well-worn path back to...I never did figure out what they called their place...Home? Camp? Base?
Whatever. On the way, Sakha informed me that there was to be a meal in our honor later that evening. We were shown to an abode (what else can you call a basic four-wall structure without running water, electricity or indoor plumbing? Somehow dacha didn't seem appropriate) where we were told we could rest while evening prayers were said and the banquet prepared.
After a couple of trips to the river to wash up (that river is cold and there was at least a fire in our hovel) and a few toddies for internal antifreeze, we were almost feeling (but probably not looking) human again.
"Ivan?” I asked, "Have you ever been to one of these shindigs before? I mean, do you have any idea what to expect?"
"Nyet, Rock.” came the answer. "I have never been to one, but have heard that they last many hours."
Looks like another long night for the intrepid duo.
Sakha showed up at that point and escorted us to the largest building in the compound, a fairly cavernous dwelling bereft of any sort of furniture save and except for a low table which was surprisingly decorated with an ample assortment of eatables and drinkables.
"Come. Here. Sit.” beseeched Sakha.
I had noticed during our stay the total lack of women in the camp. I asked Sakha if this was a men's-only club.
No answer, but I did get the most peculiar look from him; sort of cross between a leer, smirk and grin.
After a few obligatory prayers, the lot of us were bade to dig in and chow down. Not wanting to appear disagreeable, I did. I am simply astonished by the variety of foods that can be had simply by walking outside in the forest. There was fish of several varieties, the ever present ukha, pickled mushrooms, squirrel, duck, unidentifiable types of fruit (I think), kvass (where they kept the horses is still a mystery), nuts (pine, acorns (I passed on this one), and some other types of which I have no idea of their pedigree), some type of smoked meat (tasty, but I didn't ask if it was previously named 'Rover'), breads of every description; a veritable cornucopia of Siberian goodies. There was even some sort of candy-like sweetmeat made from tree- sap (Maple? Damned if I know); chewy as hell but rather savory. They also had some low-octane homebrew made from bogberries (like cranberries, but smaller and tarter).
Then, after the first course...
Yep. This was a typical Russian meal ordeal. I realized that this was going to drag out for some hours.
Course two was separated from course one by stretching, a bit of walking about and some light idle chatter. Then course two was served.
Now I understood Sakha. The next succession of incredible edibles were served by some absolutely exquisite, though exclusively petite, women, all fitted out in their traditional garb (actually, rather Chinese-Mongolian-Tibet-Uzbek-Silk Route-Thai-Oriental-sort of skimpy (and sheer) silks and unequivocally handsome hand-sewn brocade).
"Ah.", sighed Sakha, "Next course and entertainment. It has arrived."
"Entertainment?” I wondered. After this little parade of gorgeous femininity, my dirty-old-man impression wasn’t an impression, it was genuine.

Atti-2.0: Lifestyles of the Rich and Aimless (Chicken Dinner Edition)

I like big docs and I cannot lie, you other runners can’t deny…
We’ve talked about the Denny’s of living in part One, and the Applebee’s was last week’s part Two. Now, it’s time to talk about the Houlihan’s(seriously, their French Onion soup is killer) of living - those actual champagne wishes and caviar dreams in the final part of Lifestyles of the Rich and Aimless - in which we talk about High and Luxury digs that most runners can only dream of, and blessed few ever live to see.
In truth, Luxury digs are what the 1% of the 1% of the 1% (so, dragons and Immortal Elves that are not Frosty) enjoy, and to experience it for two months will set a blue-collar drone up in soy packs and ramen noodles for life. This means that a life of Luxury is the “economic win-condition” for runners the Sixth World over (the others to be covered in later editions of Atti-2.0). Seattle would be exceedingly fortunate to see more than a handful of Luxury lifers in such a rich city - and the compounds they own are fortresses comparable to Mitsuhama’s Zero Zones.
In speaking of Demographics, the Downtown, Bellevue, and even parts of Everett and Tacoma are where the highest concentrations of per capita wealth are concentrated. Metroplex areas showing per capita income exceeding 70,000¥ is where we see single-income Middle households (already pretty wealthy if it’s only one earner) and dual-income High households. Naturally, these are also the areas with the highest Corporate affiliation - just to remind you who really pulls the strings around here.
So come with me, and you’ll see a whole world of SINner domination…
A Silver Bullet and Still Climbing
”Because I’m a 21st century digital boy…”
The suite’s lighting kicked into life as Mitchell’s alarm blasted the most recent set from the live band at Dante’s Inferno, bringing him out of the deep slumber he’d scheduled through his NeoNET-brand Van Winkle Sleep Regulator but three hours before. It had been one and one-half seconds off optimal time, but Mitchell was forgiving this morning as the live band’s completely original song that was not taken from a remake of a remake of a remake played eighty years before was both well-played and in his pool of copyrights that his department enforced.
Drones whirred to life as Mitchell planted his bare feet on the carpeted floor of his spacious master bedroom. The sheets were already starting to pull towards the foot of the bed as he stood, the automated systems retrieving the linens to be hand-washed by the housekeeping staff in the bowels of the tower in which he lived and worked. Sensors in the floor detected the weight he placed on each part of his foot and warmed the carpet so as to not provide any inkling of discomfort. The polarization of the glass wall cutely termed ‘windows’ was lightened, showing another layer of smog underneath his 80th floor residential suite, and a partly sunny day above.
”Mommy takes v-- You have a call, Mr. Westmarch.”
The song vanished, replaced with the suite’s announcement. It was rare a call made it through the layers of security developed specifically to keep Mitchell from hearing any voices he did not personally clear, but the exasperated (and authorized) voice of his administrative assistant provided the justification for the breach in privacy. She was an ex-Marketing drone named Heidi Kensington-Whipple, and her time in the trenches figuratively spinning shit into literal gold made her eerily competent - if not high strung. A real up-and-comer, Mitchell thought, which is why he had placed her monitoring one of his inherited projects.
“Good morning Heidi,” he said, loud enough for the connection to register while his shower reached the desired temperature. The smell of coffee was already wafting through his living space, brewed to specification once the biomonitors detected an increase in blood flow suggesting wakefulness. Lesser mortals would’ve just put it on a timer.
“Good morning sir,” Heidi responded. “I have your reports for the day’s activities, and an update on the automated recognition system for our freight operations. Research and Development has stated they will need an additional week for final stress testing.”
“A week?!” Mitchell exclaimed. “That was supposed to be done a month ago! Fire whoever’s third in charge of the project and assign four through nine to developing a new flavor for that shitbar we feed to Security.”
The silence was colder than the grave, which made the heat from Mitchell’s shower all the more enjoyable.
“Sir,” Heidi responded, “I assure you it was not a ‘shitbar’, as you call it, but a developed caloric alternative for-”
“Don’t care,” Mitchell said as he completed his normal wash cycle. The suite’s top-of-the-line communication system automatically filtered out any noise that wasn’t him, so he was unabashed about taking care of his morning business while the faceless voice sputtered about the excuse for food that was her magnum opus.
“It looks like shit, it tastes like shit, and we feed it to Security because they’re too poor for anything better. ‘Banana Kiwi Passionfruit?’” he asked, looking over the selection of wristwatches that had been presented to him by another automated system. “It’s absurd. Who the hell are these Security goons anyway that don’t complain about it?”
“They are another R&D project,” Heidi said. Her voice will still sharp, and Mitchell took note of it for later. “Genetech experiment to extend attention spans past optimal metahuman trends and allow them to focus observation for twelve hours or more without distraction.”
Mitchell laughed. His wristwatch was platinum today, which meant the charcoal grey suit was out. Darker looked better with platinum, and he was feeling like a slick black suit was the way to go.
“We put them in Freight Operations?” he asked. “We’re using them to watch trucks?” Mitchell’s shirt was a radiant, almost blinding white with a silver filigree which the Board of Directors found particularly pleasing. Spun from silk rumored to come from Awakened silkworms who could communicate their proper dietary needs to produce top-quality product, the garment felt like wearing sunlight itself.
“I love my job,” he continued. “So we need a week for them to do the job the automated system is supposed to be doing faster and better.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s, what, a week ‘til quarter end, right?” A coffee mug slid up from the kitchen counter as Mitchell walked in, dressed. The brew was already the perfect temperature, and flavored with a hint of nutmeg that he enjoyed during the fall.
“Yes, sir.” Well, at least Heidi knew her place. He would cancel the 8 pm meeting he was planning to have her attend in his stead, since she’d already been up since 4 am.
“Let’s, uh…” Mitchell trailed off as his door chimed, and an honest-to-God butler came in with a tray of breakfast savories. Upon lifting the plate cover to reveal (fresh) sourdough toast, (actual) scrambled eggs and some rashers of (real) bacon, he had a flash of insight.
“Let’s tell them there’s a competition to beat out some other Operations department,” he said as he sat at the table. His butler offered a hot towel and a napkin so as to prevent his suit from becoming stained. “And we’ll cater their lunch afterward. Like, as a reward or something.”
“Sir,” Heidi retorted, aghast at this display of generosity, “We don’t have a catering budget that large!”
“Who the hell cares?” Mitchell responded with a smile as he picked up his knife and fork. “We’re firing them all when the system comes online anyway.”
They Look Like Ants From Up Here
Atop their Elysian towers of steel and glass, the 1% look down their perfectly-sculpted noses at the lower economic brackets as a lord casts his disapproving gaze on the peasantry. Truly, those that live the High life are nobility in all but name (and in some cases, including that name), in possession of high-paying (if not cushy) jobs, need nothing, want for little, and occupy themselves in ways that the Middle and Lower classes could only dream of. The High lifestyle is what I consider to be the first of three ‘win conditions’ (a second being “dying memorably”) for shadowrunners. While there are some limits on the excess a High-lifer can expose themselves to, that is mainly a function of insufficient desire over funds.
At this level, money ceases to matter as a primary factor in work - instead it becomes a lust for power. These men and women in the high-level corporate positions (or even high-level national ones, diplomats, for example) do as they do to amass influence over their peers and the throngs of faceless consumers of the products the rich sell. If prosperity equaled piety, then those ensconced in the High lifestyle are Cardinals in the Diocese of Dinero.
Their power, however, is local - and dependent on the importance of their position. Their position, of course, is dependent on the size of their paycheck. As easily as power and influence can come for the High Life, it can be stolen just as easily.
The games of diplomacy that occur at the executive level are precisely what Machiavelli satirized. These balance-sheet dictators are loved by shareholders, feared by the working classes, and regarded warily by their peers. To the Full-SINner that primarily occupies this economic bracket, they are a shark, and everyone within their sphere of influence is a side of Kobe beef (unless they are in Chiba, in which case they are a proper Wagyu).
For many salarymen (and the common wageslave) 120,000¥ a year is an arduous journey to undertake, and Herculean to maintain. This stress leads so many workers to squabble like pigeons over bread. Even though those at the bottom of the High bracket are still living well, sampling the brioche in a quiet bistro, work can still be arduous for the Executive.
One can only shudder at the thought of long hours dealing with your lessers, hundreds - if not thousands - of budget items in your hands, and bosses looking at your quarterly reports wondering if they can’t squeeze an extra percentage point from your rival on the squash court.
Living On High occurs over the wealthiest residential zones that the Metroplex has to offer. Spacious luxury condos in the downtown arcologies. Old-money houses in the University blocks. Gated executive communities in Bellevue, surrounded by empty land. Tennis courts and boathouses. Some even travel from four-star hotel to four-star hotel, leaving Lowlife staff to clean up their messes.
Families living On High will tend to throw their weight behind the status of having stand-alone housing on small estates in the ‘country’ - the breadbaskets of Snohomish, the greenery of Bellevue, or perhaps even those houses overlooking the Sound in Tacoma (it’s been known to happen). Children have private schooling and tutors to ensure they get the proper education, and will be schooled in physical buildings simply to allow them to grow relationships with other corporate scions. Many of these kids will form their own ‘preppie gangs’ as they grow into adolescence, stalking the streets of downtown for poors to sneer at - or beat with a nightstick helpfully supplied by a Knight-Errant patrolman.
As previously stated, every need is automatically cared for. Their accommodations have the finest of automated services, or a host of mortal servants to accomplish menial tasks. The only soy consumed is if they desire to ‘slum it’ or are trying the latest atrocious offering from Marketing as a public relations ploy. It is not if they are going to drive to the concert, but which car they will take. They are the Vice Presidents, the C-level executive, the successful unrated corporation owner - and the highly successful shadowrunner.
Runners living the High life have made it. Their building security doesn’t ask them what’s in the bag, they offer to carry it. Their first name is ‘Sir’ or ‘Ma’am.’ Waiting lines are for the proles living in the arkoblocks. Memberships to the Covfefe Bean, Blood & Sand, or Bespoke Suit of the Month Club are a matter of course (and you will be judged if you do not take your coffee with cruelty like a true scion of capitalism). In your realm, you have made the most coveted purchase that any citizen of the Sixth World can afford to make: privacy.
The separation between runners wallowing in mediocrity in Middle and prospering appears here, as 10,000¥ a month for this level of living is comparatively peanuts. Runners living On High don’t get out of bed for payouts less than 25,000¥ and their fixers are well aware of this. You’re more worried about affording the offerings at the deltaware clinic, or coming up with the gifts to your metaplanar allies that would be the most aesthetically pleasing. The worries of day-to-day life do not exist for you here, and it can be had for a steal. Running on High is less about the money, and more about the status you carry in the shadows.
But. You still have to work. And keeping yourself in shape to work can prevent you from scoring the cool 1,000,000¥ needed to make that one-acre estate in Town & Country permanent. And while every need is satisfied living On High, every want is not.
Made Triple-Platinum, Doin’ Fifty (Million) A Week
He was a pint-size frontman for KRUSIBYL, the greatest Goblin Metal band in the world. His music reached millions and was the undeniable voice of the Ork and Troll communities worldwide. His influence was vast, his resources unlimited, and his bed was frequently filled with a stunning cross-section of metahumanity.
Yet, for all of these things, Flea Knickertwister (born Bertram Charlemagne Morgan, but Flea Knickertwister sounded so much more metal) was very confused as to why his olfactory sensors were telling him a bespoke genetically-engineered canine was trying to lick him awake, whining as it did so. Flea identified it as a limited-edition Lipwigzer strain, a 41-S to be specific. This was curious, because he was reasonably certain he did not own one.
Flea cracked an eyelid to assess his situation, hands pushing the dog’s snout out of the way. The CalFree sun was covered in a smoky haze, obscured by the charred remains of a ramshackle stage that had not survived the previous evening. The gentle sound of waves crashing on the shore reminded him he was on a beach, yet his tour bus was nowhere to be found. Shattered remnants of amplifiers, speakers, and precision instruments - the finest his money could buy, which was very - were strewn about on the sand. A second plume of smoke was rising from beyond a dune, out of sight.
This may reveal the location of his tour bus, Flea surmised. He would have to summon the replacement.
As he blearily looked for his bandmates, Flea discovered a pile of half-barrel kegs the size of three trolls and a pile of white powder the size of two orks. Flea could see the pile move and dust blow into the air in a slow rhythm, like a kettle about to percolate. This was also curious - a pile that large in Flea’s proximity could only be novacoke from his private stash. Last night’s gala must have had him feeling excessively generous.
Despite clearly being surrounded by sand, Flea felt like he was floating on water. He could feel the forgiving plastic of a float ring gently cradling his small form. It bobbed in a hot tub fashioned from wood of the Sangre del Diablo - one of the originals, not the more-recent Bogota cuttings. His ever-helpful olfactory sensor cheerfully informed him that the spectrographic analysis indicated the 162 gallons or so of liquid he was floating in held hints of juniper, cucumber, a healthy measure of water, lime, and approximately 40% alcohol. This was further curious, as Flea was reasonably certain the tank he kept in reserve was smaller than 162 gallons. It had also been emptied well before what he could only assume was another sold-out beach concert.
The tub’s placement on the beach was a minor detail, despite the knowledge that said tub wasn’t meant to be removed from the tour bus. But, Flea noted, the smoke was rising in the distance, and of all the items that could be saved he was pleased this was the priority.
The most troubling development for him was that he was alone - save for the poodle licking his face from the hot tub’s edge - and that was a fate he would wish only upon his worst enemy. Even more troubling, he could not find his commlink - and without it, he was utterly bereft of contact with his legions of adoring fans. His MeFeed wasn’t going to update itself - unless his Social Media Coordinator had it. In which case, it would.
Feeling about in the ginwater, Flea came up with a lengthy chain of orichalcum links that led over the edge of the pool and into what he could only believe was the voluminous aether. Pulling on the chain only brought him to the very edge of the tub, disappearing into the oddly-contorted sand. It reminded him of that pile of novacoke he’d been meaning to investigate in the five-second eternity since he was rudely awakened.
Flea managed to roll off the edge of the float tube (and, coincidentally, the pool itself) and sprawl on the sand in question. As he did so, it started to shift and rise as a sky-clad form arose from its silicate tomb. An Ork, thin, yet voluptuous in all the places he enjoyed, looked down on him with a mixture of hangover and concern. That orichalcum chain led all the way up to a luxurious black Naga-hide choker encrusted with diamonds around her neck. It was designed by masters of leather work and crafted by trained servants of a dragon that Krusibyl played a birthday party for. Schwartzkopf, it turned out, wanted a somber celebration of Dunkelzahn’s hatching in the metahuman style. It was a trifle - the novacoke was more entertaining.
“There you are!” he said in happiness, looking up at her. “Suffer DarkBlood BoneRaven, you could’ve given me a terrible scare!”
Suffer, as Flea preferred to call her, knelt down to pick him up in her arms. She cradled Flea upon her heavenly chest, which had been worth the nuyen to install. The agent has told Flea that her name was Charlene Hubbart, but who cared about peasant titles anyway?
“I’m sorry I got lost,” she mumbled with reverence, as she was trained. “Will you forgive me?”
“This time,” Flea said magnanimously. While he wanted to find his commlink, activating the electric shock program that terminated at her collar wouldn’t be necessary. This was nice.
“Where are the oth- No, a more important question. Why is there a Lipwigzer 41-S here affectionately asking for walkies?”
Flea revised the priority of the electroshock program. Suffer was slipping - she should’ve answered this before he asked. She had been buried underneath sand, but his benevolence could only be pushed so far.
“Um,” Suffer said while carrying Flea towards the mountain of kegs, “You said you were keeping it until your demands were met.”
“Demands?” he asked, frowning. “What demands were - oh, sirens. Bother.”
The archives of his cybereye footage were already coming up as the first patrol buggy roared into view. Flea was certain that they would handle things, and if they wouldn’t then Suffer would. After all, she had a MBA from Harvard and her sister was a leading geneticist in her field. He had more important things to occupy his time, such as the passing fancy of this Lipwigzer’s abduction.
Perhaps that’s where the bathtub full of gin came from.
S-U-C-C-E-S-S: That Is How We Spell ‘Excess’
One last job. One big score. The culmination of everything you have worked toward as a top-tier shadowrunner. The job from which legends will be told in every smoking hole of a bar on the planet. The one that you sell the trid rights to, and get Gary Cline him-fragging-self to play your role. As the handful of runners who have made it will never tell you, this is what it takes to live a life of Luxury.
The ultra-rich that call this Lifestyle theirs are continental and intercontinental players. Finance magnates. Corporate Board of Directors. Hugely successful sports stars and entertainers. When they speak, millions listen. An offhand MeFeed post about a new product by an up-and-coming indie company can set up those manufacturers for life - or bury them in the cradle.
This life attracts two kinds - The Executive, who never has time to enjoy the lifestyle (despite being able to easily afford it a hundred times over), and the Decadent - who does nothing but enjoy the lifestyle. Runners will typically fall into one category, and I’ll give you a single guess as to which one it is.
It stands to reason in this hyper-capitalist dystopia that the Executive is the force that makes this work for everyone else. A conservative’s wet dream, it is their vision that drives the wheels of industry and directs the hundreds of thousands of workers in fulfilling the Executive’s vision. As a result, the shares they hold (and they all hold many, many shares of the corporation they work for) continue to rise in value, and their net worth rivals that of some small countries.
It can be difficult to describe how the Luxury lifestyle relates to the others I’ve covered, so I will simply put it thus: It is beyond anything you can imagine. Fancy cars, five-star hotels, vacations aboard the orbital stations (travel included), party yachts, even a village of starving Aztlaners to carry you on their backs in a handmade palanquin.
Everything your overconsuming capitalist heart could wish for is reality for the Luxurious. Every whim is instantly catered to. Executive Assistants are hired specifically to predict what their Executive wants, and to preempt their request with its fulfillment. Cars are ready before they ask. The plane is already on the tarmac being stocked with the Executive’s favorite cigars and brandy. Security is both unobtrusive and so tight not even a silent fart can escape the bodyguard’s notice. Only the most skilled and professional of shadowrunner teams could hope to perform an extraction or wetwork job on an Executive - and they are the ones typically hired by said Executive to counter that strategy.
For the Decadent, tastes may run a tad darker. A selection of SINless are snatched off the street and sent to the cybersurgery suites to be molded into the perfect disposable companions. Other SINless, starving Street rats and Squatters are promised (not paid, promised) paltry sums to assist the Decadent with their “hunts”. As with all safaris, no part is wasted - and any part the Decadent doesn’t want can be thrown back to the rest of the societal dregs clamoring for a meal.
Try the braised peasant. It comes highly recommended.
Security will be perhaps a bit more overt and unsubtle in their presence, and the Decadent will attract those of like mind in order to share in the activities. This can be good and bad, as the security will be very skilled and highly competent - so long as they aren’t distracted by vices that the Decadent will demand supplied. Your bodyguard might be one of the best shots in the business and capable of clearing a company of terrorists from a Panamanian yacht caught in the canal locks, but don’t expect any of the passengers to survive since he’s been on a three-day Scotch bender and is sleeping it off in his cabin.
As a result, it is the true endgame for a shadowrunner, as one who has reached this is already a legend simply for not dying while pulling this off. One would have to be not just a master of the shadows, but Darkness Incarnate in order to attain the 10,000,000¥ required for a permanent life of Luxury. It may be enough to avoid the pitfalls of Decadence while enjoying the life the Executive has no time for.
If, for some reason, the Winner wants to work, job payouts reflect the lifestyle to which he has become accustomed. These are jobs that require phantoms, changing the very fabric of economic existence. Their actions make ripples in the world of SINners and cause stock prices to fluctuate. A team infiltrates the Hong Kong Stock Exchange to make a tiny edit in the Foundation of the financial host during the quarter-second it’s down to sync its clock with the rotation of the Earth. Professionals snatch one of the Wuxing Quintuplets in transit from Hong Kong to Los Angeles before a big trid premier, with none of the security on board any wiser.
These are just examples. They’re done for the thrill, the legend... And for the five million each the runners demand for their services. At this level, the Johnson can’t exactly say no.
What does it take to reach the heights of the Sixth World? Bust your hoop for years, survive double-crosses, High-Threat Response teams, an army of gangers, and survive every ‘One Last Job’ that comes your way? Draw the eye of the most powerful, and accomplish an impossible task - the kind of task that creates new crime syndicates and is talked about in hushed whispers for years to come?
It’s a heaping pile of ability and competence cut with a strong measure of luck. It’s being in the right place at the right time. It’s surviving being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s keeping your head down when the situation calls for it, and it’s standing tall when it counts. It’s the gear, the contacts, the people, and the influence.
It’s all of this, and it’s none of this. In the Sixth World, above all it is about attitude.
And attitude is everything.
Previous Atti-2.0:
Living in SIN
Lifestyles of the Rich and Aimless - Streets n' Squats
Lifestyles of the Rich and Aimless - Lowlifes ‘n Starter Homes

what do caviar limes taste like video

It Pops Like Caviar, Tastes Like Lime, and Is Taking Over Menus . Finger limes are a great addition to fresh seafood, vegetables, and even pasta. By . Kate Krader. December 12, 2018, 12:27 PM EST ... Known as 'citrus caviar', this lime variety is coveted by culinary masters. The Australian finger lime is the most challenging citrus variety to grow and the fruit can fetch prices of over $100/lb! Australian Finger Lime Fruit Features of the Australian finger lime: Colorful, with small pulp and caviar-like vesicles. M Finger limes are delicious when paired with seafood.They can also be pickled, juiced, and zested. They provide a unique accent in cocktails, salads, and desserts, and are a perfect ingredient for "vegetarian sushi," as noted by Food52.Their texture is similar to caviar, with that delicate burst or pop of juice, but of course without any fish-y flavor. The flesh of finger limes looks like small caviar pearls rather than typical oblong citrus fruit juice sacs. Biting into these lime pearls releases tangy, sour juice that has a refreshing taste. Different varieties of finger limes have colors such as lime-green, red, light yellow, and light pink. What do they taste like? Unlike other citrus fruits which have stringy flesh, the inside of finger limes have juicy encapsulated pearls. When you bite into them, they explode in your mouth with a burst of lemon-lime flavored juice. The green varieties are sour, while the pink taste sweeter. It’s not that the tart flavor is that unique, but rather that it’s completely isolated within the ... These limes really look different from other limes and are also known as Australian finger limes or caviar limes. They come in green, red, pink, yellow or brown shades and are cylindrical in shape with a rough and bumpy skin. The really different part is that the flesh looks like caviar pearls and contain the lime juice. How to store limes. Lots of the time, you will buy limes in bags and you ... Like just about everything else in this tumultuous year, baking in 2020 has felt like no other. From ingredient shortages and reduced grocery runs to the crushing, simultaneous weight of a global pandemic and contentious election, so much has left so many of us unmoored, in the kitchen and otherwise. But we have also found ways to center ourselves amid the storm, standing at the counter with a ... Like other acid citrus, they’re really too tart to eat fresh, but even so, the first time you encounter one, try cutting it in half and sucking out the caviar, squeezing it out of the rind like ... Caviar limes have an unmistakable texture that pops with a satisfying crunchiness. Like all adorable things in this world, caviar limes have a lot of nicknames. You may have seen them called Australian finger limes, cowboy caviar, vegan caviar, cresco caviar lime or lancer caviar. All About Caviar Limes. How To Eat Caviar Limes. Frequently ... What do fingers limes taste like? Definitely citrusy! Tart, with a touch of bitterness, and just a hint of sweet. Personally, I think it’s almost like a cross between a Persian lime and a young grapefruit, with some lemon basil thrown in. I just love how the tiny pearls burst in your mouth, releasing a shot of tangy, zingy flavour, as you bite into them unsuspectingly. Australian finger lime ...

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2 Lemon 2 Limes Salt & Hot Sauce Challenge Under 5 Min. ⚠

Caviar is one of the most interesting -- and misunderstood -- foods in the world. Expensive? Generally. Delicious? Well, that depends on your style. On this ... The taste is great, but where the Finger Limes shine is in the texture and pop of the citrus pearls when you crunch them in your mouth. ... The fruit that looks like Caviar - Weird Fruit Explorer ... Welcome to Will It? On this show members of the WE cast will try to create weird & gross types of misc products! Today the WE crew tries to create Caviar Pop-Tarts! Jun - https://www.instagram.com ... Frieda's Crash Course: Citrus caviar? Finger limes? What?! Learn more about this tiny citrus fruit: http://www.friedas.com/organic-finger-lime/Inspire. Taste... #2Lemon2Limes #Perrrfect_Queen33 #CouplesChallenge Hey y'all welcome to Buffet and Beauty Life! Our channel where you can get the best of both worlds, from cook with me's, CHALLENGES, makeup ... Lemons and limes are one of those ingredients that often leave you wondering just how different they are. Can you substitute them for each other in dishes? How do they differ in taste? This unique fruit contains tiny pearls of citrus that look uncannily like fish roe. Find out what it tastes like on this Fruity Fruits episode. New videos ev...

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what do caviar limes taste like

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Ingredients / Tools / Preparation

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Ingredients

Process

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Stove Top

Pressure Cooker

Finish

Notes

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The Basics

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what do caviar limes taste like video

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2 Lemon 2 Limes Salt & Hot Sauce Challenge Under 5 Min. ⚠