Half baked harvest iced lemon loaf

Looking for input

2023.05.30 23:25 DustinKW Looking for input

Good Afternoon,
I am new to reddit and also a new to writing with intention of other people reading it. I would like to share some of my short stories and am open to constructive input. Please do not be negative or judgemental. I write because I enjoy it and I interested if anyone else does. The intention of these stories is to be include in a sort of memoi cookbook
thank you
Sugar High
They say that once you quit drinking your body craves sugar, I know this is very true. Before I went to rehab I really did not like sweets very much, except ice cream I always loved ice cream. Recovering addicts rely on sugar like Milli Vanilli relies on vocal tracks. Every “meal” provided the minimal amount of nutrients a person needs to stay alive. Up to this point in my life I was naively unaware of the many food types that come in powder form. There was a week that we had salt, it was amazing! For every meal there was a buffet of day old pastries laid out on each table. If you saw something you liked while waiting in line you had better grab it. Rehab cafeterias have some of the same rules as high school- it definitely matters where you sit, and a fight erupting over a cupcake was not unheard of. These self anointed kings of the streets, tough guys turn into little bitches, over the last Unicorn sprinkle cupcake at snack time. The only thing different between a group of 70 grown men and a group of 70 teenage girls, is the amount of body hair, and the maturity levels are identical.
For the better part of a year and half just being awake was enough of a reason to be drinking. There was always a nagging feeling in the back of my mind that I wouldn't have enough booze, so I carried my own everywhere I went. The thought process that decided the size of bottle I would bring depended on whether this would be my only source of booze or it was a companion bottle to accompany the cocktails I was having publicly. I would hate for people to think I was drunk and order a Vodka martini with a Jack Daniel’s chaser, I am a lady so I did my shot in the powder room. Grocery shopping was a half Pint, even though I was also buying two 1.75mL bottles for the next couple days but I couldn't wait till I got home. Work was usually a pint and half, a pint from the strip club liquor store and a couple of shots at the bar across the street when that was gone. The word addiction never crossed my mind; I was a fabulously highly functional alcoholic.
When I admitted to myself and a room full of strangers the extent and severity of my addiction, I could finally see myself, in the faces of my peers in that room and what I saw was terrifying. For the first time in my life I did not like myself, definitely did not love myself. Up to this point in my life I had an unwavering belief that I was amazing at everything I did. I knew that I succeeded because I was so confident and I was so confident because I succeeded. I felt like I had just been punched in the gut, and I lost my entire self worth in that one minute. Alcohol had taken away from me the very essence of who I am. Those early days were hard. I had to rediscover myself, I am still discovering myself. I did find my confidence again.
Geno I got sober together and it has been so great, there was a part of both of us that had been lying dormant for a little while and when it came out it came out in force. In the first month of sobriety we got to see our new niece Raelynn for the first time, around four months we had started a cookie business, restructured our lives, and by month six we had started making our 2 year plan to grow our cookie business into a national brand, and I started writing a book, yes this one.
Geno has always been the baker in the family. I started dabbling in baking right after I got out of rehab, I could not believe how much extra time I had now that I was not drinking. Geno had made an Oreo Cheesecake and it looked like so much fun. A few days passed and I wanted to make a cheesecake, so I started with a simple cheesecake, a few days later there was an apple crisp, then a couple dozen mini cheesecakes, 1-2-3-4 cake with buttercream frosting, not as easy as the name may suggest, then a couple dozen chocolate chip cookies, most of these recipes were straight forward and required no creativity and I was starting to get bored… Ooh something shiny… then Mini Lava Brownies with Chocolate Ganache Drizzle happened. *mic drop* You are welcome!
(LAVA BROWNIES WITH GANACHE DRIZZLE)

Sunset Sandwiches:

The year prior to checking myself into rehab was one self- created dumpster fire after another. One does not usually end up in rehab after a wonderfully stable year. I spent most the year running away from the people who loved me most, especially my husband, Geno. Geno and I have been through some tough times in our relationship but this year was especially awful. I believe Queen Elizebeth II called it an “Annus Horribilis”, very fitting since this was the year Windsor caught fire and I spent the entire year trying to burn my life to the ground. I was in such a dark place and didn't even realize it, it was very scary and lonely inside myself and my outward side was the complete opposite. This duality in my life caused me to create a villain and sadly that villain was Geno. At one point in May I attempted suicide and almost succeded, Geno found me on the couch and called an ambulance, I woke up 2 day later in a mental hospital on suicide watch. The scariest part about that was I had no recollection of wanting to hurt myself or even thinking it through, all I remember is seeing darkness. I came home after seven days and I really thought I would slow down on the drinking and maybe I did for a little while but not long enough to remember. I remember thinking that I was loved becaused all my friends and family were so devastated at the thought of losing me, that feeling was lost again to the booze soon after.
That summer was a rollercoaster of huge fights, extended time away from each other, terrible things were said, and in October it all reached a climax and I threatened to leave Geno and went to stay with my cousin Mandi in Wisconsin with the rest of my family. My aunt Kristy and Grandma were exactly what I knew deep down they would be, honest as fuck! My grandma told me that I was “difficult, had lived a very charmed life and I should suck it up, go home and be happy with my husband”. My Aunt Kristy was brutally honest. She sat me down and asked me “What was going on?” when I started to tell her in my sugar coated everything will be fine, she called bullshit on me. She called out my drinking and told me I didnt even “resemble her nephew.” She also told me it was time to get my shit together. Kristy fought a long hard battle with addiction and has been happily sober for many years now. She said “Honey, I missed a lot of years of my life due to addiction.” She has now forced me to feel real emotions and I am open-mouth sobbing, she goes on, “You are going to lose them too or worse you will lose everything.”
It was the first time I was forced to see myself and the disaster I had become. A week later I flew home and checked myself into rehab. It was difficult to remember how to be happy with Geno, I had to retrain myself to love him the way he deserved to be loved and to see how much he loves me. In those first weeks we spent all day everyday together, it was amazing, for the first time in a long time we were not yelling and screaming at each other. One beautiful day we decided to go to the beach for a sunset picnic, it was the first time we had gone to see the sunset since we had quit drinking. The sunset was the most beautiful orange and glorious sunset, I was finally seeing my Geno, and he was all the light I needed. That sunset I fell madly in love with my husband again, oh and we had some sandwiches!
submitted by DustinKW to writers [link] [comments]

2023.05.30 22:37 chuckhustmyre [TH] MIRROR IMAGE by Chuck Hustmyre

Sometimes when you look into the mirror, the mirror looks back.
William Bailey's forehead shattered the mirror like a sledgehammer. The last thing he remembered before he blacked out was the feeling that he was falling through the mirror. Sub-cranial hematoma, a concussion, maybe even a cracked skull--that had to be the reason for the strange feeling. The mirror was mounted on the wall just to the right of the bar, four feet tall by about three feet wide. As consciousness slipped away, common sense and his strong belief in the rational world told him that he couldn't fall through the mirror. He must have bounced his head off the wall and be falling toward the floor.
It seemed like just a second or two before William's eyes popped open. He lay on his back, on the hard wood floor of Fausto's, with Johnny Davis towering over him. Big Johnny probably wanted to finish him off, maybe kill him, and finally end their twenty-year-old feud. Either Big Johnny Davis and the ceiling lights above him were spinning, or William's head was spinning, but either way something wasn't right.
He raised his head and looked to his left, toward the bar. Except the bar wasn't there. Instead, he was staring at the bathrooms. That didn't make sense. It must be his brain that had gotten spun around. William turned his head and peered over his size-ten wingtips at the busted mirror. The wooden frame and most of the glass still clung to the wall, the rest sat broken on the ground. The bar had to be on his left. He looked again, and still saw the bathrooms. A brain bruise, maybe some fluid pressure building up might be the cause of it.
"Get up!" Big Johnny Davis said.
William looked up at him. Johnny stood behind him, just beyond his shoulders. Perfect place for him to stomp my head into the plank floor. Except Johnny Davis was holding out his hand.
"Come on, we've got to get out of here."
Davis looked scared. It was the first time William Bailey could ever remember Johnny Davis looking scared. William had always been scared of Big Johnny, but Big Johnny wasn't scared of anything or anyone.
Police sirens wailed in the distance.
Johnny glanced over his shoulder. William craned his neck to look where Johnny was looking, saw he was staring at the front door like a man terrified something bad was going to come through it. Big Johnny looked down at him again and pumped his hand. "Come on, get up. They'll be here any second."
"Who?" William asked. "Who'll be--" But before he finished, Big Johnny Davis reached down, grabbed him by both arms, and jerked him to his feet.
As he was dragged toward the door by the only man in town who truly hated him, William glanced up and saw the rusted metal sign nailed above the door. He had to have a concussion, probably severe; that had to be it, because the letters on the sign were backward. It said TUO.
As Johnny Davis pulled him out the door, William heard tires skid on the pavement.
"Where's your car?" Johnny asked.
William twisted away from the big man's grip, then turned to his left. "In the alley." He started to run, still not sure exactly what he was running from.
Behind him, Big John shouted, "The alley's over here."
William kept running but turned his head back toward Johnny. "I know where the alley--"
Something hit him across the midsection and toppled him to the ground. He got his hands up just in time to break his fall and managed to keep his head from slamming into the sidewalk. When he looked up he saw a shopping cart tumbled onto its side.
Once again, William found himself lying flat on his back, this time amid the spilled contents of the cart. It had been filled with junk: paper bags full of dirty clothes, canned food, bags of potato chips, a diamond shaped, orange road sign, and other trash that looked like it had been collected from back alley garbage bins.
The homeless man who'd been pushing the cart was scrawny, and wafer thin. His skin was the color of old shoe leather, and he wore a long gray beard, tangled and matted with food and bits of filth. He was sprawled on the ground next to his cart, half sitting up, staring at William with his bright blue eyes.
Car doors slammed, men shouted.
"You better get going," the homeless man said, as he cocked his head. "The police after you?"
Police!
Before William could assure the old man that the police weren't after him--he was a respected businessman and family man--someone behind him grabbed him under both arms and pulled him to his feet. William turned and found himself staring into the face of Johnny Davis. "The alley's that way," Johnny said, pointing to the other side of Fausto's. With one hand gripping William's jacket, Johnny dashed across the front of the bar toward the alley. The alley--right there, plain as day--on the other side of Fausto's, right where it shouldn't be, where it couldn't be. William had been here a thousand times. As you stepped out of the bar, the alley was on the left, Brockton's Ace Hardware on the right. Now everything was mixed up and in the wrong place.
Johnny Davis turned down the alley, dragging William behind him. After just a few steps, a spotlight flashed in front of them.
"Stop!" a voice commanded. "Get on the ground."
William couldn't see because Johnny was in his way. "Who's that yelling?" he asked.
Big Johnny stopped and William plowed into his back.
"Get on the ground," the voice boomed again.
William poked his head out from behind Johnny Davis's back. The blinding white light was in his face. He couldn't see a thing.
POP! POP! POP!
Gunshots.
Big Johnny sagged, then crashed to his knees. Instinctively, William bent forward and grabbed hold of Johnny. "What's the matter?"
More pops.
Johnny's big hand reached out and shoved William back toward the street. "Back door," he wheezed, then plunged forward onto his face.
William stood alone. Behind the white spotlight he saw blue police lights flashing. He was totally exposed.
POP! POP!
He saw flashes--little yellow spurts of flame--as something tugged at his jacket.
William had said "back door." What back door? Fausto's had a back door, but it didn't lead anywhere except to the open space behind the building used for trash and deliveries. Twenty feet of asphalt between the bar and the back of the building on the next block. William had parked his car at the end of the alley, but the police cars--or whatever they were--had the alley blocked off. The building behind Fausto's also had an alley that ran alongside it, but the owner had closed it off to keep the bums out. He'd put up a gate, padlocked it, and topped it with razor wire. It was a dead end.
Two more pops. Dead end or not it was better than standing here and getting shot. William turned and ran. He burst through the front door of Fausto's, dashed through the bar, past the shattered mirror, hit the back door at a dead run, and was outside behind the bar within seconds.
He could see the tail end of his car sticking out from the corner of the building, but with the cops blocking the alley, his car was useless to him. William glanced across the open space to the alley that ran next to the other building. The gate, the padlock, the razor wire--all still in place. To his right an overflowing garbage dumpster sat beside the back of Fausto's, jammed against the fire ladder.
The fire ladder.
An iron ladder bolted to the cinderblock wall.
William looked up. The top of the ladder was lost in shadow, but he knew it went up two stories to the roof. Last summer, when the toilet had stopped up, he'd come out back to take a leak and had stood behind the dumpster, peeing against the wall like a kid, one hand draped over the bottom rung of the ladder.
He slipped behind the dumpster. The smell made him gag. The bottom of the ladder was four feet from the ground. William reached up as high as he could, grabbed hold of the third rung, then hauled himself up.
Through the partially open back door came the sounds of heavy feet pounding on the hard wood floor of the bar.
Halfway up the ladder, he was exhausted--and scared. Shaking, he white-knuckled the ladder. Being more than ten feet off the ground terrified him. He needed a break, just a second or two to catch his breath. There was enough moonlight so he could see into one of the second story windows. Inside, junk was piled everywhere. Old barstools, a busted jukebox, furniture stacked almost to the ceiling. Years ago, old man Fausto lived on the second floor, but Jake, who'd bought the place from the old man and had decided to keep the name, used it for storage.
Below him, William heard the back door thrown open so hard it banged against the wall. He scrambled up until he reached the top of the ladder, then hoisted himself over the edge of the roof. Down on the ground a voice shouted, "There he is, up there."
Another gunshot. What the hell was going on?
The unmistakable sound of feet--fast feet, in shape feet, boot shod feet--scurrying up the ladder. Standing on the tar and pebble roof, William glanced around for something he could use as a weapon, shocked he was even thinking of such a thing. A five gallon plastic bucket was all there was. It stood upright, filled with rainwater. He picked it up and peered over the edge. A uniformed policeman was three quarters of the way up the ladder. Two more cops were right behind him.
William looked at the heavy bucket in his hands, thought about just dumping the water onto them but knew it wouldn't stop them. There was only one way to stop them, and that was to knock them off the ladder. He thought about warning them, maybe trying to scare them away. But they were cops. You couldn't scare them away.
So why had they shot Johnny Davis, and why were they shooting at him?
The first officer looked up and saw William staring down at him with the bucket in his hands. Their eyes locked for just a second and the cop stopped. In those eyes that stared back at him, William saw an almost maniacal determination that sent a shiver down his spine. The officer held his grip on the ladder with his right hand while his left dropped to the pistol resting in his gleaming leather holster. In one smooth motion he drew his gun and raised it toward William.
William Bailey tossed the bucket down the ladder. A shot rang out an instant before the heavy bucket thudded into the cop's head. Like a gruesome traffic accident happening before his eyes, William couldn't help but watch as the policeman fell, taking his two partners down with him. The last thing William saw before he turned away was a jumbled heap of black uniforms resting on the concrete below the ladder.
* * *
Hiding in the shadow of a telephone booth, thinking. Home. He had to get home. Had to get back to Marge and the kids. Maybe somehow he could explain what had happened. Vincent, his attorney, he would know what to do--maybe--but he was a civil lawyer not a criminal attorney. He wrote contracts and did personal injury on the side; he didn't get people out of jail who'd killed a cop by dropping a bucket of water on his head and knocking him and his buddies off the side of a building.
As the cab he'd been waiting for pulled up, William stepped out from the dark and climbed into the back seat.
The driver turned around. "Where to?"
William pulled the door shut. "Uptown. 1721 Audubon Court."
"Fare's gonna be about fifteen dollars. After dark, I gotta have the money up front."
"What?"
"Company policy." The cabbie shrugged. "A lot of drivers been getting stiffed."
William opened his wallet, pulled out a twenty and handed it across the seat. The driver took it and almost slipped it into his cash box, then took a second look at the bill. His face tightened. "What the hell is this?"
"Huh?"
With the bill stretched between his hands, the cabbie stared at it for a second then looked up at William. "You're either the dumbest counterfeiter who ever lived or you've been had."
"What you are talking about?"
The driver faced the bill toward William but didn't hand it back to him. "It's printed backwards."
William looked at the twenty-dollar bill in the man's hand. It looked like--it was--an almost brand new bill, nothing wrong with it as far as he could tell.
"Get out of my cab," the driver said.
William didn't know what the man was talking about but knew he didn't want to get out. This cab was his only way home. He reached for the twenty. "If you don't like that one I've got another--"
The driver pulled his hands away. "I ain't giving this back. I got to turn it in to the police." He dropped one hand behind his seat back, then came up clutching a pistol, an old German Luger by the looks of it, the muzzle aimed straight at William's face. "In fact, I bet they give me a reward if I bring you in with it."
William jerked the door handle and rolled out into the street. He sprang to his feet and ran, the driver's yells just background noise. Has everyone gone crazy or is it just me?
Home. He had to get home.
* * *
Rain. Driving, relentless rain. William was just two blocks from Fausto's. In two hours, that's as far as he'd gotten--one block an hour. Police cars prowled the neighborhood, shinning spotlights into every nook and cranny, lighting up every shadow. Everyone in Fausto's knew his name. He'd been going there three or four nights a week after work for years. The cabbie had his address. William had given it to him when he told the hack driver where to drop him.
Ten o'clock at night, with nowhere to go and no way to get there, William sat behind the closed Goodwill store, under an overhang that barely kept the rain off of him.
Huddled in the dark, head sunk between his knees, he hadn't heard anyone approach.
"You don't look so good."
Startled, William looked up, prepared to run again. It was the homeless man he'd knocked over outside the bar. The one with the shopping cart and the leathery skin. William relaxed a little. "Excuse me?"
The man pushed his cart closer. "You're not supposed to be here."
William looked around. "Why not?"
The old man grinned, half his teeth gone.
William found it nearly impossible to tell his age. The guy could be forty and maybe had lived a hard life, or perhaps he was a well-preserved seventy, pickled by a lifetime of booze. William waved him off, expecting a plea for money. "I can't help you."
The old man stopped just a few feet away. "Everything's out of place isn't it?" He had a strange lilting voice. Almost like an accent.
And he was right. Everything was out of place--from Johnny Davis to the cab driver--everything was wrong.
Strapped to the back of the old man's shopping cart was a plastic sign about the size of a loaf of bread. William recognized the sign, the words, the colors, the logo of a local supermarket chain, all were familiar to him, but the letters were backward, unreadable.
Rainwater ran down William's face. He pointed to the sign. "Why's it written like that?"
The old man looked at the sign then back at William. "Like what?" he said, then shuffled away behind his basket.
* * *
The rain came down even harder. William slouched in a darkened doorway across the street from Fausto's. Nothing made sense. Everything was messed up, backward, out of whack. Almost like this wasn't his home, like he was a stranger seeing it for the first time.
But that was crazy. He'd grown up here, gone to Brother Martin High School, dated Jenny Underhill who went to Cabrini, lost her to Johnny Davis, then got her back only to lose her again the first year of college to some kid who drove a Mustang. Two years later William married Marge at Saint Luke's. They had two kids.
This town was his home. He recognized it. He knew the people here, Big Johnny and Zeke, the bartender at Fausto's. But things were different, little things. John Davis for one. In trying to help him, the big man had gotten himself killed. That wasn't John Davis--at least not the one William Bailey had known since seventh grade. Everything looked the same but wasn't. Nothing was quite right.
But they knew him--or someone like him.
A strange sensation crept over him that made the hair on the back of his neck rise. Maybe he didn't belong here. Maybe everything wasn't as it appeared. Maybe this wasn't his home. But if that were true, then whose home was it? Another thought, even scarier seeped through his brain. If he was here, who was there--at his home?
Crazy.
William dropped his head into his hands. Just considering such nonsense was a waste of time. Yet, here he was scanning the street, thinking of going back inside Fausto's, back to that mirror.
Not much time to think about it. The bar closed at three AM and it was already two-thirty. When he'd left--run for his life with Big Johnny--most of the mirror was still in the frame hanging on the wall.
Something about that damned mirror.
But Fausto's was dangerous, so a couple of hours ago William had found another mirror. In the men's room of a twenty-four hour gas station. The Chevron on North Rampart.
He had approached it cautiously, afraid he was going mad. As he peered over the sink into the mirror, he saw what he always saw, his own reflection. Holding up his left hand, he looked at the image in the mirror, at the watch strapped to his wrist. He noticed that the man in the mirror wore his watch on his right hand. Just the opposite.
William stood in the gas station bathroom for twenty minutes before he worked up his nerve. Finally, he took a deep breath, leaned back, then slammed his forehead into the dirt-streaked mirror. The glass shattered and cut his head. Blood dribbled off the tip of his nose into the sink. His reflection stared out at him from the other side of the mirror, blood running down his face, too.
I have gone crazy!
So the gas station hadn't worked out. Ducking police cruisers, William had wandered the streets, his head reeling. What was he doing?
On the sidewalk, he found a sopping wet magazine that the wind had blown up against the side of a newspaper machine. The cover caught his eye. He picked it up. It was printed backwards, the letters reversed, words running right to left. The spine was on the right. As he flipped through the pages, he couldn't read a thing. Then William had an idea.
In the bathroom of an all night restaurant he held the wet magazine up to the mirror. Perfect. The reflected image was normal, spine on the left, words running left to right, all the letters printed correctly. He could read it clearly. But what did it mean?
Then he drove his head into that mirror. The glass cracked. Someone walked in, a skinny waiter wearing an apron. He stood gawking as William leaned over the sink with tears of pain filling his eyes.
The waiter looked at the broken mirror, then jabbed a finger at William's bloody forehead. "What the hell are you doing?"
"An accident," he mumbled, pressing his fingers against the fresh cut.
The waiter turned. "I'm calling the cops."
William Bailey ran.
Now he was huddled in the rain staring at Fausto's across the street. Because he had nowhere else to go.
He stood and walked toward Fausto's. When he was halfway across the street, a police car glided around the corner, headlights reflecting off the wet pavement. The cops in no hurry, just cruising. William forced himself to keep walking, not to run. One foot in front of the other. In the downpour, odds were that the cops wouldn't even recognize him.
But they did recognize him.
The police car slid to a stop as its high beams clicked on and its blue strobe lights started popping. Both front doors flew open.
Like a sinner seeking the sanctuary of a church, William ran straight for Fausto's door. As he burst inside, Zeke looked up from behind the bar. "William! What the hell are you doing here?"
He ignored the bartender, running right past him, eyes focused on the broken mirror and its busted frame hanging on the wall.
Zeke again, "The cops been looking all over for you. Say you killed two officers and--"
Behind him the front door banged against the wall. "Police!" a voice behind him commanded. "Stop."
But William didn't stop. He kept running--running straight for the mirror. Reflected in its fragmented pieces he saw two uniformed police officers behind him, heard their boots pounding on the wooden floor. Just ten feet separated him from the mirror. At full speed he took two strides then dove. He stretched his arms out overhead and tucked his chin into his chest as his feet left the floor.
He felt one hand hit wall and the other strike broken glass. Then his head hit. More glass cracked, more skin split.
Darkness.
* * *
William's eyes popped open. He was staring at the ceiling. Rough voices, even rougher hands. They rolled him over onto his stomach and jerked his arms behind his back. He felt cold steel on his wrists and heard the metallic ratcheting as the handcuffs tightened and bit into his skin.
He tilted his head up and rested his chin against the floor. Blood poured down the side of his face; he watched it pool on the floor then seep between the wooden planks. By rolling his eyes up he could just see the empty spot on the wall where the mirror had hung. Lying on the floor, three feet from his head, was the broken frame and the rest of the glass.
The two cops grabbed his arms and yanked him to his feet, sending waves of pain through his shoulders and wrists. As they spun him toward the door, one of the officers said, "You're under arrest."
"Why?" William asked.
The officer pressed his face into William's. "Murdering your family for starters."
"My...my family." William felt his stomach cinch and his bowels turn to ice. A thought he'd had earlier in the night echoed inside his head. If he was here, who was there--at his home.
As the cops dragged him across the floor, William glanced up and saw the rusted metal sign nailed above the door.
OUT.
He was home.
submitted by chuckhustmyre to shortstories [link] [comments]

2023.05.30 21:58 Glopuss Supermarket (Coles & Woolworths) specials May 31 - June 6

A selection of items “on special” this week in Coles and Woolworths that may be of interest to some keto followers. Most are processed so not really suitable for “clean keto”. Victorian data, some may not be available interstate. Alcohol (except no carb beer) excluded. Drink prices exclude recycling deposits. If you are doing an online order, also look at the stores' ONLINE ONLY specials as I don't always include all of these, many are multibuys.
‘Locked prices’ might now be considered specials as unlocked prices have increased, but same every week til July so not included as ‘specials’.

COLES

Well Naturally chocolate has moved to the Confectionery aisle. Website still stuffed so may have missed items of interest. Please add in comments if you find anything. Does anyone here work for Coles?

WOOLWORTHS

30% off PranaOn, Keep It Cleaner & Bodiez# #Excludes Bounce Multi Packs, Keep It Cleaner Bars
submitted by Glopuss to ketoaustralia [link] [comments]

2023.05.30 21:10 LightningLore Spider mites

Hi guys, I am about to harvest my plant in 3 days, I found out spider mite behind the leaves. I read some people wash their plants after harvest with baking soda and lemon. Wouldnt that hurt trichomes if I wash them? What do u suggest?
submitted by LightningLore to microgrowery [link] [comments]

2023.05.30 20:30 TheDrungeonBlaster Gutterpunks Reloaded #7:100 Dead Nazis

-Red-
April 19th, 11:13 A.M., The Sprawl
I sparked a dilapidated Vita-Cig that I’d snagged from Trodes and peered out into the Sprawl; the careful equilibrium of a well-orchestrated black-market had returned; pushers and gangers lined the alleys, watching for signals from rooftop lookouts to avoid the single Peacewatch cruiser that had been stupid enough to enter the dockside. The poor bastard would be dead before the afternoon was over… not that I had much sympathy for his kind. Peacewatch made it a habit to stay out of the Sprawl: unless the Eggheads predictive crime system said something catastrophic was coming, they policed their kind and left us in the hands of the mob. I’d never iced an officer. Not yet at least.
“Your partner should be ready shortly, I think he’s just tying up a few loose ends,” Akari said, snatching the cigarette from my hand and taking a long drag.
“Remind me again why you think I should take the shrimp with me instead of Nico and Roman?”
“He’s smart… and the other two are working on something else. Besides-- you need brains on this one, Red, not muscle,” she giggled, passing the cigarette back.
“Whatever you say,” I paused, grabbing the smoke, “what do you have them up to?”
“There’s a shipment of Xeno-grade weapons coming down from the colonies. Nico and Roman will be liberating them from the Slicers. Or, their share, at least. It won’t be much, maybe a dozen guns, but it’ll be worth it: the force field tech alone will pay for the trip as soon as Fincetti’s goons start trying to take your heads off with plasma cannons and mono blades.”
“What do you mean, their share?”
“The job was too big for us to take on alone. I linked up with another enterprising group of Freelancers. If it goes well, maybe we can hire them on for the heist, we’re going to need more people if we want to walk out of there alive.”
We?
“What, are you planning on coming along now?” I asked, snuffing out the smoke.
“It only seems right; Trodes is coming along, and I’m a better shot than he’ll ever be. Besides, you have a dangerous habit of getting shot, and I can’t have you going down in the field,” she said, winking as if to punctuate the sentence.
“You sure? We can manage, you don’t have to come with us, you’ve done so much already.”
“I know I have, that’s why I have to protect my investment. If you go down out there, then the team is without a leader. A military scale operation like this will go south real fast without someone competent in command.”
“You’ve got me wrong, Akari: I’m no leader. I’m just someone who wants to live in a better city and doesn’t mind taking the trash out himself. Besides, why do we need a leader? We’re all competent adults acting in concert, of our own free will. We all know what we’re doing, if a situation arises and someone needs to take charge, it’ll happen.”
“You’ve got a lot of faith in a crew you just met,” Akari said with a sneer.
“You know why I asked you to put the team together, Akari?”
“Because there’s a bounty on your head that could finance twenty retirements, and you know you can trust me?”
“No, well yeah, but that’s beside the point—I asked you because you’re not a Fixer, you’re a part time street doc that works the front desk at the most popular Freelancer hotel in the Sprawl. If there’s anyone who knows who’s gonna get the job done, it’s you. See, a Fixer is going to be okay with whatever losses they deem acceptable beforehand, but they’re fine with keeping that to themselves. If you thought any of these mooks were going to crack under pressure, or do something stupid, you wouldn’t have set me up with them.”
Before she could respond, Trodes emerged from the stairs leading to the lab. He winced as the sunlight hit his eyes, shrugging on the hood of the oversized sweatshirt that blanketed his meek frame. Glimpses of pain showed through every tremor laden step he took. A cloak of wires enveloped his skull, feeding into an old-world cyber console.
“It’s insufferably hot out here,” Trodes sighed.
“Don’t worry, we’re not going far. Chances are that whatever hole we’re meeting BFU in will have air conditioning,” I responded, clicking my key fob, and signaling the bike to pull around.
Trodes face fell flat when the Supersonic rolled around the corner; apparently, the prestige of carving through the skyway on a state-of-the-art Taffington jet-bike was lost on him.
“Are we taking… that?” Trodes stammered.
“We are. Unless you’ve got a pair of wheels with two seats?” I asked, mounting the bike and revving the engine.
With an exasperated sigh, Trodes boarded the passenger seat. I could feel him behind me, vibrating as tremors gripped his body.
“You good, buddy?” I asked.
He nodded vigorously, clenching the handrails with white knuckles.
Akari shook her head and headed back to the lab.
I heard Trodes mumble something under his breath, but it was quickly drowned out by the jet-bike’s purr. I carved into the skyway. Driving in the Sprawl was pure freedom: almost nobody owned vehicles with aerial capabilities in this part of town. It didn’t take long to reach top speed.
Slummers and gutterpunks walked the streets like zombies in a drug addled haze. The scent of gunpowder, pollution and burning ozone coalesced into a putrid stench that reeked of poverty and violence. Patches of azure moved in militant formation below; the Vorrath had taken to the streets. On a different day, a better day, I would’ve helped them. Most slummers hated the Offworlder Coalition, but not me—at the end of the day I always figured that I had more in common with poor people from another planet than rich people from another district of the city. At least we shared the same struggle.
The bike slowed to crawl; the Neo-Confederates were about, backed by a platoon of Brown-Shirts that looked like a tide of sewer run off, crashing through the streets with reckless abandon. Civilians fled for their homes. Fuck.
The jet-bike careened through the air before finally landing atop a building a few blocks away from the impending conflict.
“Get off,” I said, turning back to Trodes.
“Why? You don’t intend to abandon me at this altitude, do you?”
“Not as long as I survive—I’ll be quick, I just need to ventilate some Nazi fucks, understood?”
He shook his head and muttered a string of curses.
I tore through the air, circling around the impending conflict. I chased a handful of cheap amphetamines with a poorly rolled joint and swooped low, behind the rolling tide of brown shirts. This wasn’t the first time I’d made myself an enemy of the city’s Neo-Nazi’s; I’d killed at least a dozen of them in my career as a courier, but those were isolated incidents, back-alley brawls away from the mob.
This was a whole new ball game.
I fell slack as my Teleoperations module synchronized with the bike. My consciousness faded, reemerging into the HALO-Net’s stylized rendition of the bike’s interior. I wasn’t just the pilot now—I was the bike. Bullets carved twin streaks of crimson into the brown tide. It didn’t take long to hit top speed, 3.7 seconds, to be exact.
The group turned in nearly perfect unison, launching volley upon volley as I passed overhead. The bike’s shields barely held together; I felt every round, like a flock of birds violently slamming into my side—not enough to cause any real damage, but more than enough to get the blood pumping. I slid into an alley a few blocks off and waited for the shield generator to recharge. Gunshots rang out from the streets, alongside the sizzle of plasma meeting flesh. Soon the din was drowned beneath the roar of dozens of Vorrath war cries. I took to the sky.
Trodes was exactly where I left him, nervously clutching a knock off version of a Locust flechette pistol.
“I was beginning to doubt your survival,” Trodes said shakily.
“Wrong again, little guy,” I paused, reigniting a half smoked joint, “it was just a quick hit and run, we don’t have the time or the numbers for a pitched battle. Now, hop on.”
It didn’t take long to find BFU’s base of operations. Black flags and Anarchist graffiti covered the walls of the abandoned warehouse they’d apparently taken up residence in. A field of repurposed Peacewatch turrets were installed atop the roof, complimented by a web of cameras that spread across a three-block radius. Anarchists of all species and creeds loitered outside. The guards ranged from Cyborgs and Vat-Grown, to Vorrath and Vorstihl, each wearing a variant of the black flag with colors corresponding to their ideologies.
As I hovered above the building, I saw a familiar face: the rookie from earlier. Alarmingly, his cruiser was nowhere to be seen. His face was wrought with horror, as a pair of cyborgs led him inside the warehouse.
“They’re certainly less than subtle,” Trodes said.
“They don’t have to be subtle, they’re the biggest citizens political organization in the Sprawl. Peacewatch avoids them if they have anything less than a full platoon on hand,” I explained.
“Red… before we enter negotiations with these hooligans, I must inquire as to what your motivation hitting the vault is? Surely you know there’s a strong likelihood that you won’t make it out, and from what I’d heard about you, I always understood you to be a man who knew how to keep himself out of the line of sight of dangerous people,” Trodes said, nervously.
“Fincetti is the most dangerous man in the city, short of O’Bannon. He controls the black market with an iron fist and is instrumental in all the things I hate about living here. The problem is, I have no way to do anything about it right now… but there’s something big in the safe—there must be—for fucks sake, he iced his family over it. I’m hoping there’s something in there that can give me a little leverage, so I can cross him out afterwards.”
Trodes was silent for a moment, simply reaching as if to ask me to pass the joint. I obliged.
“I have my reasons to want O’Bannon dead too, I’m in,” he paused as a coughing fit seized him, causing the joint to fall to the ground, “there’s something you should know though: I’m working with an entity of great power in the Net; I don’t know what precisely it is, but I know it saved my life more than once. As a matter of fact, it’s the only reason I was able to obtain the blueprint of Fincetti’s bunker, and his security plan.”
“Is it… is it an unshackled AI?”
“Unlikely: it seems to understand compassion and empathy on a uniquely organic level, something that rarely slips past Netwatch.”
“Alright, well whatever it is, you keep an eye on it and let me know if things get shady. I appreciate you telling me.”
Trodes nodded in silence.
The crowd parted expectantly as I landed along the streetside. Dozens of eyes were immediately glued to Trodes and I. A cyborg with a steel double mohawk emerged from a sea of leather, patches, and smoke. A sawed-off shotgun hung at his side.
“Red, I presume?” the Cyborg asked, extending a steel hand.
“That’s right, and who’re you?” I answered, clasping the borgs hand as firm as I could manage.
“They call me Diezel, and I’ll be your host today,” he released my hand and looked me up and down as if assessing whether I was a threat, “follow me, everyone’s here so we can get straight down to business.”
The warehouse’s interior had been renovated drastically; layers of open-faced lofts sat stacked upon each other, consuming the walls. Nearly every non-violent law in the city was being broken in the lofts, from cooking chems and explosives to studying banned literature and Doomguard martial arts. It was beautiful. We followed Diezel through a winding hallway of munitions manufacturing stations, before finally emerging into an immense circular room, with rows of seats climbing the walls. I couldn’t believe it—there must have been two hundred people present.
The lights dimmed as we entered the arena. Diezel led us to the rooms center, ushering Trodes and I onto a great circular platform; he fell into place on a platform across from us, beside a Vat-Grown woman bearing an orange and black flag on her arm, and augmentations that cost more than my bike. Behind the duo a bulbous Vorstihl lurked; tentacles draped down his back, carefully pulled away from his cyclopean eye. A red and black flag was displayed on his arm… it was only then that I noticed the blue and black flag on Diezel’s arm.
The platforms each rose roughly fifteen feet into the air, before microphone stands emerged from the center of each platform. Diezel stepped forward, past the microphone.
“Before we start, I’ll explain how this works: the three of us are representatives of our specific unions—but the people are free to interject. One union voting to aid in your endeavors does not guarantee the help of the other two, as each union demands a perfect consensus. Likewise, if a faction without one union decides to help you, it does not necessarily mean you have the support of the entire union. The only way you’ll end up with total support is cross union consensus. Do you understand?”
A consensus: of course, they needed a damned consensus.
“I do,” I answered, speaking away from the microphone.
“Then let’s get this show on the road,” Diezel stepped back, finding his microphone before continuing, “Red, Trodes, welcome to the Bouleuterion,” he paused a moment as the crowd erupted into cheers, “beside me are my comrades Aria and Korvirex, and we stand ready to hear your proposal.”
“As most of you probably know, Don Fincetti is the most powerful man in the underworld, hell—maybe even the city—what you likely don’t know is that he has a vault beneath the city, guarded by an army of Harvesters. I intend to break into the vault, slaughter the Harvesters and strike a blow to Fincetti that he won’t forget… and I intend to kill him shortly after. What I ask is simple: you help me in what’s to come, and when he’s finally dead, you can all split his turf among yourselves. All I care about is making sure he doesn’t live long enough to poison the Sprawl more than he already has.”
A murmur emerged from the stands. I gazed across the way to see the three representatives huddled together, whispering amongst themselves. Finally, Aria stepped towards her microphone.
“What you ask of us will likely mean the death of many of our people… we need something greater than what you offer—we need a guarantee of mutual aid—you have a reputation in the Sprawl, we would ask that you employ it in helping us when the time comes to resettle the Sprawl. Namely, we’d request your assistance against the gangs that may try to fill the power void you seek to create,” Aria explained.
“That seems reasonable,” I said.
Aria stepped back as Korvirex moved forward.
“Tell me, Red, are you familiar with the Offworlder Coalition?” Korvirex asked.
“I am—as a matter of fact, I aided them on the way here—they were marching against the Neo-Confederates and the Brown Shirts. I insured that they had the element of surprise.”
Korvirex stroked the beard-like tentacles that hung from his chin in contemplation.
“Good. What I ask is that you help us to secure their trust, we have offered solidarity where we could, but our forces are spread thin. The ideology of many of the exiled Vorrath rebels that found their way to Nova City—it matches that of our union. If our help was offered, would you agree to assist us in aiding the Coalition, so that they finally have an opportunity to get on their feet?”
Trodes leaned towards in, whispering in my ear.
“It would be prudent of you to make a counteroffer: proclaim that you’ll help with the Coalition, if they’ll spread the word to other groups whose goals may align with ours. There will likely be at least a couple hundred Harvesters in the Undercity when we strike… unless they’re occupied elsewhere.”
“I would happily help with the Coalition, on the condition that your faction spread the word about what we’re doing to like-minded organizations. As it stands, we could still use more numbers to match the Harvesters,” I said.
“These conditions may be satisfactory,” Korvirex said, before retreating into yet another group huddle.
The audience watched on in silence.
Finally, Diezel reapproached the microphone.
“The representatives have deemed this topic worthy of discussion: you’re free to leave, we’ll get ahold of Akari in a couple days, when all the details are ironed out.”
“A couple days?”
“Reaching a consensus can be a slow process at times—be prepared for a renegotiation of conditions, as there will likely be more stipulations made once the process is complete,” Diezel explained.
I nodded, and the platform beneath my feet began to descend towards the floor. The crowd erupted into cheers.
Hopefully Nico and Roman would beat us home.
submitted by TheDrungeonBlaster to WriteFantasyStories [link] [comments]

2023.05.30 20:29 TheDrungeonBlaster [SF] Gutterpunks Reloaded #7: 100 Dead Nazis

-Red-
April 19th, 11:13 A.M., The Sprawl
I sparked a dilapidated Vita-Cig that I’d snagged from Trodes and peered out into the Sprawl; the careful equilibrium of a well-orchestrated black-market had returned; pushers and gangers lined the alleys, watching for signals from rooftop lookouts to avoid the single Peacewatch cruiser that had been stupid enough to enter the dockside. The poor bastard would be dead before the afternoon was over… not that I had much sympathy for his kind. Peacewatch made it a habit to stay out of the Sprawl: unless the Eggheads predictive crime system said something catastrophic was coming, they policed their kind and left us in the hands of the mob. I’d never iced an officer. Not yet at least.
“Your partner should be ready shortly, I think he’s just tying up a few loose ends,” Akari said, snatching the cigarette from my hand and taking a long drag.
“Remind me again why you think I should take the shrimp with me instead of Nico and Roman?”
“He’s smart… and the other two are working on something else. Besides-- you need brains on this one, Red, not muscle,” she giggled, passing the cigarette back.
“Whatever you say,” I paused, grabbing the smoke, “what do you have them up to?”
“There’s a shipment of Xeno-grade weapons coming down from the colonies. Nico and Roman will be liberating them from the Slicers. Or, their share, at least. It won’t be much, maybe a dozen guns, but it’ll be worth it: the force field tech alone will pay for the trip as soon as Fincetti’s goons start trying to take your heads off with plasma cannons and mono blades.”
“What do you mean, their share?”
“The job was too big for us to take on alone. I linked up with another enterprising group of Freelancers. If it goes well, maybe we can hire them on for the heist, we’re going to need more people if we want to walk out of there alive.”
We?
“What, are you planning on coming along now?” I asked, snuffing out the smoke.
“It only seems right; Trodes is coming along, and I’m a better shot than he’ll ever be. Besides, you have a dangerous habit of getting shot, and I can’t have you going down in the field,” she said, winking as if to punctuate the sentence.
“You sure? We can manage, you don’t have to come with us, you’ve done so much already.”
“I know I have, that’s why I have to protect my investment. If you go down out there, then the team is without a leader. A military scale operation like this will go south real fast without someone competent in command.”
“You’ve got me wrong, Akari: I’m no leader. I’m just someone who wants to live in a better city and doesn’t mind taking the trash out himself. Besides, why do we need a leader? We’re all competent adults acting in concert, of our own free will. We all know what we’re doing, if a situation arises and someone needs to take charge, it’ll happen.”
“You’ve got a lot of faith in a crew you just met,” Akari said with a sneer.
“You know why I asked you to put the team together, Akari?”
“Because there’s a bounty on your head that could finance twenty retirements, and you know you can trust me?”
“No, well yeah, but that’s beside the point—I asked you because you’re not a Fixer, you’re a part time street doc that works the front desk at the most popular Freelancer hotel in the Sprawl. If there’s anyone who knows who’s gonna get the job done, it’s you. See, a Fixer is going to be okay with whatever losses they deem acceptable beforehand, but they’re fine with keeping that to themselves. If you thought any of these mooks were going to crack under pressure, or do something stupid, you wouldn’t have set me up with them.”
Before she could respond, Trodes emerged from the stairs leading to the lab. He winced as the sunlight hit his eyes, shrugging on the hood of the oversized sweatshirt that blanketed his meek frame. Glimpses of pain showed through every tremor laden step he took. A cloak of wires enveloped his skull, feeding into an old-world cyber console.
“It’s insufferably hot out here,” Trodes sighed.
“Don’t worry, we’re not going far. Chances are that whatever hole we’re meeting BFU in will have air conditioning,” I responded, clicking my key fob, and signaling the bike to pull around.
Trodes face fell flat when the Supersonic rolled around the corner; apparently, the prestige of carving through the skyway on a state-of-the-art Taffington jet-bike was lost on him.
“Are we taking… that?” Trodes stammered.
“We are. Unless you’ve got a pair of wheels with two seats?” I asked, mounting the bike and revving the engine.
With an exasperated sigh, Trodes boarded the passenger seat. I could feel him behind me, vibrating as tremors gripped his body.
“You good, buddy?” I asked.
He nodded vigorously, clenching the handrails with white knuckles.
Akari shook her head and headed back to the lab.
I heard Trodes mumble something under his breath, but it was quickly drowned out by the jet-bike’s purr. I carved into the skyway. Driving in the Sprawl was pure freedom: almost nobody owned vehicles with aerial capabilities in this part of town. It didn’t take long to reach top speed.
Slummers and gutterpunks walked the streets like zombies in a drug addled haze. The scent of gunpowder, pollution and burning ozone coalesced into a putrid stench that reeked of poverty and violence. Patches of azure moved in militant formation below; the Vorrath had taken to the streets. On a different day, a better day, I would’ve helped them. Most slummers hated the Offworlder Coalition, but not me—at the end of the day I always figured that I had more in common with poor people from another planet than rich people from another district of the city. At least we shared the same struggle.
The bike slowed to crawl; the Neo-Confederates were about, backed by a platoon of Brown-Shirts that looked like a tide of sewer run off, crashing through the streets with reckless abandon. Civilians fled for their homes. Fuck.
The jet-bike careened through the air before finally landing atop a building a few blocks away from the impending conflict.
“Get off,” I said, turning back to Trodes.
“Why? You don’t intend to abandon me at this altitude, do you?”
“Not as long as I survive—I’ll be quick, I just need to ventilate some Nazi fucks, understood?”
He shook his head and muttered a string of curses.
I tore through the air, circling around the impending conflict. I chased a handful of cheap amphetamines with a poorly rolled joint and swooped low, behind the rolling tide of brown shirts. This wasn’t the first time I’d made myself an enemy of the city’s Neo-Nazi’s; I’d killed at least a dozen of them in my career as a courier, but those were isolated incidents, back-alley brawls away from the mob.
This was a whole new ball game.
I fell slack as my Teleoperations module synchronized with the bike. My consciousness faded, reemerging into the HALO-Net’s stylized rendition of the bike’s interior. I wasn’t just the pilot now—I was the bike. Bullets carved twin streaks of crimson into the brown tide. It didn’t take long to hit top speed, 3.7 seconds, to be exact.
The group turned in nearly perfect unison, launching volley upon volley as I passed overhead. The bike’s shields barely held together; I felt every round, like a flock of birds violently slamming into my side—not enough to cause any real damage, but more than enough to get the blood pumping. I slid into an alley a few blocks off and waited for the shield generator to recharge. Gunshots rang out from the streets, alongside the sizzle of plasma meeting flesh. Soon the din was drowned beneath the roar of dozens of Vorrath war cries. I took to the sky.
Trodes was exactly where I left him, nervously clutching a knock off version of a Locust flechette pistol.
“I was beginning to doubt your survival,” Trodes said shakily.
“Wrong again, little guy,” I paused, reigniting a half smoked joint, “it was just a quick hit and run, we don’t have the time or the numbers for a pitched battle. Now, hop on.”
It didn’t take long to find BFU’s base of operations. Black flags and Anarchist graffiti covered the walls of the abandoned warehouse they’d apparently taken up residence in. A field of repurposed Peacewatch turrets were installed atop the roof, complimented by a web of cameras that spread across a three-block radius. Anarchists of all species and creeds loitered outside. The guards ranged from Cyborgs and Vat-Grown, to Vorrath and Vorstihl, each wearing a variant of the black flag with colors corresponding to their ideologies.
As I hovered above the building, I saw a familiar face: the rookie from earlier. Alarmingly, his cruiser was nowhere to be seen. His face was wrought with horror, as a pair of cyborgs led him inside the warehouse.
“They’re certainly less than subtle,” Trodes said.
“They don’t have to be subtle, they’re the biggest citizens political organization in the Sprawl. Peacewatch avoids them if they have anything less than a full platoon on hand,” I explained.
“Red… before we enter negotiations with these hooligans, I must inquire as to what your motivation hitting the vault is? Surely you know there’s a strong likelihood that you won’t make it out, and from what I’d heard about you, I always understood you to be a man who knew how to keep himself out of the line of sight of dangerous people,” Trodes said, nervously.
“Fincetti is the most dangerous man in the city, short of O’Bannon. He controls the black market with an iron fist and is instrumental in all the things I hate about living here. The problem is, I have no way to do anything about it right now… but there’s something big in the safe—there must be—for fucks sake, he iced his family over it. I’m hoping there’s something in there that can give me a little leverage, so I can cross him out afterwards.”
Trodes was silent for a moment, simply reaching as if to ask me to pass the joint. I obliged.
“I have my reasons to want O’Bannon dead too, I’m in,” he paused as a coughing fit seized him, causing the joint to fall to the ground, “there’s something you should know though: I’m working with an entity of great power in the Net; I don’t know what precisely it is, but I know it saved my life more than once. As a matter of fact, it’s the only reason I was able to obtain the blueprint of Fincetti’s bunker, and his security plan.”
“Is it… is it an unshackled AI?”
“Unlikely: it seems to understand compassion and empathy on a uniquely organic level, something that rarely slips past Netwatch.”
“Alright, well whatever it is, you keep an eye on it and let me know if things get shady. I appreciate you telling me.”
Trodes nodded in silence.
The crowd parted expectantly as I landed along the streetside. Dozens of eyes were immediately glued to Trodes and I. A cyborg with a steel double mohawk emerged from a sea of leather, patches, and smoke. A sawed-off shotgun hung at his side.
“Red, I presume?” the Cyborg asked, extending a steel hand.
“That’s right, and who’re you?” I answered, clasping the borgs hand as firm as I could manage.
“They call me Diezel, and I’ll be your host today,” he released my hand and looked me up and down as if assessing whether I was a threat, “follow me, everyone’s here so we can get straight down to business.”
The warehouse’s interior had been renovated drastically; layers of open-faced lofts sat stacked upon each other, consuming the walls. Nearly every non-violent law in the city was being broken in the lofts, from cooking chems and explosives to studying banned literature and Doomguard martial arts. It was beautiful. We followed Diezel through a winding hallway of munitions manufacturing stations, before finally emerging into an immense circular room, with rows of seats climbing the walls. I couldn’t believe it—there must have been two hundred people present.
The lights dimmed as we entered the arena. Diezel led us to the rooms center, ushering Trodes and I onto a great circular platform; he fell into place on a platform across from us, beside a Vat-Grown woman bearing an orange and black flag on her arm, and augmentations that cost more than my bike. Behind the duo a bulbous Vorstihl lurked; tentacles draped down his back, carefully pulled away from his cyclopean eye. A red and black flag was displayed on his arm… it was only then that I noticed the blue and black flag on Diezel’s arm.
The platforms each rose roughly fifteen feet into the air, before microphone stands emerged from the center of each platform. Diezel stepped forward, past the microphone.
“Before we start, I’ll explain how this works: the three of us are representatives of our specific unions—but the people are free to interject. One union voting to aid in your endeavors does not guarantee the help of the other two, as each union demands a perfect consensus. Likewise, if a faction without one union decides to help you, it does not necessarily mean you have the support of the entire union. The only way you’ll end up with total support is cross union consensus. Do you understand?”
A consensus: of course, they needed a damned consensus.
“I do,” I answered, speaking away from the microphone.
“Then let’s get this show on the road,” Diezel stepped back, finding his microphone before continuing, “Red, Trodes, welcome to the Bouleuterion,” he paused a moment as the crowd erupted into cheers, “beside me are my comrades Aria and Korvirex, and we stand ready to hear your proposal.”
“As most of you probably know, Don Fincetti is the most powerful man in the underworld, hell—maybe even the city—what you likely don’t know is that he has a vault beneath the city, guarded by an army of Harvesters. I intend to break into the vault, slaughter the Harvesters and strike a blow to Fincetti that he won’t forget… and I intend to kill him shortly after. What I ask is simple: you help me in what’s to come, and when he’s finally dead, you can all split his turf among yourselves. All I care about is making sure he doesn’t live long enough to poison the Sprawl more than he already has.”
A murmur emerged from the stands. I gazed across the way to see the three representatives huddled together, whispering amongst themselves. Finally, Aria stepped towards her microphone.
“What you ask of us will likely mean the death of many of our people… we need something greater than what you offer—we need a guarantee of mutual aid—you have a reputation in the Sprawl, we would ask that you employ it in helping us when the time comes to resettle the Sprawl. Namely, we’d request your assistance against the gangs that may try to fill the power void you seek to create,” Aria explained.
“That seems reasonable,” I said.
Aria stepped back as Korvirex moved forward.
“Tell me, Red, are you familiar with the Offworlder Coalition?” Korvirex asked.
“I am—as a matter of fact, I aided them on the way here—they were marching against the Neo-Confederates and the Brown Shirts. I insured that they had the element of surprise.”
Korvirex stroked the beard-like tentacles that hung from his chin in contemplation.
“Good. What I ask is that you help us to secure their trust, we have offered solidarity where we could, but our forces are spread thin. The ideology of many of the exiled Vorrath rebels that found their way to Nova City—it matches that of our union. If our help was offered, would you agree to assist us in aiding the Coalition, so that they finally have an opportunity to get on their feet?”
Trodes leaned towards in, whispering in my ear.
“It would be prudent of you to make a counteroffer: proclaim that you’ll help with the Coalition, if they’ll spread the word to other groups whose goals may align with ours. There will likely be at least a couple hundred Harvesters in the Undercity when we strike… unless they’re occupied elsewhere.”
“I would happily help with the Coalition, on the condition that your faction spread the word about what we’re doing to like-minded organizations. As it stands, we could still use more numbers to match the Harvesters,” I said.
“These conditions may be satisfactory,” Korvirex said, before retreating into yet another group huddle.
The audience watched on in silence.
Finally, Diezel reapproached the microphone.
“The representatives have deemed this topic worthy of discussion: you’re free to leave, we’ll get ahold of Akari in a couple days, when all the details are ironed out.”
“A couple days?”
“Reaching a consensus can be a slow process at times—be prepared for a renegotiation of conditions, as there will likely be more stipulations made once the process is complete,” Diezel explained.
I nodded, and the platform beneath my feet began to descend towards the floor. The crowd erupted into cheers.
Hopefully Nico and Roman would beat us home
submitted by TheDrungeonBlaster to shortstories [link] [comments]

2023.05.30 20:25 TheDrungeonBlaster Gutterpunks Reloaded #8: 100 Dead Nazis

-Red-
April 19th, 11:13 A.M., The Sprawl
I sparked a dilapidated Vita-Cig that I’d snagged from Trodes and peered out into the Sprawl; the careful equilibrium of a well-orchestrated black-market had returned; pushers and gangers lined the alleys, watching for signals from rooftop lookouts to avoid the single Peacewatch cruiser that had been stupid enough to enter the dockside. The poor bastard would be dead before the afternoon was over… not that I had much sympathy for his kind. Peacewatch made it a habit to stay out of the Sprawl: unless the Eggheads predictive crime system said something catastrophic was coming, they policed their kind and left us in the hands of the mob. I’d never iced an officer. Not yet at least.
“Your partner should be ready shortly, I think he’s just tying up a few loose ends,” Akari said, snatching the cigarette from my hand and taking a long drag.
“Remind me again why you think I should take the shrimp with me instead of Nico and Roman?”
“He’s smart… and the other two are working on something else. Besides-- you need brains on this one, Red, not muscle,” she giggled, passing the cigarette back.
“Whatever you say,” I paused, grabbing the smoke, “what do you have them up to?”
“There’s a shipment of Xeno-grade weapons coming down from the colonies. Nico and Roman will be liberating them from the Slicers. Or, their share, at least. It won’t be much, maybe a dozen guns, but it’ll be worth it: the force field tech alone will pay for the trip as soon as Fincetti’s goons start trying to take your heads off with plasma cannons and mono blades.”
“What do you mean, their share?”
“The job was too big for us to take on alone. I linked up with another enterprising group of Freelancers. If it goes well, maybe we can hire them on for the heist, we’re going to need more people if we want to walk out of there alive.”
We?
“What, are you planning on coming along now?” I asked, snuffing out the smoke.
“It only seems right; Trodes is coming along, and I’m a better shot than he’ll ever be. Besides, you have a dangerous habit of getting shot, and I can’t have you going down in the field,” she said, winking as if to punctuate the sentence.
“You sure? We can manage, you don’t have to come with us, you’ve done so much already.”
“I know I have, that’s why I have to protect my investment. If you go down out there, then the team is without a leader. A military scale operation like this will go south real fast without someone competent in command.”
“You’ve got me wrong, Akari: I’m no leader. I’m just someone who wants to live in a better city and doesn’t mind taking the trash out himself. Besides, why do we need a leader? We’re all competent adults acting in concert, of our own free will. We all know what we’re doing, if a situation arises and someone needs to take charge, it’ll happen.”
“You’ve got a lot of faith in a crew you just met,” Akari said with a sneer.
“You know why I asked you to put the team together, Akari?”
“Because there’s a bounty on your head that could finance twenty retirements, and you know you can trust me?”
“No, well yeah, but that’s beside the point—I asked you because you’re not a Fixer, you’re a part time street doc that works the front desk at the most popular Freelancer hotel in the Sprawl. If there’s anyone who knows who’s gonna get the job done, it’s you. See, a Fixer is going to be okay with whatever losses they deem acceptable beforehand, but they’re fine with keeping that to themselves. If you thought any of these mooks were going to crack under pressure, or do something stupid, you wouldn’t have set me up with them.”
Before she could respond, Trodes emerged from the stairs leading to the lab. He winced as the sunlight hit his eyes, shrugging on the hood of the oversized sweatshirt that blanketed his meek frame. Glimpses of pain showed through every tremor laden step he took. A cloak of wires enveloped his skull, feeding into an old-world cyber console.
“It’s insufferably hot out here,” Trodes sighed.
“Don’t worry, we’re not going far. Chances are that whatever hole we’re meeting BFU in will have air conditioning,” I responded, clicking my key fob, and signaling the bike to pull around.
Trodes face fell flat when the Supersonic rolled around the corner; apparently, the prestige of carving through the skyway on a state-of-the-art Taffington jet-bike was lost on him.
“Are we taking… that?” Trodes stammered.
“We are. Unless you’ve got a pair of wheels with two seats?” I asked, mounting the bike and revving the engine.
With an exasperated sigh, Trodes boarded the passenger seat. I could feel him behind me, vibrating as tremors gripped his body.
“You good, buddy?” I asked.
He nodded vigorously, clenching the handrails with white knuckles.
Akari shook her head and headed back to the lab.
I heard Trodes mumble something under his breath, but it was quickly drowned out by the jet-bike’s purr. I carved into the skyway. Driving in the Sprawl was pure freedom: almost nobody owned vehicles with aerial capabilities in this part of town. It didn’t take long to reach top speed.
Slummers and gutterpunks walked the streets like zombies in a drug addled haze. The scent of gunpowder, pollution and burning ozone coalesced into a putrid stench that reeked of poverty and violence. Patches of azure moved in militant formation below; the Vorrath had taken to the streets. On a different day, a better day, I would’ve helped them. Most slummers hated the Offworlder Coalition, but not me—at the end of the day I always figured that I had more in common with poor people from another planet than rich people from another district of the city. At least we shared the same struggle.
The bike slowed to crawl; the Neo-Confederates were about, backed by a platoon of Brown-Shirts that looked like a tide of sewer run off, crashing through the streets with reckless abandon. Civilians fled for their homes. Fuck.
The jet-bike careened through the air before finally landing atop a building a few blocks away from the impending conflict.
“Get off,” I said, turning back to Trodes.
“Why? You don’t intend to abandon me at this altitude, do you?”
“Not as long as I survive—I’ll be quick, I just need to ventilate some Nazi fucks, understood?”
He shook his head and muttered a string of curses.
I tore through the air, circling around the impending conflict. I chased a handful of cheap amphetamines with a poorly rolled joint and swooped low, behind the rolling tide of brown shirts. This wasn’t the first time I’d made myself an enemy of the city’s Neo-Nazi’s; I’d killed at least a dozen of them in my career as a courier, but those were isolated incidents, back-alley brawls away from the mob.
This was a whole new ball game.
I fell slack as my Teleoperations module synchronized with the bike. My consciousness faded, reemerging into the HALO-Net’s stylized rendition of the bike’s interior. I wasn’t just the pilot now—I was the bike. Bullets carved twin streaks of crimson into the brown tide. It didn’t take long to hit top speed, 3.7 seconds, to be exact.
The group turned in nearly perfect unison, launching volley upon volley as I passed overhead. The bike’s shields barely held together; I felt every round, like a flock of birds violently slamming into my side—not enough to cause any real damage, but more than enough to get the blood pumping. I slid into an alley a few blocks off and waited for the shield generator to recharge. Gunshots rang out from the streets, alongside the sizzle of plasma meeting flesh. Soon the din was drowned beneath the roar of dozens of Vorrath war cries. I took to the sky.
Trodes was exactly where I left him, nervously clutching a knock off version of a Locust flechette pistol.
“I was beginning to doubt your survival,” Trodes said shakily.
“Wrong again, little guy,” I paused, reigniting a half smoked joint, “it was just a quick hit and run, we don’t have the time or the numbers for a pitched battle. Now, hop on.”
It didn’t take long to find BFU’s base of operations. Black flags and Anarchist graffiti covered the walls of the abandoned warehouse they’d apparently taken up residence in. A field of repurposed Peacewatch turrets were installed atop the roof, complimented by a web of cameras that spread across a three-block radius. Anarchists of all species and creeds loitered outside. The guards ranged from Cyborgs and Vat-Grown, to Vorrath and Vorstihl, each wearing a variant of the black flag with colors corresponding to their ideologies.
As I hovered above the building, I saw a familiar face: the rookie from earlier. Alarmingly, his cruiser was nowhere to be seen. His face was wrought with horror, as a pair of cyborgs led him inside the warehouse.
“They’re certainly less than subtle,” Trodes said.
“They don’t have to be subtle, they’re the biggest citizens political organization in the Sprawl. Peacewatch avoids them if they have anything less than a full platoon on hand,” I explained.
“Red… before we enter negotiations with these hooligans, I must inquire as to what your motivation hitting the vault is? Surely you know there’s a strong likelihood that you won’t make it out, and from what I’d heard about you, I always understood you to be a man who knew how to keep himself out of the line of sight of dangerous people,” Trodes said, nervously.
“Fincetti is the most dangerous man in the city, short of O’Bannon. He controls the black market with an iron fist and is instrumental in all the things I hate about living here. The problem is, I have no way to do anything about it right now… but there’s something big in the safe—there must be—for fucks sake, he iced his family over it. I’m hoping there’s something in there that can give me a little leverage, so I can cross him out afterwards.”
Trodes was silent for a moment, simply reaching as if to ask me to pass the joint. I obliged.
“I have my reasons to want O’Bannon dead too, I’m in,” he paused as a coughing fit seized him, causing the joint to fall to the ground, “there’s something you should know though: I’m working with an entity of great power in the Net; I don’t know what precisely it is, but I know it saved my life more than once. As a matter of fact, it’s the only reason I was able to obtain the blueprint of Fincetti’s bunker, and his security plan.”
“Is it… is it an unshackled AI?”
“Unlikely: it seems to understand compassion and empathy on a uniquely organic level, something that rarely slips past Netwatch.”
“Alright, well whatever it is, you keep an eye on it and let me know if things get shady. I appreciate you telling me.”
Trodes nodded in silence.
The crowd parted expectantly as I landed along the streetside. Dozens of eyes were immediately glued to Trodes and I. A cyborg with a steel double mohawk emerged from a sea of leather, patches, and smoke. A sawed-off shotgun hung at his side.
“Red, I presume?” the Cyborg asked, extending a steel hand.
“That’s right, and who’re you?” I answered, clasping the borgs hand as firm as I could manage.
“They call me Diezel, and I’ll be your host today,” he released my hand and looked me up and down as if assessing whether I was a threat, “follow me, everyone’s here so we can get straight down to business.”
The warehouse’s interior had been renovated drastically; layers of open-faced lofts sat stacked upon each other, consuming the walls. Nearly every non-violent law in the city was being broken in the lofts, from cooking chems and explosives to studying banned literature and Doomguard martial arts. It was beautiful. We followed Diezel through a winding hallway of munitions manufacturing stations, before finally emerging into an immense circular room, with rows of seats climbing the walls. I couldn’t believe it—there must have been two hundred people present.
The lights dimmed as we entered the arena. Diezel led us to the rooms center, ushering Trodes and I onto a great circular platform; he fell into place on a platform across from us, beside a Vat-Grown woman bearing an orange and black flag on her arm, and augmentations that cost more than my bike. Behind the duo a bulbous Vorstihl lurked; tentacles draped down his back, carefully pulled away from his cyclopean eye. A red and black flag was displayed on his arm… it was only then that I noticed the blue and black flag on Diezel’s arm.
The platforms each rose roughly fifteen feet into the air, before microphone stands emerged from the center of each platform. Diezel stepped forward, past the microphone.
“Before we start, I’ll explain how this works: the three of us are representatives of our specific unions—but the people are free to interject. One union voting to aid in your endeavors does not guarantee the help of the other two, as each union demands a perfect consensus. Likewise, if a faction without one union decides to help you, it does not necessarily mean you have the support of the entire union. The only way you’ll end up with total support is cross union consensus. Do you understand?”
A consensus: of course, they needed a damned consensus.
“I do,” I answered, speaking away from the microphone.
“Then let’s get this show on the road,” Diezel stepped back, finding his microphone before continuing, “Red, Trodes, welcome to the Bouleuterion,” he paused a moment as the crowd erupted into cheers, “beside me are my comrades Aria and Korvirex, and we stand ready to hear your proposal.”
“As most of you probably know, Don Fincetti is the most powerful man in the underworld, hell—maybe even the city—what you likely don’t know is that he has a vault beneath the city, guarded by an army of Harvesters. I intend to break into the vault, slaughter the Harvesters and strike a blow to Fincetti that he won’t forget… and I intend to kill him shortly after. What I ask is simple: you help me in what’s to come, and when he’s finally dead, you can all split his turf among yourselves. All I care about is making sure he doesn’t live long enough to poison the Sprawl more than he already has.”
A murmur emerged from the stands. I gazed across the way to see the three representatives huddled together, whispering amongst themselves. Finally, Aria stepped towards her microphone.
“What you ask of us will likely mean the death of many of our people… we need something greater than what you offer—we need a guarantee of mutual aid—you have a reputation in the Sprawl, we would ask that you employ it in helping us when the time comes to resettle the Sprawl. Namely, we’d request your assistance against the gangs that may try to fill the power void you seek to create,” Aria explained.
“That seems reasonable,” I said.
Aria stepped back as Korvirex moved forward.
“Tell me, Red, are you familiar with the Offworlder Coalition?” Korvirex asked.
“I am—as a matter of fact, I aided them on the way here—they were marching against the Neo-Confederates and the Brown Shirts. I insured that they had the element of surprise.”
Korvirex stroked the beard-like tentacles that hung from his chin in contemplation.
“Good. What I ask is that you help us to secure their trust, we have offered solidarity where we could, but our forces are spread thin. The ideology of many of the exiled Vorrath rebels that found their way to Nova City—it matches that of our union. If our help was offered, would you agree to assist us in aiding the Coalition, so that they finally have an opportunity to get on their feet?”
Trodes leaned towards in, whispering in my ear.
“It would be prudent of you to make a counteroffer: proclaim that you’ll help with the Coalition, if they’ll spread the word to other groups whose goals may align with ours. There will likely be at least a couple hundred Harvesters in the Undercity when we strike… unless they’re occupied elsewhere.”
“I would happily help with the Coalition, on the condition that your faction spread the word about what we’re doing to like-minded organizations. As it stands, we could still use more numbers to match the Harvesters,” I said.
“These conditions may be satisfactory,” Korvirex said, before retreating into yet another group huddle.
The audience watched on in silence.
Finally, Diezel reapproached the microphone.
“The representatives have deemed this topic worthy of discussion: you’re free to leave, we’ll get ahold of Akari in a couple days, when all the details are ironed out.”
“A couple days?”
“Reaching a consensus can be a slow process at times—be prepared for a renegotiation of conditions, as there will likely be more stipulations made once the process is complete,” Diezel explained.
I nodded, and the platform beneath my feet began to descend towards the floor. The crowd erupted into cheers.
Hopefully Nico and Roman would beat us home.
submitted by TheDrungeonBlaster to Novacityblues [link] [comments]

2023.05.30 19:14 donutkirby [QCrit] Adult Fantasy - THE GOLDEN KINGDOM (179k, 1st attempt)

(Hello PubTips ! This isn't the first version of my query letter, but it's the first one I've posted to this subreddit. I've glanced at other posts on this sub and I already have some idea of what I could change, but I'm putting it out exactly as it currently is so I can get the most accurate feedback.)
--
Hello [publisher],
I’m writing to seek representation for my 179,000-word debut epic fantasy novel, The Golden Kingdom, which has been revised with the aid of a professional editor. It is the first installment in the five-book saga Indigo Arbiter.
In the land of Altinala, the fates of travelling guildsmen, assassins, a national hero, and a princess collide through battles of men and monsters, political warfare, and conflicts that shake the once-eternal kingdom to its very core.
For hundreds of years, Altinala has stood at the heart of the Hetran continent. Founded in the aftermath of a terrible war, it serves as a beacon of strength and prosperity for not only its citizens, but the countless dreamers who seek to live within the kingdom’s walls, where all their wildest ambitions can come true.
Among these hopefuls are a trio of friends: Val, a reclusive but empathetic girl; Elie, a talented dancer seeking fame and fortune; and Arthur, an idealistic boy who admires the heroes of eras past. Though their desires are vastly different in scope, they all place their hopes on Altinala.
But trouble is brewing in the so-called “Golden Kingdom.” The High Chancellor governs the land with an iron fist, while murderous vigilantes prowl the streets at night. And as rumours of rebellion spread, a disgraced princess plots an uprising of her own. When Val, Arthur, and Elie find themselves dragged into the coming storm, they must decide whether to be Altinala’s champions … or agents of its destruction.
I am a Chinese Canadian law student with a lifelong passion for writing. I am particularly drawn to fantasy stories with intricate plots, large casts of complex characters, LGBTQ+ representation, and a willingness to be unique within the genre. My book would likely be enjoyed by fans of George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire, Brandon Sanderson’s The Stormlight Archive, and James S.A. Corey’s The Expanse, all of which are among my biggest inspirations. In addition, my writing style is influenced by Japanese anime like Fullmetal Alchemist and Attack on Titan, as well as story-rich video games such as Final Fantasy VII and the Trails in the Sky franchise.
Besides The Golden Kingdom, I have completed initial drafts of the second and third books of the Indigo Arbiter saga and am currently working on the fourth book.
Thank you for taking the time to read my query and consider my work. I look forward to hearing from you.
Sincerely,
[name]
--
First 300 words:
Val rested under the magnolia tree, all alone in her beautiful world.
She felt a kindred connection to the tree, a brief hike away from the little shack she called home. They were fellow recluses, living isolated from their brethren in Citra Village, which itself stood alone on the southern edge of the Hetran continent.
Val closed her eyes, relishing the hot breeze as it washed over her. Summer had come and gone, but its final vestiges of warmth still lingered. They wouldn’t last much longer, and she didn’t intend to waste the time she had left. She was going to make the most of every moment by doing what she did best — loafing around in her favourite black dress and large pointy hat, just letting the hours pass.
The autumn sun shone brightly, and tiny cloud puffs drifted over the formless blue sky. Enraptured by the tranquility, Val sighed, leaning back against her tree. Another thing she liked about the magnolia tree was that it bore no fruit, meaning that on most days, nobody ever came to bother it — or her.
Unfortunately for Val, today was not one of those days.
“Val? Hey, Val?” That was Elie’s voice. Val heard her fingersnaps. “Helloooo? Did you hear what we just said?”
“No.” Groaning, Val opened her eyes and glanced at her two friends, who stood directly in front of her. “It was … something about a puppy, right?”
“A dirgehound, Val!” Arthur Steelmettle exclaimed, his amber eyes widening even more than usual. He was a tanned young man with a muscular build, ginger hair, and a somewhat rugged face that made him look more intimidating than he really was. “The hunters spotted one lurking near the village. They haven’t been seen anywhere near Citra in years, but now one’s so close! A dirge-hound!” He spoke the word again, as if the word could be split in half if he tried hard enough.
--
Thanks for any feedback! I intend to make the most of this sub's help, for this first book as well as the others I've written and will continue to write.
submitted by donutkirby to PubTips [link] [comments]

2023.05.30 19:11 kdrizzle2302 June Offers

submitted by kdrizzle2302 to DunkinDonuts [link] [comments]

2023.05.30 17:40 Mossy_Lady [US to US][Sell][Perfume] Full size BPAL, NAVA, Astrid, Arcana, Solstice scents, D&F, Moonalisa, Luvmilk, Nui Cobalt, Wild Veil

-$4 shipping anywhere in US
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🩹 Skinned Knees: (10ml rollerball) Dirt, grass, a bandaid, and the tiniest hint of a lollipop your mom gave you for being so brave. $8
MOONALISA
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🥧 Vanilla Pumpkin Pie: (5ml bottle) Decadent Crystalline/Kobalt/Crystal Vanilla's infused with Bastet's Vanilla Ice Cream and sweet creamy pumpkin. Spiced for the season: White Cinnamon, Black Clove, Australian Ginger and Indian Nutmeg. $18
NUI COBALT
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🍎 Corvin’s Smoked Apple: (5ml rollerball) Applewood Smoke, Apple, Caramel, Benzoin, Guaiacwood. $13
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submitted by Mossy_Lady to IndieExchange [link] [comments]

2023.05.30 15:02 SnikerPiker Are there any characters who didn't appear in the last group shots of the show, who you'd want to appear?

Just curious. I saw that some of those who had more or less notable roles and were absent include Silver Shill, Sheriff Silverstar, Sapphire Shores, Trender Hoof, Grampa Gruff, Greta, and Chief Thunderhooves among others. There is also a variety of regular Ponyvillians such as Cherry Berry, Caramel, Daisy, Lily Valley, Lucky Clover, Sunshower Raindrops, Golden Harvest etc. As well as Twilight's friends Minuette, Lemon Hearts and Twinkleshine and most members of the apple family (even the more notable ones, like Apple Strudel, Apple Fritter, Hayseed Turnip Truck, Half Baked Apple, Wensley, Apple Leaves, and Apple Dumpling).
submitted by SnikerPiker to mylittlepony [link] [comments]

2023.05.30 14:20 EcoLogicCrusader Bulk Chicken Meal Prepping: Time-Saving Recipes

When it comes to meal planning, chicken is a versatile and budget-friendly protein option that can be prepared in bulk to create delicious and healthy meals throughout the week. Here are some time-saving approach to bulk chicken meal prepping, providing you with essential tips, techniques, and a variety of recipes to streamline your meal preparation process.
Essential Tools and Equipment
To embark on a successful bulk chicken meal prepping journey, it's important to have the right tools and equipment. Investing in meal prep containers with compartments will allow you to portion and store your meals conveniently.
A well-equipped kitchen with essential utensils such as knives, cutting boards, measuring cups, and mixing bowls will facilitate your meal prep process. Understanding different storage options, including refrigeration and freezing, will help you maximize the shelf life of your prepared meals.
Planning and Preparation
Effective planning and preparation are key to a smooth and efficient meal prepping experience. Begin by setting clear goals and objectives, such as the number of meals you want to prepare and your dietary preferences.
Select recipes that align with your goals and consider the ingredients required for those recipes. With a comprehensive shopping list in hand, you can streamline your grocery shopping and ensure you have everything you need for your meal prep session.
Time-Saving Chicken Preparation Techniques
Batch cooking chicken
Preparing a large batch of chicken at once significantly reduces cooking time throughout the week. Opt for grilling, baking, or poaching chicken breasts or thighs, seasoning them with versatile flavors that can be adapted to different recipes.
Marinating and seasoning in advance
To infuse flavors and save time, marinate the chicken in a variety of sauces, herbs, and spices before cooking. This not only enhances the taste but also helps tenderize the meat.
Utilizing slow cooker or Instant Pot
These appliances are excellent time-saving tools for cooking large quantities of chicken. Set it and forget it – your chicken will be cooked to perfection while you focus on other meal prep tasks.
Time-Saving Chicken Meal Recipes
Recipe 1: Lemon Herb Grilled Chicken with Roasted Vegetables
Ingredients:
Instructions:
  1. In a bowl, combine lemon juice, olive oil, minced garlic, and your choice of fresh herbs.
  2. Place chicken breasts in a resealable bag and pour the marinade over them.
  3. Seal the bag and refrigerate for at least 30 minutes, allowing the flavors to infuse.
  4. Preheat the grill to medium-high heat.
  5. Remove the chicken from the marinade and grill for 6-8 minutes per side, or until cooked through.
  6. While the chicken is grilling, chop the bell peppers, zucchini, and onions into bite-sized pieces.
  7. Toss the vegetables with olive oil, salt, and pepper.
  8. Preheat the oven to 425°F (220°C) and spread the vegetables on a baking sheet.
  9. Roast the vegetables for 15-20 minutes, or until they are tender and slightly caramelized.
  10. Slice the grilled chicken and serve it with the roasted vegetables.
Recipe 2: Teriyaki Chicken Stir-Fry with Brown Rice
Ingredients:
Instructions:
  1. Cook the brown rice according to the package instructions.
  2. Cut the chicken thighs into bite-sized pieces.
  3. In a hot skillet or wok, add a small amount of oil and cook the chicken until it is no longer pink.
  4. Remove the chicken from the skillet and set it aside.
  5. In the same skillet, add the mixed vegetables, minced garlic, and grated ginger.
  6. Stir-fry the vegetables until they are crisp-tender.
  7. Return the cooked chicken to the skillet and pour the teriyaki sauce over the mixture.
  8. Stir well to coat everything evenly and cook for an additional 2-3 minutes.
  9. Divide the cooked brown rice into meal prep containers and top with the teriyaki chicken stir-fry.
Recipe 3: Spicy Buffalo Chicken Wraps with Mixed Greens
Ingredients:
Instructions:
  1. Preheat the oven to 425°F (220°C) and line a baking sheet with parchment paper.
  2. Place the chicken tenders on the baking sheet and bake for 15-20 minutes or until cooked through.
  3. Remove the chicken from the oven and let it cool slightly.
  4. Toss the cooked chicken in buffalo sauce until fully coated.
  5. Lay out the whole wheat tortillas and divide the mixed greens, shredded carrots, and sliced celery among them.
  6. Place the buffalo chicken on top of the vegetables.
  7. Drizzle ranch dressing over the chicken.
  8. Roll the tortillas tightly, tucking in the sides to form wraps.
  9. Slice the wraps in half and store them in meal prep containers for later use.
Storage and Freezing Tips
Proper storage techniques are essential for maintaining the quality and safety of your prepared meals. Use airtight meal prep containers to store individual portions, allowing for easy grab-and-go convenience. Label your containers with the date and contents to ensure proper rotation. If you plan to freeze your meals, choose freezer-safe containers or use freezer bags, removing excess air to prevent freezer burn.
Meal Prepping Schedule
Establishing a meal prepping schedule will help you stay organized and make the most of your time. Whether you prefer a weekly or bi-weekly approach, allocate a specific day or time slot for meal prepping. Prepare a cooking plan, including the order in which recipes will be prepared, to ensure maximum efficiency. Batch cooking chicken and assembling meals in one dedicated session will save time and effort throughout the week.
Additional Tips and Suggestions
Bulk chicken meal prepping is a time-saving and efficient way to ensure you have nutritious meals readily available throughout the week. Start incorporating these strategies into your routine and experience the benefits of this practical approach to healthy eating!
submitted by EcoLogicCrusader to MealPrepSundayRecipes [link] [comments]

2023.05.30 06:56 forgot_about_her I romanced my boyfriend with homemade bread, and life feels like a video game.

So when my boyfriend (21m) and I (F19) started hanging out more (predating) I was heading back into a baking phase that had previously let up like three months ago. I wanted to make him something, even though gift giving had never been one of my love languages. So I baked him a loaf of bread... and then another... and then one more for good measure. I had baked this man three rustic loaves of bread, that I gave to him before one of our dates.
When asking him what date made him really feel that he wanted to start a relationship with me, take a guess what date it was? That's right, the date that I had given him three loaves of bread. A coincidence? Maybe. It was a really great date. Honestly made me feel like I wanted to start dating him too, but I like to think the bread had something to do with it too.
I had started playing stardew valley around Christmas time, and I wasn't much of a gamer at the time, honestly, I'm still not, but I really liked the concept of romancing somebody you were interested in with things that you make. So this is when me and my mom started making the joke that I was romancing my soon to be boyfriend just as I was in the video game with Harvey, the meek, and honestly very sweet doctor with an amazing mustache.
So guess what I did? That's right, I baked him more things so I could romance him.
Things like Lemon curd cookies, a vanilla bean cake, chocolate chip scones, an iced lemon loaf, and strawberry cookies with cream cheese frosting. I romanced the absolute living hell out of him with my amateur baking skills.
And it worked, he asked me to be his girlfriend a month or so later. And even though I'm in a relationship with him, I still bake him things almost weekly, and now even his mom looks forward to my baking, and I sometimes make things specifically for her.
Tl;dr: I gave my boyfriend baked goods so he’d fall in love with me. And it worked.
If you want to express interest, or get someone to become interested in you, try making something for them. You could win them over with either the treat, or the gesture:)
submitted by forgot_about_her to happyrelationships [link] [comments]

2023.05.30 05:53 NaimaChan Trip Report: Tokyo, Kawaguchiko, Kanazawa, Kyoto, Yokohama, Kamakura

Just got back from 10 days in Japan and wanted to type up a trip report to hopefully help others that are trying to plan a trip!
Our trip was 5/16 - 5/28 including travel days. This was my 2nd time in Japan (first time was study abroad for 5 weeks in May/June 2016), but it was my mom & sister's first time, so the goal was to include as many must-see activities as we possibly could in the short time we were there. Our days were packed to the brim however all 3 of us are fairly active and healthy so despite being absolutely exhausted by the end of each day, in retrospect we wouldn't have changed a thing in our itinerary.
That being said, our itinerary would be much too busy for the average person's first trip to Japan so keep that in mind if you use this information to plan your own trip. For example, we usually only had time to sit down and eat for one meal per day and had to eat on the go for the other meals in order to have enough time to go to all the places we wanted to go to. There was very little downtime in our trip.

Tourist Tips

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Accommodations

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Daily Itinerary

Day 1 & 2: Travel
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Day 3: Imperial Palace/Ueno
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Day 4: Shibuya/Akihabara
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Day 5: Asakusa/Ginza/Omoide Yokocho
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Day 6: Harajuku
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Day 7: Kawaguchiko
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Day 8: Kanazawa
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Day 9: Kyoto Day 1
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Day 10: Kyoto/Nara Day 2
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Day 11: Tattoo
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Day 12: Yokohama/Kamakura
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Day 13: Travel
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Trip Cost

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Cost Breakdown

Airfare
Accommodations
Transportation
Meals
Souvenirs
Activities/Admission
Tattoo
submitted by NaimaChan to JapanTravel [link] [comments]

2023.05.30 04:42 SnooGoats827 Half baked harvest blogs mentioning ED’s

Half baked harvest blogs mentioning ED’s
Sorry if this has been already addressed in another thread, but I have been highly concerned for T of HBH since 2019 when I started following her. In the past year, it has obviously gotten a lot worse for her and I was genuinely curious if others were talking about it and I was shocked to see the amount of people talking about it.
Has anyone seen where she directly addressed eating disorders in her blog “9 of my favorite things” from Aug. 2017 and another from Feb. 2020?? It’s so odd she is like sending these subliminal messages and talking about ED on her blog. Or maybe even like flaunting it? I have read this can be apart of the illness but I don’t want to offend anyone. I have gone through to the ends of the internet reading people’s experiences with ED’s and how problematic the entire situation is not only for her but for struggling viewers, young kids looking up to her. I do not get the entire thing and I feel like some bizarre story years from now is going to come about this and everyone will say they saw it coming. I have a lot of empathy for this situation, and it’s hard to see it going down. I just truly hope this girl and honestly her very large complicit family gets the help they need.
submitted by SnooGoats827 to FoodieSnark [link] [comments]

2023.05.30 03:17 ScorpioTix Hollywood Bowl 2023-05-24 review and more comments on ticketing

from the ijwthstd blog where you can also find download link
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I was going to let this one go but the version up on Dime is missing a song.
It was another date night, and I also had edibles, homemade and much stronger than expected. The wind was bugging again and I could barely keep the mics mounted, more due to the substances coursing through my system than any technical problems. And you only have some other taper to blame for giving me infused treats to capture his avant garde favorites, where a heavy dose of THC is a must for endurance.
This tour was a little controversial in my digital neighborhood from all ends to the people who think just because they are fan they are entitled to be one of the 15,000 inside out of the 25,000 who wish they were at either the lowest price possible or the highest, outbidding everyone else in the process. And the brokers who think feel entitled to grab all the tickets and charge whatever they want for them to Michael Rapino who was a bit inconvenienced but would rather suck it up and play along and maybe give some money back than let AEG book the tour.
Reeves Gabrels might be my favorite guitar player ever, not just his work with David Bowie (and I still maintain "Outside" is my favorite album of his) but his solo album "Ulysses" is particularly spectacular. Though his work with The Cure is a bit more restrained to that particular style, I was very happy for him when he landed this gig. And I wish I had something resembling an adult income when he was doing his regular residency at the Baked Potato where I would see the show, eat a massive spinach potato topped with jalapenos smothered with Tabasco sauce and then walk the 5 miles home to get up in 4 hours and go to work. Was only able to manage that a few times but if it were ten years later I would go to every single one and Lyft it out of there.
Speaking of good gig eats, it wouldn't be a Hollywood Bowl show if it didn't have a fair amount of wrapper crinkling thanks to the Bowl's infamous BYO policy and my love of hot peanuts and addiction to infused edibles. I tried to secure to my mics to a mask under a hoodie because these mics don't like even the slightest breeze but didn't quite work the way it used to especially with me stuffing my fat face all night.
There were T shirt kiosks crammed into corners I had never seen them before and every line like Space Mountain 4th Of July. The price? $25! Only 3 or 4 with simple designs as not to overwhelm the senses, and credit card. I don't think they cost that much since the 1990's. I never buy arena shirts but I still had to get one for my dearly neglected. Already seeing these shirts everywhere now. I doubt KISS sells as many in November as The Cure did on a Wednesday night. Wouldn't be surprised if they can even best regular merch sales record holders Iron Maiden in equivalent venues. I bet The Cure would even be undercutting the bootleg guys outside selling for $20 if the Bowl and LiveNation's hefty fees allowed.
Being date night with a traditional buy your tickets a year in advance and pay for parking patron, and I did what I almost never do anymore and buy advance in the fan to fan exchange so she would have something to look forward to, and crossed my fingers they wouldn't be canceled. I paid $192.40 for the pair, beating my record high of $40 to get into Pasadena Daydream. I got the dreaded U31 error on the first try but switched to another browser and pulled them again, but unfortunately was logged into my (former) business buy account so I was a little nervous because for a while I was spending an amount that seems so unreal to me still, even now. All that was left active were stacks of Matchbox Twenty that were sold or refunded in early 2020 for a tour that just kicked off a few weeks ago.
If anyone knows Michael Rapino, tell him to get his IT guys on that error. Not everyone says fuck it and buys in the lot day of show like I do. He may be rich but it's Never Enough and he can always use more so there is no reason regular fans with money to spend should be denied tickets they took the time to try to purchase. People are missing shows and his $122 million payday could be a little higher if he can take these customer complaints seriously and fix this constant issue.
There is so much I can say about Robert Smith's ticketing policy, especially since I am of the opinion "my ticket, my money, my property" but that opinion has evolved a bit with this tour and I can't really say I am unsatisfied with how it worked out. On it's face it looked fair to everyone and those looking to profit were sufficiently warned. Now those regular fans who had their tickets canceled might think different. It's all algorithmic, it's not like they were using a secret list of known offenders. For example, if you go to a lot of shows and have eclectic tastes you are eventually going to get your tickets canceled for something in addition to never getting the verified fan codes.
Now Eddie Vedder did the same no transfer and fan to fan resale for his YouTube Theater show. When it half sold, he lowered the prices while previously purchased tickets listed for resale were locked into the price floor at the original price, twice what even closer seats were eventually listed for. Or Ed Sheeran, notorious for inconveniencing fans in addition to resellers with his spurious ticket verification checks for secondary purchased tickets outside venues where they would cancel the tickets on the spot and resell them. Now I am getting regular notifications of discount Ed Sheeran tickets from stadiums across the continent. In a kinder, gentler era where the free market reigned it would be the third parties assuming some of the promoter's risk and taking those losses. But this tour sold out 100% instantly and any unwanted tickets had the auto refund built in because tickets resell the second they are listed on the Fan To Fan exchange, unlike Eddie Vedder where that money spent was lit on fire.
I know I get always get a clueless knee-jerks from drooling mouthbreathers when admitting to the cardinal sin of selling a sacred ducat for more than face value, especially on The Cure Reddit where I got multiple accounts banned for harassment for merely explaining how the business works from my perspective. Maybe one of those folks can answer this simple question, if I don't even qualify for housing anymore, why should I care what someone spends on a concert ticket? Or better yet, will anyone in Glendale or Burbank, California who bought their house 2010 or earlier sell it to me for what they paid? The worst is thinking of life without teeth because after three decades of neglect, once I hit the tipping point I was able to go to the dentist I liked and say do what you gotta do then just paid the bill. Still my biggest splurge, spending more than my Ireland and Finland trips combined. So what if you spent $40 more than me for a pair to Dancing With The Stars.
Right now if it's not The Cure, Taylor Swift or K-Pop, pretty much everything is $10 or so day of show. Prices fall so hard, so fast I am legitimately worried brokers will start going bankrupt and stop bulk harvesting inventory leading to the collapse of the secondary market and Ticketmaster might actually become an almost monopoly.
For those of you still looking for tickets, keep in mind there is no guest list and Robert Smith is personally handling sales to friends and family but god forbid any of Bob's friends have to pay a very fair price to see this show, and anything still unsold goes back to Ticketmaster and even the box office day of show where my friends were getting Garden Boxes out the window for all three shows.
Enough about tickets, now that the cat is out of the bag how I funded my all concerts all the time lifestyle for so long, I hope to tell that story someday. The secondary market is not what you think it is. And with the exception of Ebaying my Inland Invasion 2003 ticket for rent money because I couldn't get a ride, I have never sold a single ticket for The Cure. For more on that subject I highly recommend the Bob Lefsetz podcast interviews with both Ticketmaster founder Fred Rosen and current LiveNation chairman, the aforementioned Michael Rapino who talks a bit about this tour.
Nice to see a few classic Reeves style solos on "A Night Like This" (replacing the sax solo on the original) and "From The Edge Of The Deep Green Sea" especially with the absense of "Wrong Number" and "Yesterday's Gone" in the set. I know they are keeping a dividing wall between his projects but I sometimes wonder how David Bowie's "The Motel" would sound interpreted by this band.
The music itself was nothing short of divinely inspired and perfectly delivered but the backlighting and inefficient use of screens means you can pretty much get a seat anywhere in any building and it won't really matter. Sit in the back row, eat an infused chocolate and enjoy the sights and sounds even if you don't see much of the actual people onstage. I liked the 2016 visuals better with Reevesvision on the left jumbotron all night. Got to hear at least some of my favorites though I have soft spot for my first ever purchase "Wild Mood Swings" but they do play "Want" some nights, if not this one. Got "Disintegration," "A Night Like This," "From The Edge Of The Deep Green Sea" as well as many yet to be released songs that are meant more than sending people to the loo or for more underpriced merchandise. Robert Smith believes in them enough to put them in the set every night and should be given the same attention as the classics you, if not me, grew up with. He still takes his craft seriously in addition to the business.
There are likely better recordings, even of the same night, and as is often the case this serves as more of a vehicle to tell my story than just kicking another show out there for the obsessive compulsives to put on a soon to crash hard drive without ever hearing.
I was planning on going the last night and splurge on a garden box if possible but I did have a free show by Kara Jackson on my calendar and though I had yet to hear a note, I sampled a song and decided to save myself the cash. It was worth it to spend, but the Bowl is just a bit too much to deal with three nights in one week. Foot, car, shuttle, there is just no easy way to get out of there.
And I will leave you with a link to my most played song by The Cure, which would likely blow at least a mind or two if it returns to the set.
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https://youtu.be/-yF_PLJfe7Q
submitted by ScorpioTix to TheCure [link] [comments]

2023.05.30 00:54 RaisedByDirewolves JustHoods Raspberry Bars take 2

JustHoods Raspberry Bars take 2
My 2nd attempt at adapting JustHoods lemon bar recipe using raspberries.
This time, I blended 2 pints of raspberries, passed it through a sieve, then reduced it by half over the stove. I let that cool then added my 4 eggs, 1 cup granulated sugar, 4 tablespoons flour, 2 tablespoons lemon juice, 1 tablespoon cornstarch, 1 tablespoon raspberry extract and a dash of salt.
I used half the crust recipe, pressed into an 8x8 square lined with parchment. Baked that for 12 minutes, poured over my custard, and baked that for 25 minutes until the middle was just barely jiggling.
Dusted with powdered sugar while still warm, then moved to the fridge to cool until chilled.
submitted by RaisedByDirewolves to JustHoodsLemonBars [link] [comments]

2023.05.30 00:07 McMagz1987 The trinity is complete

The trinity is complete
I love Bread Machine Magic!! I’ve only made one loaf from More Bread Machine Magic, but it was a great one! And today I found BMM Book of Helpful hints to complete the series! (I think??)
submitted by McMagz1987 to BreadMachines [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 23:43 dreamingofislay Feis Ile Caol Ila Day Recap (5/29)

Feis Ile Caol Ila Day Recap (5/29)
Sequel to my recaps for days one and two. It's been a wonderful Feis so far, and we feel lucky and grateful to be able to return after a five-year hiatus.
Day Three, Monday, is Caol Ila Open Day on the island's eastern coast. Here are our impressions and advice, let me know if you guys find this helpful and interesting!
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The courtyard at Caol Ila at the height of their open day
  • This year is the first year in a while that the open day has returned to the distillery after a multi-year renovation. The new visitor center is much bigger, sleeker, and glossier than older examples like Lagavulin's spartan bottle shop. Caol Ila's center is a Disney World-esque tribute to all things Diageo, selling many of their major single malts and special annual releases, along with a big array of Johnnie Walker products.
  • Unsurprisingly, Caol Ila day is a lot like Lagavulin day. Great, well-organized team. On arrival, they hand out a welcome packet with a pin, map, and two dram tokens per person, and everyone can choose between two whiskies for those free pours. Caol Ila offered the Distillers Edition and Moch.
  • Like at Lagavulin, the dram-token system is only lightly enforced. We came in and got two packets, then went to the main bar, and they handed me two more packets because I was holding the first two under the bar (not intentionally, I swear!). By 4 pm, team members were passing out more drams, no tokens exchanged, so the famous generosity of festival week is still here, just a little more under wraps.
  • ASOIAF/Game of Thrones fans may appreciate this reference: Caol Ila is the Pyke of Islay distilleries. Not only is it on the coast, it's on a verdant rocky cliffside, so you must take a winding wooden walkway to enter it. Caol Ila is also the most "vertical," for lack of a better word. The gift shop's on Level 3, and the main courtyard was on Level 0. On each level, there are different experience rooms, including a mini-history museum on Level 2.
  • In that history museum, we enjoyed a wonderful experience with Jo and Peter (a Diageo historian and a blending team member, respectively). It was strange; almost every other major event sold out very quickly, but this one was still available a week before we arrived, for a relatively reasonable 45 pounds/person. When we got there, only one other couple had booked it, and all of us had a great time chatting. Jo and Peter were fun company and fonts of whisky knowledge. And the four whiskies ... quite something. As a bonus, Jo and Peter gave us a to-go sample of a whisky they custom-created for the Lagavulin Malt Mill experience (the idea was to recreate the early 1900s whisky made at Lagavulin for blending). Such a kind gesture.
  • If you ever find yourself on Islay do yourself a favor and go to the Ballygrant Inn. Heck, go twice. It may be the best whisky bar on an island chock full of amazing watering holes. The selection feels infinite, and the prices are eye-poppingly reasonable. As a comparison, we had Laphroaig's 2009 and 2010 Cairdeas bottles for 8.50 pounds per pour, whereas they were 25-30 pounds per pour at a bar in Bowmore. And if you want to try rare bottles or festival bottles without the madness of Feis week, this is your spot. They have many Feis Ile expressions from the last 5-10 years.
  • Hang out at a bar long enough, and you realize some people are not here to play. Chatted with one group that was ordering powerhouse dram after powerhouse dram - Ardbeg Single Casks, 20-plus year old Bowmores and Bunnahabhains, etc. - like there was no tomorrow. One gentleman let me taste a sip of an Ardbeg single cask (70 or so pound pour). Yeah, it was pretty good.
  • SMWS (Scotch Malt Whisky Society) does great events throughout the week, and you don't have to be a member to attend or buy their bottles, unlike the rest of the year. They had a booth outside of Ballygrant today, and we got to try 5-6 expressions and ended up buying two festival bottles: a 14-year-old Macallan beauty bottled for Spirit of Speyside and a 14-year-old Caol Ila in honor of their open day, which was better (just IMO) than the official festival bottling and about half the price.
  • The vindaloo curry at Indian Tandoori/Taj Mahal in Bowmore is really spicy. Perfect hearty meal for resetting the system after a long day.
  • Fauna spotting: there are distinctive black and white seabirds with red feet all over the island, named black guillemots, but known at the distillery as "Caol Ila penguins." We also saw a swan couple that we've now spotted at Lagavulin, Bunnahabhain, Bowmore, and across the bay by Jura. Not sure if they're the same single pair of swans, but it feels like they're following us around!
We powered through quite a few drams today (lots of small sample pours, or driver's dram bottles to take home):
Caol Ila Moch - the easy entry ramp into peated single malts, but not going to be any seasoned fan's favorite.
Caol Ila Distillers Edition - Weird but super-fun scent today: chinkiang vinegar. My fellow Chinese folk will know what I'm talking about. Great with dumplings when blended with soy sauce. Maybe Caol Ila DE is a good substitute?
Caol Ila Distillery Exclusive - 2018 bottling with a red-wine finish. Nose is so different than other Caol Ilas, pure vanilla and coconut, but with the spice and tannins of a red-wine finish in the late palate.
Caol Ila Four Corners of Scotland, 14 y.o. - 2022 bottling that was made to emphasize the distillery's character. Core profile: ashy petrols and iodine on the nose, but a sweet, lemon/citrus palate, and a floral/smoke finish.
Caol Ila Feis Ile 2023, 13 y.o. - This year's festival bottling is a marriage of 10 first-fill PX and oloroso sherry casks. Was a surprising dram because most first-fill whiskies are very intensely sherried, at the cost of some balance. For this one, the distillery character won out and there might have been too little sherry influence.
Caol Ila 1996, 26 y.o. single cask - Not for sale, just for tastings like this one. This ruddy dram was so rich and unctuous it nosed like a bourbon, but the taste was all rich, old, sherry-aged, sweet-and-peat Islay goodness. An absolute stunner. My wife said cuatro leches due to the high caramel and brown sugar; I also got some pineapple juice on the finish.
SMWS 53.446, "Blowtorched Mexican Mousse," 14 y.o. - This Caol Ila is more of the classic sherry-and-peat combo, really potent and meaty, like barbecue ribs slathered with some sweet Kansas City-style sauce. Bottled for this year's Feis.
SMWS G16 Rare Release, "Dark n'Stormy Creme Brulee," 6 y.o. - This one-off whisky was a collab with Glasgow Distillery to make a Scottish bourbon-style whisky. Using a mashbill of 51+% corn, rye, and barley (sounds like bourbon, yeah?), aged in new American oak casks (bourbon, right?), this one tastes like ... a pretty delicious rye whisky to me, and a high-rye bourbon to my wife. Fascinating dram.
SMWS 24 Rare Release, "Massive Oak Extraction," 14 y.o. - Single cask, cask-strength Macallan. Burnt matchsticks nose (a common note from sherry aging), followed by a tour-de-force palate of dark, sugary fruits and baking spices. A much more muscular Macallan than any of their own bottlings.
SMWS 3 Rare Release, "The Finesse of a Fragrant Furnace," 18 y.o. - A strange Bowmore, so gentle and light and sweet that it read more like a Highland whisky to us. But maybe that's what happens when you're on your 4th cask strength whisky after leaving a 4-cask-strength-whisky tasting ...
SMWS 53 Rare Release, "Honeysuckle Petrichor," 14 y.o. - Another Caol Ila, which had some similar notes to the previous one, but with an ashier and "dirtier"/farmier palate. Petrichor, for sure. Depends if you want more of that rough, earthy peat, but you can't go wrong either way.
Laphroaig 2009 Cairdeas 12 y.o. - This showcases a fresh-cut fruit and light side to Laphroaig that I rarely see outside of 20-year-old-plus bottlings. Not at all the norm, but that's why I love the Cairdeas series.
Laphroaig 2010 Cairdeas Master Edition - In contrast to 2009, 2010 was straight down the fairway. Ashy, smoky, medicinal, maritime, and warming. I wish I could compare this side by side with the 2015 200th Anniversary or with 2022's Warehouse 1. It sort of falls between those two bottlings. With this dram, I've made it through the entire Cairdeas lineup!
Octomore 08.2 - Well, it's an Octomore, what is there to say? Wave after wave of peat, balanced out by salinity and an intense, tinned-fruit sweetness. After 15 minutes, got some chocolate wafer cookies on the nose.
Ardbeg Galileo - This feels like a classic Ardbeg from a bygone golden age. I wish the juice still tasted like this. It doesn't have any of the mustiness or dirtiness of some peated whiskies; it's fruity, mellow, and citric, like a barbecued fruit skewer. Not your normal 'Beg, not sure if they lowered the peat content here.
submitted by dreamingofislay to Scotch [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 18:16 SoCuteBear [SELL][CANADA to USA & Canada][PERFUME] tons of goodies to be found!

[SELL][CANADA to USA & Canada][PERFUME]

$15 Minimum Please!
TAT 3 calendar days or less
SHIPPING TO USA:$11 without tracking and $15.75 with tracking. I'm shipping from Canada.
SHIPPING TO CANADA:For samples only, $4. With tracking, it starts at $15. Tracked shipping price in Canada varies by region.
All samples or decants, unless marked as FS.
All purchased new, unless marked as RIS.
ALL PRICES ARE IN USD. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
ASTRID
BPAL (all purchased new)
DECONSTRUCTING EDEN (all purchased brand new)
FANTOME (all purchased new) $5.5 each
NAVA
NUI COBALT DESIGNS (all purchased new)
POSSETS (ALL PURCHASED NEW; unless marked as FS, all are samples from direct or decant from Ajevie that are $2.5 each)
SIXTEEN92 (all purchased new unless marked as RIS)
SORCELLERIE all Sorcellerie are RIS (some cheaper than others to account for fill level differences)
STEREOPLASM
submitted by SoCuteBear to IndieExchange [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 17:21 probablytired000 Medication shortage finally hit my state, now I can't stop cooking/baking/pickling lmao

I'm honestly surprised it took this long for the Adderall shortage to hit my state, seeing as I've been hearing about it for a really long time now. Didn't have any issues until last week, I called for my last refill, no pharmacies have my medicine anywhere near me. I've been raw-dogging the ADHD for about a week now.
My current hyperfixation is baking and pickling. Pickling is really easy and fun to do. You can pickle literally everything y'all, and it's fairly cheap tbh. And it's so customizable. Decided to mess around and make spicy pickles seasoned with some basic pickling spices and Tapatio...Literally so good. I also invested in a bread maker, I feel like little miss Holly Homemaker with all the bread I'm making. Also fun, easy, and super customizable. And it makes your apartment/house smell really good. I've also been trying my hand at cakes and cake decorating. Definitely takes a lot of practice and patience, but super fun.
Anyway, since I've been unmedicated, I cannot stop making food. I'm even cooking, and I hate cooking. I spent the last 2 days preparing food and treats to take to my parents' place today for Memorial Day, even though they're not grilling or really doing anything for Memorial Day, just seemed like a good excuse to put my hyperfixations to use lol. I made chocolate cupcakes with marshmallow buttercream, lemon cupcakes with strawberry buttercream, a lemon blueberry tart, baklava for my dad, pickled jalapeños and carrots, queso, a loaf of bread with garlic and parmesan cheese, southwestern chicken salad, deviled eggs, and jalapeños poppers! Basically everything is made from scratch. I've been moving non-stop for a few days. Feeling kinda bad for my roommate, she hasn't had much time to make her own food since I've been monopolizing the kitchen...She hasn't said anything though.
I also bought the stuff to make layered red, white, and blue drinks! I'm not really that patriotic, but the science behind layered drinks is fascinating to me! 7Up with grenadine, blue gatorade, and regular 7Up...The different densities allow the liquids to layer instead of mix, HOW COOL?! I know that's like, basic 5th grade science, but I love it, even as an adult.
I also bought some chips and dip for my family to eat while I finish preparing some of the food, since some of it couldn't be fully made ahead of time. Also bought a watermelon, but my father will have to cut that up (I nearly cut off a finger attempting to cut a melon without permission/supervision in 5th grade, haven't been able to feel the top half of that finger for about 12 years now lol). Might make a 7 layer dip or something too...
Anyway, I'll just deal with the consequences of all the money I've spent on food and baking/cooking tools later...That's a future me problem. Past and present me are loving all the cooking/baking/pickling!
I need my Adderall...And soon lol. Everyone says I'm more "fun" without it, which is probably true, but medicated me would be a little more conservative with all the food and money...Oh well. It is what it is. Hopefully everyone enjoys my treats! If everyone is happy and enjoying themselves, it'll be worth it! Hope my US friends are enjoying the long weekend!
submitted by probablytired000 to adhdwomen [link] [comments]

2023.05.29 17:05 sauna_apartment Carless: Escarpment Trail, the Catskills NY

I've been meaning to do this for awhile as I've found the info regarding backpacking without a car in the NYC area lacking, half-baked, or in practice, untrue. The thread in the sidebar is excellent, but AT focused. I'll see a post that say take this bus service to a certain town and taxi to the trailhead, but what it may not say is that there is no service to call a taxi on arrival or that line only runs on weekdays that direction. Not to say I won't be repeating common knowledge as I definitely will, but hopefully you'll find something in my logistics useful for planning your own ventures sans car.
A little bit about me: I am a lightweight backpacker (slowly working on dropping my last few ounces) living in Queens, NY. I generally love the public (and private) transit in NYC metro area, although it always could be improved and there are aspects that are deeply frustrating, large and small. In addition to not having a car, I also work a 9-5 job; this and future trail reports will reflect that I often only have a weekend to enact my plans.
The Escarpment Trail
Buy a ticket on the Trailways bus line from Port Authority to Windham, NY. On Saturdays, there is a bus that departs at 8am. That is the one you want. The Trailways' stations are in the bottom of Port Authority, terminals 28-34. Double check your bus is correct with the attendant as the what is on the directory and what terminal they're actually leaving from may be at odds. When boarding, tell the driver that you want the Escarpment Trailhead Parking lot, which is slightly before Windham; in between Windham, East Windham, and Hensonville; after Cairo; on route 23. If you pass Smitty's Nursery & Landscape on the left you've gone too far. I didn't know you could ask the driver to drop you off at a non-designated stop, but he said it was okay as long as its on route. I'm assuming this is a driver by driver thing, but as long as you're not an ass about it, I bet they'll say yes. However, I did not know this perk until a woman request to be let off before Windham, and I got off with her and proceeded to backtrack to the trailhead on route 23. If you have to walk the shoulder, maybe you can hitch a ride, but you'd be luckier than me.
Make sure you have water. At the trailhead there is a stream. There is no water after that until 0.4 miles past Dutcher Notch, which is ~12 miles away.
Starting from the first sign off 23, the trail is very well marked (until North South Campground), simply follow the blue markers. A commenter on Alltrails writes:
If you can get Wyndham and BlackHead out of the way on the first day the second day is pretty smooth after the initial climb out of the notch. Amazing view after amazing view.
Views translate to ascents. Climbing Blackhead was confirmed steep and arduous after already hiking 9 miles. But this is the hardest climb during the trip, so once summited, it's all smooth sailing. Day 1 clocked about 11 miles (excluding walk to the trailhead).
I camped somewhere on the backside of Arizona Mountain overlooking the valley. It was gorgeous, but unexpectedly buggy for no water nearby and a slight breeze. If you're hiking this in two days one night as I was, you need to get to around the Notch. In the notch, there is an intersection between the Escarpment trail (straight), the Colgate Lake Trail (right), and the Dutcher Notch Trail (left). A short ways down the Dutcher Notch Trail there is a spring (a pipe in the rock) where you can filter water. This is the last place to filter water before North Lake.
Not much to report for the first half of the day; the Catskills are beautiful. There is a very cool plane wreckage. The Escarpment trail gives views to the NorthEast, and often times you can see the Green Mountains, the Whites, and the Berkshires, depending on the clarity. Eventually you'll reach North Point on North Mountain. Here, you'll start to encounter day hikers staying at NorthSouth Campground. I was fairly alone for most of the path; some families at the start, a few day hikers going to Windham High Peak, but very few backpackers. Which imo is preferable; I like the solitude. The frequency of day hikers increased the closer you get to the campground, but most of them were heading out as I was heading in, and only one had a bluetooth speaker.
Reaching North Lake, you are a jungle person breaching civilization. People are grilling and getting stuff out of their SUVs, while you smell and swim in your skivvies. Or at least, that's what I did. After a nice dip, find the blue markers at the back of the campground. There is no more markings for the Escarpment Trail although you're still on it. The signs will say to Catskill Mountain House Site and to Boulder Rock. Stay on the blue markers.
Eventually you'll come to Kaaterskill Falls. I only went to the lookout not the base, as I was unsure how much more walking I'd have to do and I was anxious about the time (around 2pm, the bus back was 5:55pm.) Also Kaaterskill Falls was overrun by tourists, which are different than day hikers. I can't complain as Kaaterskill Falls has been a tourist attraction since the mid 1800s, but after two days in the peaceful woods, I wasn't keen about been around all the activity.
Instead of finishing the Escarpment Trail at Schutt Rd. Parking Lot, take the Kaaterskill Rail Trail to the Haines Falls Train Station. Its about a 1.5 miles of pathway that brings you back to route 23A. At 23A, take a right and walk along the shoulder for about 2 miles into the town of Tannersville, NY. On 23A, stop at the Twilight General Store for an optional ice cream, however the key stop is Bear & Fox Provisions in Tannersville. Great selection of beer and cider, one of which the proprietor brews from apple trees from the side of the road.
Catch the 5:55pm Trailways bus from outside the pharmacy (5980 Main St.), which after a brief stop in Kingston, returns to Port Authority. I would recommend buying both ticket ahead of time as I had varying degrees of mediocre service the whole trip. Day 2 clocked about ~14 miles (including walking to Tannersville)
The Escarpment is great trail for an experienced hiker. Like other Catskill hikes, it's as beautiful as it is difficult. It's very possible to do it in a weekend, but a slower paced individual or group may want to do it in three days, two nights which may affect bus times and accessibility. Enjoy a carless excursion and remember to bring an eye mask and ear plugs for the bus ride.
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