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Gorr the God Butcher
A creature of deadly reckoning, Gorr the God Butcher vows to kill all deities across the cosmos—a crusade that spans a millennia.
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Vowing to slay all the gods, Gorr the God Butcher follows through with his promise thanks to his bond with the All-Black, the first symbiote and most ancient evil.
The Nonbeliever
Raised by his mother and father on a planet without a name, young Gorr learns of the gods who they must pay homage to in order to keep the family safe. Gorr, possessing a crippled leg and an inquisitive demeanor, questions his mother about the gods—why he can't see them and why they didn't take care of his father when he fell ill with the sun fevers. His mother reassures him that his father lived a long life and that they'll see him again, someday. Soon after, she dies saving him from a pair of dinosaur-like beasts.
Years later, he has sons and daughters with his partner Arra but she perishes, while pregnant, in an earthquake. Most of his children are taken by the same illness as his father. With only one son left, Agar, Gorr treks with him and his tribe away from their barren wasteland, seeking a more resourceful area of the planet. However, his son did not survive the journey. Gorr loses all faith in the gods; committing blasphemous acts, such as burying his son underground, a practice forbidden by his culture, and saying there are no gods to take care of them. His tribe stoned him so that the gods couldn't hear his lies, saying he was of the black gods, and his crippled leg was a sign.
While walking alone through the deserts, a pair of armored beings hurtle across the sky and land in an explosion on the ground nearby. Gorr approaches these unknown beings to find the gilded one had stabbed the inky black opponent. When the gold god asks for help, Gorr refuses, viewing the beings as gods and thus blaming them for his suffering. Just then, an ooze-like substance shot up into Gorr's hand from the blade of the black-armored god and formed into a spearhead, as if forged into volcanic glass. With it, he butchered the remaining god. With a mere thought, the spearhead turned once again into ooze, covering Gorr's body in armor with wings. As he flew away from his planet and into outer space, he wondered if there were more gods out there to find.
An Ancient Symbiote of Power
The first symbiote, All-Black, is an ancient amorphous weapon originating from the evil Knull. It left Knull when he became incapacitated, and bonded itself to Gorr, who becomes imbued with its superhuman powers, including flight as well as increased strength and durability. From Gorr's thoughts, he can mold the shapeshifting symbiote to form armor around his body and produce weapons, which are limited only by his thoughts. One of the weapons, All-Black the Necrosword, extends from his arms and is made from living darkness. The symbiote also provides him with the ability to regenerate.
Familial Bonds
Gorr's only allies are that of his family. After he loses them all, he begins spouting blasphemy against the gods, resulting in his tribe turning against him. When the All-Black symbiote bonds to him, he creates an army of black berserkers, dog-like creatures with immense strength. They do his bidding and kill gods for him, which fuels his powers. Using the symbiote, he also creates constructs of his deceased wife and son.
Gods are the One True Enemy
Gorr has had numerous encounters with Thor Odinson, aka Thor, over the centuries. One encounter in particular where he nearly lost his life teaches him that his dreams are still possible, that he has something to live for, which is to kill all the gods. He claims he has slain gods of jealousy, death, war, fear, chaos, poetry, and flowers.
A History of Slaying Gods
Gorr spent the next thousands of years torturing and butchering gods and creating an army of black berserkers. When Gorr attacked the god Chronux, he claimed the Pool of Forevers used it to travel through the timestream, arriving in various times. He went back to the start of the universe to slay one of the first elder gods and then far in the future to the desolate Earth-14412 where he enslaved all the gods, except for All-Father Thor, AKA King Thor, whom he tormented for 900 years. Gorr indentured the gods to construct a device to kill anyone of divinity known as the Godbomb.
While describing his ancient symbiote weapon to his prisoner Volstagg the Valiant, Lion of Asgard, one of many gods he enslaved and then imprisoned for stealing bread, Volstagg accused him of being a god himself, a most foul and despicable one. Gorr nailed him to a cross and as his young son, formed from the All-Black symbiote, came looking for him, asking for food, Gorr said that his son would not go hungry.
The Thor of the present, the Avenger from Earth-616, travelled to the end of time and joined the Thor of the future, King Thor, to defeat the God Butcher. Meanwhile, the young Thor of the Viking age escaped Gorr's slavery. He attempted to kill the Godbomb using a piece of a star, but it blew him off the planet where he met up with his future selves. King Thor struck Gorr with his hammer sending him lightyears away, and for the first time, Gorr felt afraid. To gain more power, he ordered his army of dark minions to kill all the gods he enslaved, which fueled his power and allowed him to defeat the three Thors.
When Gorr activated the Godbomb, the symbiote construct of his wife called him out as a God. Angry at the accusation, he killed her. The construct of his son, Agar, then allied with Thor the Avenger, to bring down his father who he saw had become the very thing he fought over a millennia to destroy. Thor the Avenger, with Agar's prayers and the remaining gods across time and space, absorbed the full might of the Godbomb and Gorr's Necrosword. Using the blast's power, Thor weakened Gorr as Agar called his father the God of Hypocrisy. The younger Thor finally slayed Gorr the God Butcher.
Gorr's mark though was left permanently on Thor the Avenger—his philosophy of selfish gods only out for themselves stuck with Thor, which led to him to become unworthy of Mjolnir. Gorr's consciousness also survived inside the All-Black. Gorr was later resurrected by Loki Laufeyson, aka Loki, the new host to All-Black. Gorr reclaimed the All-Black from him and impaled him in the back. He crucified Thor and Loki, and vowed to destroy Midgard and make Thor watch. He engulfed both brothers into the All-Black, but shortly thereafter, gods who Thor previously saved were awakened by the Goddess of Thunder. These gods liberated Thor and Loki, and together they finally defeated Gorr and the All-Black symbiote. Without the symbiote, Gorr became mortal and left without his memories. The Sky Lords of Indigarr took him in so that he could live his life in peace.
Jason Aaron's Thor
Behold! The entire reading chronology of Jason Aaron's epic tenure on Thor, curated for your reading pleasure! Dive in with these dazzling Tales from Asgard, and conclude with the War of the Realms event, on sale now!


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Ferry Farm Community Solar
by steph | Apr 3, 2020 | Featured - Homepage Slider, News | 0 comments
Click Here for Ferry Farm Case Study
West Sussex local energy enterprise completes £5.5million transaction amidst lockdown and launches Corona Crisis Fund.
Leapfrog Finance and Communities for Renewables C.I.C. are delighted to share the news of a successful community re-finance of a 5MW solar farm by Ferry Farm Community Solar Ltd.
Ferry Farm Community Solar, a local energy enterprise which serves the West Sussex communities of Selsey and Sidlesham has completed a £5.5million transaction to bring a 5MW solar array into full community ownership. The solar array has been up and running since 2016 and generates enough clean energy to power approximately 1,300 homes per year. Ferry Farm Community Solar is supported by Communities for Renewables CIC.
The transaction was funded by a loan from Leapfrog Bridge Finance. A further opportunity for the community to invest in the enterprise will come later this year.
Surplus income generated by Ferry Farm Community Solar (around £50,000 per year since inception) has been used to support:
 – An energy and fuel poverty advice service, helping individuals and families living in fuel poverty reduce their energy spend, maintain a healthy living environment in their homes, deal with energy debts and access energy-related benefit payments.
 – A community grant fund, supporting local organisations and projects in Selsey and Sidlesham.
Immediately following completion of the transaction Ferry Farm Community Solar launched a £40,000 Corona Crisis fund to support local people facing hardship due the outbreak, shut down and likely recession.
Louisa Cilenti, Partner at Lux Nova – legal advisors for the transaction, said: "We are delighted to have supported Leapfrog to finance the acquisition of Ferry Farm Community Solar Project, to enable this FiT-backed 5MW solar park to remain in long-term community ownership and under community management. It is testament to the expertise and commitment of the Leapfrog finance team and the strength of their relationship with community developer and asset manager CfR that acquisition terms could be structured to meet the commercial requirements of Triple Point whilst preserving significant cash surpluses over the life of the project to directly benefit local community initiatives. We continue to be filled with optimism that we will emerge from the COVID-19 pandemic with a stronger focus on the value of communities and the enabling role of social finance to advance a bigger societal mission and positive social impact."
Matt Andrews, Director of Project Finance at Leapfrog Group said: "Leapfrog Bridge Finance is delighted to support another community with its' transition to a carbon neutral future whilst at the same time generating significant social impact. Working closely with our professional advisors Lux Nova Partners, Johnston Carmichael Chartered Accountants & Green Cat Renewables we were able to complete the funding during a period of intense uncertainty for the country and its communities. The funds already being distributed locally to help combat the impact of the coronavirus demonstrate how local energy enterprises can support their community's resilience."
Tom Cosgrove, of Communities for Renewables CIC, who managed the transaction for Ferry Farm Community Solar said: 'behind the scenes a huge amount of work goes into a transaction like this from the borrower, funder and the advisory team. It has taken us 6 months to get through the finance process and several months of negotiations prior to that. To complete the transaction in the midst of the lock down is a credit to all parties and shows how important it was to everyone to get it done and enable the enterprise to mobilise the Corona Crisis Fund.'
About Ferry Farm Community Solar Ltd
Ferry Farm Community Solar Ltd is a not for profit community energy enterprise which serves the communities of Selsey and Sidlesham in West Sussex. It was set up with the support of Communities for Renewables CIC to manage the community involvement in a 5MW solar array at Ferry Farm on the outskirts of Selsey. The society is governed by a board of volunteer directors and owned by its members (of which there are currently around 100) who invested in a community share offer when the society was first set up. These members have a 1 member 1 vote say in AGM decisions and have been paid 6% per year share interest. However, as a community benefit society, Ferry Farm Community Solar operates primarily for the benefit of the local community rather than its members. The enterprise expected to generate around £2million to support local community projects over its lifetime.
The Leapfrog Group is dedicated to enabling positive social, environmental and financial impact for UK communities by facilitating their participation in a low-carbon energy system.
Our not-for-profit organisation comprises:
1. Pure Leapfrog (UK Charity#1112249), providing access for communities wishing to benefit from low-carbon systems (including legal templates, pro bono technical advice, social impact tools etc.) and serves as an 'incubator' working with communities on innovative models for their engagement in and benefit from the energy system.
2. Leapfrog Finance, which is our social and environmental impact investment arm. Leapfrog Finance operates a revolving short-term (6-12 months) bridge finance facility, enabling community organisations to install and/or acquire low-carbon energy systems. Projects benefiting from this facility are overlooked by traditional finance. Importantly, Leapfrog Finance only lends to projects combining renewable energy assets with strict social impact criteria. This is how we ensure that, while we are involved for a short time at the early-stage of a project, our contribution generates positive environmental and social impact for the community through the lifetime of the project (20 years+).
www.pureleapfrog.org
About Communities for Renewables
Communities for Renewables CIC (CfR) is a community interest company which helps communities across the UK to set up local energy enterprises and works with them to develop, finance and manage their own renewable energy generation.
Since setting up in 2012, CfR has worked with local energy enterprises in over 30 localities from villages to cities to help deliver over 35MW of community solar from school roofs to one of the largest community solar farms in the UK. CfR has supported the financing of community solar projects with a capital value of £56million and our company and asset management team looks after 50MWp of community solar across 7 localities. Over their operational lives, these projects are projected to generate around £20million of surplus income to support community projects in their localities.
CfR's contribution to leading innovation in the community energy sector has been recognised through CfR winning the 2018 Community Energy England (CEE) Community Energy Champion and Young Community Energy Champion awards and being short-listed for CEE community energy finance award, 2018 and 2019 Renewable Energy Association awards and 2020 Natwest SE100 social enterprise awards.
www.cfrcic.co.uk
About Selsey and Sidlesham
Selsey and Sidlesham lie on the Manhood Peninsula to the east of the Solent. The peninsula is much loved by its residents and visitors. With a population of around 11,000, Selsey is a local centre providing a range of day-to-day services such as healthcare, shopping and education to the adjoining parishes and villages. Sidlesham is a rural parish with a population of 1,000 across 5 hamlets. Selsey and Sidlesham parishes are under Chichester District Council and West Sussex County Council.
The low-lying Manhood Peninsular is particularly vulnerable to climate change. The parishes of Selsey and Sidlesham are home to the UK's largest open coast realignment scheme which is designated as a nature reserve and managed by the RSPB, who are also custodians of the neighbouring Pagham Harbour Local Nature Reserve.
The local economy is highly reliant on seasonal trade and low pay, low skilled work in agriculture and tourism jobs, as well as residents working in the commutable commercial centres which include Chichester, Portsmouth, Southampton and the Sussex Coast towns.
Like most UK coastal towns Selsey has its challenges with unemployment, access to post 16 training, cost of public transport and links to employment areas. Whilst Chichester District as a whole is one of the least deprived areas in the UK, this hides significant wealth disparity. The North Ward of Selsey contains a pocket of multiple deprivation. This is reflected in the roll at the local Secondary school where a quarter of the school population qualify for Pupil Premium and just below 20% identify as having Special Educational Needs (SEN) compared to the national average of 12%. The percentage of students receiving Free School Meals (FSM) is slightly above national average (14.9% at TAS compared to 14.1% national) but much higher than the rest of West Sussex (8.8%).
The Corona outbreak presents particular challenges for the community:
• 40% of the population are over 65 and there are 3,500 over 70's supposed to be self- isolating
• Many of the retired population have moved to the area and live away from family, with loneliness and isolation being an issue for those who have subsequently lost partners
• There are 189 people with a diagnosis of dementia
• There are 550 voluntary carers
The area, and Selsey town, has a strong sense of identity and its residents form close communities. There are over 150 active community groups, providing everything from leisure and creative pastimes to support for health, emotional and social needs. Selsey Community Forum holds 46 Forums a year bringing together statutory, charity and commercial partners. Selsey Care Shop offers support to voluntary Carers, people living with dementia, the lonely, bereaved, those in debt and low level mental health needs. This support is given through 400 monthly visitors to the Shop, 21 monthly activities and regular proactive telephone calls.
Selsey Community Forum is coordinating the community's Covid response, working in partnership with all other agencies. Action so far includes:
• Organised 120 buddies covering every road in town. This is covering Shopping, prescriptions and dog walking amongst other things.
• Set up a communications network via Facebook, phone, email and text.
• Distributed an informative magazine, Senior Selsey News, to 1000 most isolated elderly residents.
• Set up a welfare fund in coordination with Foodbank.
• Helped to coordinate the use of surplus food from Costa and other closing outlets.
• Organised daily phone calls to reassure 150 isolated and vulnerable people.
• Sending weekly reports to Community Warden, Town Council, Medical Practice, District and County Council.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


Our Spine Center is run by an expert team of highly skilled and extensively trained neurosurgeons and orthopedic surgeons, whose use of state-of-the-art surgical interventions and equipment has resulted in excellent patient outcomes.
Recognized as a Blue Distinction Center for Spine Surgery by Blue Shield of California, we pride ourselves on our high rate of surgical success and low rate of complications.
Dr. Christian Athanassious is a board-certified spine surgeon who specializes in conditions of the spine. An advocate of the whole-body medical approach to treating patients, Dr. Athanassious completed his undergraduate degree in Psychology from UC Davis with the intention of pursuing his medical doctorate. With a thorough background in psychology, Dr. Athanassious never loses sight of the mind and body connection when considering the best treatment for his patients.
Dr. Athanassious received his medical degree from the Drexel University College of Medicine. He then completed his orthopedic residency at Monmouth Medical Center in Long Branch, New Jersey, and was selected to serve as the Chief Resident in his final year. Dr. Athanassious went on to complete his spine fellowship at Stanford University. Dr. Athanassious is a member of the American Academy of Orthopedic Surgery, North American Spine Society, and the Society of Lateral Access Surgery.
Dr. Kurtis Birch is a board-eligible neurosurgeon with St. Joseph Health Medical Group. Dr. Birch has interests in general neurosurgery and spinal surgery, including spinal instrumentation. He has a specific focus on pituitary tumors and surgical treatments for movement disorders.
Dr. Birch graduated with a medical degree from Boston University and then completed his residency in Neurologic Surgery at Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles, CA.
Dr. Birch enjoys playing golf and working on his muscle car. He grew up in Utah and attended the University of Utah prior to moving to Boston for medical school.
Dr. Giac Consiglieri is a board-certified neurosurgeon with St. Joseph Health Medical Group, and the Director of Neurosurgery and Neurotrauma at Santa Rosa Memorial Hospital. In addition to general neurosurgery, his specialty interests include cranial surgery for brain tumors as well as spine trauma. Dr. Consiglieri believes in a multispecialty approach to the treatment of the degenerative spine with an extremely conservative approach to surgical decision making.
Dr. Consiglieri graduated with his medical degree from the University of Southern California. He completed both his residency training in Neurological Surgery and infolded fellowship in Spine Trauma and Complex Spinal Instrumentation at the Barrow Neurological Institute in Phoenix, AZ. Dr. Consiglieri is a member of the Congress of Neurologic Surgeons, and upon board-certification, the American Association of Neurologic Surgeons.
When Dr. Consiglieri is not seeing patients or in the OR, he enjoys spending time with his wife and young daughters, as well as mountain biking. He was raised in Santa Rosa and has returned home following his years away for school and training.
Dr. Germain is a board-eligible neurosurgeon who specializes in cranial and spinal tumors, and complex spinal disease. She grew up in Southern California and attended the University of California, Los Angeles, then graduated from the University of Southern California with a degree in Medicine. She completed her internship in Surgery at Banner Good Samaritan Hospital in Phoenix and her residency in Neurosurgery at the Barrow Neurological Institute. Dr. Germain had a successful private practice in Spokane, Washington as a member of a seven surgeon group, serving a large regional medical center before relocating to Santa Rosa.
Dr. Alexander Iezza is a board-certified orthopedic surgeon who specializes in conditions of the spine, including minimally invasive lumbar fusion surgery and microdecompression surgery.
Dr. Iezza graduated from Chicago Medical School at Rosalind Franklin University of Medicine and Science, where he was an elected member of Alpha Omega Alpha Honor Medical Society, a professional medical organization that advocates excellence in scholarship and the highest ideals in the medical profession. Dr. Iezza completed his residency in orthopedic surgery at Stanford University and a fellowship in spine surgery at St. Mary's Medical Center in San Francisco. During his fellowship, he served as clinical instructor in the Department of Orthopedic Spine Surgery at Stanford University.
Dr. Iezza was born and raised in Petaluma. In his free time, he enjoys spending time with his family, mountain biking, and participating in other outdoor activities.


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Pilgrim's Progress
Thanksgiving without borders.
By Jane Kramer
The problem with cooking Thanksgiving dinner abroad is never just the shopping. It's the local culinary aesthetic.Illustration by Wayne Thiebaud
Some stoves are made for Thanksgiving. My stove in New York is one of them. It has six burners and two ovens, which began to coöperate, more or less, in 2002, after five years of stealing each other's heat—with the result that the people who love sweet potatoes (my daughter, for one) and the people who can't manage Thanksgiving without mashed potatoes (my son-in-law) are finally happy, along with the ones who demand Brussels sprouts (my husband) and the ones (I won't mention them) who ask for string beans. I am the only person at my Thanksgiving dinner who insists on braised red cabbage, but then I am the cook with six burners and two ovens, and I always get it.
I bought my stove with Thanksgiving in my head. I imagined large birds, basted and browning nicely at four hundred and twenty-five degrees in one oven, while apple and pear cakes rose, untroubled, at three hundred and fifty in the other, and the stock for my bourbon gravy simmered on top, surrounded by pots and pans of everyone's favorite fixings. There was some discussion at home about the price of my new stove, but I didn't listen. By my logic, I was saving money, having dropped my long-standing campaign to replace the painted-plywood kitchen shelves with serious maple cabinets. The stove arrived in the fall of 1997, and broke down for the first time a month later, on Thanksgiving Day, leaving sixteen irritable people eating tuna sandwiches and cranberry sauce at two long laundry tables from the building's basement which I had squeezed diagonally, end to end, across my dining room, disguised under my mother's creamy Belgian linens, circa 1930. The emergency repairman appeared in February. With my stove functioning again, I had what would now be called a transformative thought: Thanksgiving but not Thanksgiving. No one would get to vote on the Brussels sprouts or veto the cabbage. No one could say "What? No turkey?" if my corn-bread-and-pecan stuffing came spilling out of a couple of juicy capons instead of a turkey that was bound to be stiff by the time it was carved and on a platter. No one could possibly sniff if the sweet potatoes turned out to be butternut squash—so much lighter—cooked in crème fraîche and maple syrup, with a dab of chipotle sauce. No one would be disappointed if the pies and cakes transmogrified into an apple charlotte out of Julia Child, or even a plum pudding, spared that Christmas, when the family voted bûche de Noël, albeit with a side of hard sauce.
The next morning, I got on the phone and reassembled my Thanksgiving table for the last Thursday (a traditional touch) in February, at eight o'clock (a civilized one). Everyone called it the best Thanksgiving dinner they had ever eaten, perhaps because the people gathered at my table that slushy February night included an English historian, an Italian judge, a German politician and his wife, and two French journalists. They were all fine sources in my writing life, but none were what I would call heavily invested in the menu offered up at the beginning of a brief Pilgrim-Indian rapprochement that, if it lasted at all, was mainly owing to the good manners of a party of Wampanoag braves, who, having diligently gorged on wild turkey for three days at the Pilgrims' harvest feast (by all accounts, in early October, 1621), burned off the calories deer-hunting in the Cape Cod woods—thus keeping the Plymouth colony in meat for the long winter. The capons were splendid, though not, as my family said, something you would have found lounging on a rock in seventeenth-century Massachusetts—which probably explains why, when I suggested capon again in November, I was voted down.
A few months ago, when my husband and I were driving to Paris from the farmhouse in Umbria where we write in the summer, we stopped in the village of Saint-Père-sous-Vézelay, in Burgundy, for dinner at the restaurant L'Esperance, and over a drink at the bar afterward I mentioned those annual family votes to the owner and chef, Marc Meneau. He snorted at the word "turkey." He was bewildered, he said, by America's devotion to turkey. "Un plat bas," he called it. "Pas du tout festival." He would have voted capon—a plump Bresse capon that had spent the last two months of its life reclining on cushions in a private cage and eating soft, "secret" food—but when I pressed him he allowed that if he were forced to serve a turkey he would stuff it with petit-suisse cheese and sautéed apples, simmer it sous vide for an hour, and then roast it, with little basting splashes of Perrier to brown the skin. I wrote it all down.
I am what you might call an amateur of Thanksgiving. My family prefers the phrase "regrettably hospitable," but I would add strategically hospitable, because Thanksgiving dinner has turned out to be the stealth weapon of my reporting life. Everybody knows something about Thanksgiving, though not necessarily what we eat or why we eat it. The word has entered the global lexicon; like Mickey Mouse, Elvis, and Obama, it opens doors. I discovered this as a young reporter, attempting to interview a Berber woman in a tent encampment a few hundred miles into the western Sahara, where I was pursuing a misbegotten story about nomadic women's rights. Her name was Fatma, and she was squatting beside a charcoal brazier, cooking her family's dinner and answering my questions about oppression with the terse forbearance of an earthling suddenly confronted with a chatty alien, when I thought to ask her what was in her pot. She said it was goat—or, rather, pointed to a goat tethered outside her tent—and, smiling for the first time, asked if Americans ate goat at "the big feast of the hunters and the Christians." We talked for an hour, through my increasingly bewildered (male) interpreter, during which time I learned that there was no word for "feminism" in her language, or, for that matter, for "recipe." But she knew about the big feast. I stayed for the goat. It was very tasty.
By now, I can say that most of the people whose lives I've invaded since then, notebook in hand, sooner or later asked me about the big feast, and, if they didn't, I told them. (The exceptions tend to be politicians, who, being not much given to what I would call a fruitful exchange of thoughts, will talk about food only if it's their food and reflects highly on their status: Silvio Berlusconi, say, enthusing over the white truffles slathered on his pasta, or François Mitterrand, whose bird of choice was a two-ounce songbird, plumped for a month on figs and millet, drowned in Armagnac, and then roasted and eaten whole, beak optional, with your head draped in a linen napkin—the better to inhale the perfume of steaming brandy.) The subject of food, and kitchens and cooking, can lull even the most reluctant and suspicious people into conversation, and when I add Thanksgiving, where the food is not only plentiful but familial and friendly, to that conversation, they will shed any lingering doubts as to my good intentions and tell me what I came to hear. But it also means that at the end of the day, when my notebooks are full, I tend to be so overcome by the sense of friendship I have engineered—or so grateful, or perhaps so guilty—that I invite everyone to join my family for a Thanksgiving dinner. Anytime. Anywhere. Sometimes they come. Once, our doorman buzzed on Thanksgiving morning to say that my "guests" had arrived from Italy. I opened the door to a rustic couple whom I had last set eyes on years earlier, writing about a group of Communist peasants with a dairy coöperative (you turned in your cow, and got back a stock certificate with her name and her snapshot on it). They had recently sold their farmhouse to a rich German, left the Party, and, never having been on a plane before, decided to take me up on my invitation. They picked at the food. The next night, I made spaghetti.
I inherited my Thanksgiving strategy from my mother. It is said that families produce a good cook, or a good gardener, only every second generation, but, given that I am a good cook and my daughter a spectacular one, I have to assume that we are correcting a generational imbalance—making up for the fact that my mother, whose talents lay more in pruning rosebushes than in stirring pots, was a terrible cook and my grandmother worse. My mother's one culinary achievement was a bland but passable Thanksgiving dinner. (Her stuffing was onions, celery, white bread crumbs, and a pinch of salt.) But it was memorable compared with what usually passed for culinary excitement in Providence, Rhode Island, in the Eisenhower fifties—a place where ordering Frenched chops at the butcher was considered flashy or, as my mother put it, "something they do in New York." And part of what made it memorable was the collection of hungry foreign people—professors from Brown, musicians in town for a concert, war-refugee doctors my father had met on his hospital rounds—who sat in our dining room then, praising my mother's stuffing as something exotic and American, or, you could say, authentically bland. It was a beautiful room, a room for feasting—the result of years of assaults on estate sales and hapless dealers who, as she liked to say, arriving home with a twenty-five-dollar cache of Georgian silver or an eighteenth-century Connecticut corner cabinet, "didn't know what they had." After she died, I moved almost everything in her dining room to my apartment in New York, hoping to move the spirit, if not the stuffing, of those Thanksgivings with them. My husband is an anthropologist, and it took a while for all that mahogany and silver to settle in with the Sepik River ancestor masks and assorted Pacific totems in their new room, but, once they did, I wrote "Thanksgiving" on a manila folder and started clipping recipes.
"Here—now you're a couch potato au gratin."
My stuffing began as a recipe from the Times, circa 1974: onions, green bell pepper, and celery hearts, sautéed in butter, mixed with corn bread and some crumbled toast, and bound by a cup of chicken broth and a few raw eggs, according to the yellowed page that is now disintegrating between my daughter's Indian-pudding recipe and one for parsnip-and-pear purée. (Thanksgiving that year was "Southern," the paper said, "plus a few trimmings of European inspiration"—which may or may not explain the red cabbage I started making then.) The stuffing has expanded over the years, with my kitchen confidence, to accommodate sausage, orange juice, parsley, thyme, sage, and an extravagant amount of toasted and chopped pecans. It is still expanding, but in 1976, when I got out my mother's stuffing spoon and served my first Thanksgiving dinner at her table, I followed every recipe I used down to the quarter teaspoon. Clearing out a closet the other day, I discovered a box of snapshots from that Thanksgiving, taken by my friend and, at the time, downstairs neighbor Jane O'Reilly, who had appeared at my door at nine in the morning, bearing fresh coffee cake to fortify us for a long day's cooking. One of those pictures is on my desk now; I am basting what looks like a twenty-pounder, balanced precariously on the open door of the oven that preceded my new stove. There are children and dogs underfoot, and grownups hovering with pot holders and coffee cups in their hands. We are all laughing. Thanksgiving looks easy, and it probably was, back in those early feminist days before the idea of the perfect meal invaded the heads of otherwise accomplished women, convincing them that voluntary servitude in the kitchen was the secret of their liberation.
At last count, I have cooked Thanksgiving dinner in seven countries, starting with Morocco. The year was 1968. The city was Meknes. The bride—me—was cooking without benefit of silver, recipes, or a table. And the groom, deep in field work with a brotherhood of hospitable Sufi curers and musicians who danced their patients into trance in amiable, if occasionally bloody, exorcistic rituals, had decided, by way of reciprocation, to introduce them to Thanksgiving. Our larder, when I got this news, consisted of bread, Boulaouane wine, and several sacks of eggplants, Meknes being some months into an eggplant season that threatened to last all winter—and did. I had never tasted an eggplant in Providence, or, for that matter, at Vassar, where I went to college. My first experience with eggplants was in New York, at graduate school, and they were still as exotic to me as my mother's stuffing was to the Europeans at her Thanksgiving table. I had already made grilled eggplant, tagine with eggplant, couscous with eggplant, soup with eggplant, and even eggplant stuffed with eggplant, and whenever I was tired of eggplant we would drive to Rabat for a steak smothered in pizzaiola sauce—the specialty of a restaurant called La Mamma, which was frequented that fall mainly by diplomats who were also tired of eggplant but not, in my experience there, by Sufi exorcists. So I made do.
I concocted an eggplant flan so thick with onions, cheese, and spices that the taste of the eggplant faded, though not, I have to admit, into the taste of red cabbage or sweet potatoes or Brussels sprouts. Everybody said they liked it. They said they liked my chicken, too—the only poultry within a hundred miles was chicken—and even my stuffing, which I had put together with onions, dates, and flatbreads from the local market. We sat in a circle on the floor (around a large brass platter that, along with a rug, two cushions, and a straw-filled mattress, amounted to the family furniture) and scooped up everything with our fingers, just like Pilgrims and Indians, and drank a good deal of mint tea and told stories. I would count that Thanksgiving as my first success. If the Sufis were a bit bewildered by my household arrangements—men and women eating together, sharing the best parts—they were too kind to say so. I was known thereafter, and not without affection, as the woman who chopped up bread and put it inside her chickens instead of leaving it on the platter, to wrap around the eggplant and sop up the sauce.
Over the next several years, I managed to cook some semblance of Thanksgiving dinner whenever I was off reporting, trying to win the hearts and minds of unlikely people. The worst was a dinner I put together in Södertälje, Sweden, in the fall of 1975, for the families of three Yugoslav workers from the local Saab-Scania factory. It wasn't the food that failed. My cranberry (well, lingonberry) sauce was good, and the turkey, fresh from my babysitter's boyfriend's mother's oven, across the street, even better. But my guests, as history soon showed, didn't really think of themselves as Yugoslavs. They thought of themselves as Serbs, Slovenes, and Croats, and, while they had always been agreeable and even effusive when we talked alone, they were not in the habit of breaking bread together. The conversation was, putting it nicely, strained; it flowed with the slivovitz that the men had brought, and each of them brought two bottles. They were close to brawling when the Slovenian's wife opened a box of homemade pastries—flaky, buttery mille-feuilles layered with thick whipped cream. Peace returned to the kitchen table in my borrowed flat and lasted until, flushed with compliments and brandy, she smiled at the Serbs and Croats and said, "Slovenians make the best cakes."
Then, there was the Thanksgiving dinner I cooked for a family of Ugandan-Asian refugees in Southhall, an outlying London neighborhood where, in the early seventies, tens of thousands of South Asian immigrants lived. I shopped with the lady of the house—who, having vetoed a turkey of suspicious provenance (Harrods), had ordered her own from a halal butcher—and cooked in her tidy kitchen, monitored by her son, an excruciatingly pious eleven-year-old who, on his imam's instructions, had stayed home from school to glare into my pots and pans, hoping to catch his mother and me in some unpardonable culinary indiscretion. (I repressed the urge to sneak some bourbon into his mother's roasting pan, to capture the last sticky bits, and then into the pot of gravy, where all the alcohol would have evaporated in eleven minutes at a brisk simmer: a trick I had learned from a New York neighbor who had learned it in A.A.) My daughter, who was in London with me—"missing a whole month of important peer-experience," her nursery-school teacher had protested—still remembers the perfume of Gujarat spices rubbed into turkey skin, and I came home with the recipe that transformed my dull creamed spinach into a marvellous saag paneer that I still serve, though not, admittedly, with Thanksgiving turkeys.
But none of my foreign Thanksgivings were as strange as the one I cooked in 1990, on the Rue du Cherche-Midi, in Paris, where I kept an apartment-cum-office for sixteen years. It wasn't the food. I had shopped for a week. There were no mice sheltering behind the stove, as there had been the Thanksgiving before. (They roasted, sadly, with the turkey.) And I had discovered a table leaf in the cave, which gave me the space to invite fourteen people, if some of them brought chairs. The problem was my guests and their finicky European palates. The teen-age son of some French friends sat down, announced that he ate only "white things," and helped himself to the lion's share of turkey breast and mashed potatoes. My daughter's boyfriend of the moment, a German student she had acquired on her last vacation, explained that he ate only "separate things"; he tackled his dinner dish by dish, disappearing into the kitchen after each one to wash his plate. My husband insists that the banker at his end of the table actually divided his meal into three mysterious sections—on the same plate but not touching—and ate them separately. I hadn't noticed. By then, I was at the glacier on the Rue du Bac, buying vanilla ice cream.
The problem with cooking Thanksgiving dinner away from home is never just the shopping, though that can drive you crazy: buttermilk (for corn bread) in Italy? chipotles in France? fresh pecans in Germany? The problem is what I would call the local culinary aesthetic. (Reinold Kegel, who cooked at the American Academy in Berlin when I was a fellow there, read up on the big feast and, inspired by the idea, and perhaps by the availability, of pumpkins, produced a Thanksgiving dinner that, barring the turkey, was almost entirely orange: pumpkin soup, pumpkin purée, pumpkin pie.) The fact is that a lot of Europeans are like my daughter's friend. They find it at best peculiar, and at worst revolting, to be expected to sit down to a groaning board of Thanksgiving dishes and, more to the point, to eat them smushed together into one big glorious taste—preferably under enough gravy to insure that no food, as it were, sits alone. They like their tastes one at a time. Try going to a Chinese restaurant with a Frenchman or an Italian; he will order separately, guard his plate, and refuse to share his lemon chicken in exchange for a helping of your Hunan beef. One Frenchman I know even cleans his fork with an alcohol wipe between courses, and I remember a Thanksgiving in Umbria where two of my neighbors paled when I handed them pumpkin ravioli and turkey on the same plate. "In Italy, we eat our pasta first," one of them said tartly—after which they swept their turkey back onto the serving platter, and proceeded to do just that.
Last month, thinking about that Thanksgiving, I called up Ron Suhanosky, who owns the restaurant Sfoglia, across the Park from me in New York, and asked him how he cooked "Italian" Thanksgivings for his customers. He said he didn't. He took his family to Nantucket; brined a turkey for four days; stuffed it with hazelnuts, "drunken prunes," and sweet Italian sausages; and generally "put a spin on Thanksgiving that's Italian." Homemade mostarda. Raw-kale salad. Brussels sprouts with crispy mortadella. A crusted sweet-potato sformata (he described it as "kind of a sweet-potato quiche") with béchamel, bread crumbs, Parmesan, and cream. And for dessert, his wife's department, Italian bread pudding or a panna cotta. It sounded good—all but the part about "no gravy, just a drizzle of olive oil."
Then, there is the problem of whose turkey you are cooking. A good French turkey is either a wild turkey, shot on the wing, or a turkey raised especially for Christmas—which amounts to the same thing: eight or nine pounds at most. And in Paris those eight pounds can set you back a hundred and fifty dollars, because your butcher knows that at Christmas the French will spend as lavishly on fish, fowl, caviar, foie gras, and champagne as we do on stocking stuffers and prime ribs. Last summer, I asked my friend Catherine McGurn, a French dentist married to an American lawyer, if she had ever found a turkey big enough to satisfy the Americans in the Paris office of her husband's firm. She consulted a notebook in which she had recorded the menus, and travails, of her Paris Thanksgivings, and told me, "Once. 1991. Seventeen pounds." She said that the Americans ate everything in sight, down to the last cranberry and sweet potato, while the French friends whom she'd invited "took these little plates" and nibbled politely at everything except her stuffing, which they wolfed down, recognizing it as the same stuffing (known grandly as La Farce) they eat at Christmas: pain de mie mixed with pork sausage, ground veal, crumbled chestnuts, foie gras, and truffles. The McGurns live in Rome now, a city that, from the point of view of Thanksgiving, makes Paris seem like Plymouth. Last winter, finding herself in Paris the day before a belated holiday dinner, she flew home with a hundred Belon oysters in an ice bag in her suitcase, along with some good French cheeses, rillettes, pâté de campagne, and a couple of blocks of foie gras from Les Landes. The lawyers in Rome loved it. No one noticed that there was no bird.
Last summer, I decided to try an other Thanksgiving dinner in Italy. Don't ask why I was even thinking about Thanksgiving—in Italy, in the heat, with a deadline looming and the garden outside my windows full of tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, zucchini, basil, garlic, arugula, baby lettuce, and a dozen other fresh, ripe, lovely Italian things that I can only dream about, at home in New York, in November. Or how I was going to cook it, given that my Italian stove is even more temperamental than my New York stove ever was. True, it also has two ovens, and the bigger one—call it the turkey oven—also stopped working in 1997; the difference is that my Italian oven still sits there, twelve years later, waiting for the technician who can figure out how to fix it. As for my stovetop, it is made entirely for pasta. There is a huge burner in the middle—which ignites with a whoosh of flame that laps at the handles of even the tallest pots and has to be coaxed down into submission before you can turn around—surrounded by four tiny burners whose only possible purpose is simmering pasta sauces that have already taken an hour or two to heat.
Still, it would be my first summer Thanksgiving anywhere. I was determined to cook it. The only summer Thanksgiving I had ever been to, let alone cooked, had taken place in 1974, at Mary McCarthy's house in Castine, Maine, to celebrate Richard Nixon's resignation. Mary was a serious hostess and a splendid cook, and, more to the point, the only other person I knew who served Thanksgiving dinner out of season. Even her stuffing was splendid, despite the fact that there wasn't a trace of corn bread in it. On the other hand, she was not given to sharing recipes. (Years later, when we were neighbors in Paris, I ate it again at one of her November Thanksgivings, and asked her to write it down. She smiled sweetly and said, "No, I don't think so.") But the thing I remember most about her Castine Thanksgiving was how easy she said the marketing had been: she had called a farmer, ordered a sixteen-pounder, and three days later it was there.
The bad thing about good memories is how cheerful and optimistic they can leave you feeling. I was going to find the finest turkey in Italy—or, at least, a turkey as good as hers—and with that in mind I got in the car, drove two hours from my house to a parking lot under the Borghese Gardens, and made my slow way, by taxi and foot, through Rome to the Via della Maddalena, where I asked Angelo Feroci, arguably the city's best meat and poultry purveyor, to find me a sixteen-pound turkey for July or August. Feroci looked astonished. "Impossible," he said. His turkeys were not only Christmas turkeys—"Come back in December," he told me—they were Italian Christmas turkeys, which is to say, "younger and smaller and better" than anything the French ate. Then I remembered: most good butchers in Italy frown on large turkeys; it is a matter of reputation. They call them "poor food," because birds like that are usually raised in feed yards—not to sixteen pounds but to fifteen or sixteen kilos, which translates as thirty-five pounds of old Tom turkey—after which they are sliced thin, packaged, and sold cheaply in supermarkets as petti di tacchino. (Those slices are so ubiquitous that even the peasants who refuse to distinguish between a duck and a goose, at least if they happen to be selling one—or, for that matter, who refer to all squash, from pumpkins to zucchini, as zucca—admit that turkey is turkey.) They are the kinds of turkeys my husband remembers from the Army, which may be why turkey is not his favorite food. The farmers who supply places like Feroci's would never raise one; the farmers competing with feed yards to supply my local co-op, in Todi, would never consider anything smaller. Their feeling, which dates from centuries of poverty, is "the bigger the bird, the more people it can feed." (They feel the same way about vegetables. This year, I rescued a twenty-inch cucumber from the back of my vegetable garden. I had thought it was a skinny watermelon until the gardener said, "Cucumber, almost ready to eat.")
I asked Feroci what he told the Americans in Rome who wanted Thanksgiving turkeys. He told them, laughing, "Invite fewer people, or order two." He allowed that he had been ordering "Christmas turkeys" for November since the early sixties, when Burt Lancaster, who was filming the interiors for "The Leopard" at Cinecittà, walked in and asked for one. There was some discussion. Feroci won the first battle—seven pounds, no bigger—but he couldn't persuade the actor to let him bone the bird and stuff it with, among other good things, prunes and pistachios, ready to be cooked and cut across into "pretty slices, full of colors inside." Now, he says, his customers get "pretty" or none at all.
That was June. I was still searching for a sixteen-pounder in July, when an old Paris friend and fellow-journalist named Merete Baird decided to fly to Italy with her husband for a long weekend. She asked if I needed anything from Paris, and I heard myself saying, Yes, a turkey. My husband was horrified, but Merete is Danish—which is to say, exuberant in the face of a challenge—and she said, "Of course." Her turkey travelled, like Catherine's oysters, in a thermos bag in the luggage hold, and, despite its hours in airport taxis, French security checks, and Italian baggage claims, smelled fine when I unwrapped it. I set the table on the porch for eight people and began to cook. At seven and a half pounds, it just fit into the little oven where I had been doing my roasting for thirteen years, and I had thought to buy a bottle of bourbon for the gravy. Sadly, there were no pumpkins in my garden yet, or even canned pumpkin at the co-op, and, given the refrigerator-life expectancy of a bird that had just emerged from the hold of an Air France jet, there was certainly no time to persuade a dairy farmer to ferment a couple of cups of milk into latte acido, or soured milk, which, I had just discovered, was close enough to buttermilk for a corn-bread stuffing.
I searched my memory for the tastes in Mary McCarthy's stuffing. I spent the morning trying to reconstruct it. It was not a success. But I managed to transform my sweet-potato purée into a carrot purée—there were young carrots in the garden—with molasses that someone had brought from New York years earlier standing in for the maple syrup, red peperoncini for the chipotles, and fresh cream from the dairy for the crème fraîche. I brightened some local spinach with beetroot greens. I made grits, with Sardinian Pecorino—the nearest thing I could find to a sharp Cheddar—using the last bag of stone-ground cornmeal that I had brought from New York, since, for reasons I have never pierced, Umbrians stop cooking with cornmeal at the summer solstice, and it virtually disappears from the market shelves. But I couldn't claim credit for the apple-and-frutti di bosco crumble, steeped in Maraschino liqueur—my friend Lin Widmann, an Anglo-Argentine painter from a long line of English pudding fanatics, made that—or even for the French turkey, which I have to admit had been born delicious.
Given the success of my little July Thanksgiving—I thought of it as a trial run—I scheduled a big Thanksgiving for August 7th. I looked for a new oven. I visited poultry farmers. I tried to negotiate the slaughter of one of the sixteen-pounders I would always see, strutting like teen-agers, in their back yards. I held out ridiculous sums of money, but I could not shake the farmers' conviction that you don't slaughter a bird that will double in size, and yield, in a matter of four months. Their answer was always the same: "Too small. Not ready." Marketing is not what I like to do in Umbria. Unless I am off somewhere on a story, I don't do much of anything that can't be done within a mile of home. I sit on the porch steps and watch the sun rise. I smile at sunflowers. I sit at my desk and write. Toward the end of the afternoon, I check out my figs and my pots of basil and marjoram—Umbrians love marjoram and will not touch oregano—thyme and parsley, and then I tap my way through the vegetable garden with a big stick (Umbria is viper country) and a basket, and head for the kitchen to chop and slice whatever I've carried back. At night I cook it. Once in a while, I will drive north to Todi and pick up a chicken or a guinea fowl at the co-op, or south to Avigliano for mussels or spigola at the local fish store. But if you had asked me, in July, where in Perugia or Terni to find a big new oven that would fit between the counters that flank my stove I wouldn't have been able to say. And if you had asked me where to find a farm-raised sixteen-to-eighteen-pounder I would probably have cried.
By then, I had exhausted two Italian provinces in my turkey quest. So I crossed the Monti Martani (a massif best known as the epicenter of the earthquake that toppled the ceilings of the Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi in 1997) to consult with my friends Joanna Ross and Bruce Adgate. The Rossgates, as they are sometimes called, have been an Umbria resource since the day they decided to quit their jobs in New York—Joanna was a theatre agent and Bruce an actor with Ellen Stewart's La Mama theatre company—to move with their ten-year-old son to Eggi, a village near Spoleto (where Bruce had spent three summers performing Euripides in the mid-seventies). They went to work restoring a fifteenth-century village house, best described at the time as a pile of stones, and in the process unearthed a bread-and-pizza oven, just outside the wall of their son's bedroom. The oven was falling apart, but they peered into its cavernous beehive chamber and immediately thought Thanksgiving, or, as Bruce puts it, "Getting it back in shape went right up there with plumbing and heat as one of my high priorities." He worked on the oven all summer, making pizzas. By November of 1993, he was able to roast a Thanksgiving turkey for ten people. (His biggest turkey, to date, weighed thirty-seven and a half pounds, and thirty-five people spent the better part of two days polishing it off.) In July of 2009, he volunteered his oven for my next Thanksgiving, and, more to the point, his services at the oven, because just firing it up—feeding it wood until the embers turn red and the bricks lining it white hot—takes four or five hours of skilled hard labor and leaves you drenched, even in November. In August, you start drenched.
So I moved Thanksgiving across the mountain. I stopped looking for an oven, and a few days later, when Joanna called with the news that she and Bruce had prevailed on their butcher to find a farmer willing to part with a turkey for fifteen or sixteen people, I stopped looking for a bird, too. We made a guest list of American friends who lived in or around Spoleto and would be spared having to cross a mountain after a feast that, according to Bruce, promised to last past midnight. We made a shopping list. Bruce, whose Thanksgiving specialty is pumpkin pie, came home that night with the first pumpkin of the season. Joanna discovered a dusty bottle of maple syrup at the back of a shelf in a discount supermarket called Sabatini, which didn't surprise me; she can find anything, and what she doesn't find she grows. We were in countdown mode when Naomi Duguid, the Canadian food scholar and cookbook writer I had got to know on assignment last year, e-mailed to say that she was flying to Italy that week. I invited her to Thanksgiving and, of course, gave her the rest of my shopping list. She arrived at night, on August 5th, and emptied a suitcase full of rapidly defrosting cranberries on my kitchen table, along with a sack of pecans, two jars of chipotles, three cans of organic pumpkin, and homemade crackers for the cooks. Dinner was pasta al pesto (my basil pots) and salad (my garden) tossed with oil from my olive trees, and it left me thinking how much simpler life would be if the Pilgrims had been Italian.
The next morning, we drove to a farmers' market for spinach and dandelion greens, and then to my favorite Todi salumeria to discuss with the salumerista's wife the pros and cons of faro or chestnut flour for my stuffing bread. It was our festa del ringraziamento, I told her, only a little early. She considered my problem for a minute, disappeared into the stockroom, and emerged with a two-pound sack of local cornmeal, stamped "To be eaten by June 21, 2009," which she had been saving for herself. ("Of course you can use it," she said.) By lunchtime, I had started a pumpkin purée, and Naomi, having discovered three plum trees on the hill behind my kitchen door, had managed to bake two plum cakes and a loaf of bread and to produce a mysteriously spiced and soured cranberry sauce, which, she assured me, was much prized in its original incarnation as a sour-plum sauce in Georgia (the republic, not the state). Lunch was salami, prosciutto, creamy Campania mozzarella, garden tomatoes, and cucumber salad; it emptied the fridge. The afternoon meant corn bread. The recipe I had found, tearing through cookbooks, seemed a little off—six eggs, for one thing—but it looked easy, and, more to the point, it was the only one without buttermilk. I should have known better. When Bruce and Joanna crossed the mountain that afternoon with maple syrup for my purée, giblets for my gravy, fenugreek seeds for Naomi's cranberries, and fresh pumpkin for Bruce's pies, they found us crumbling burnt cornmeal goo onto a cookie sheet to dry.
Eggi is a walled medieval village tucked into one of the Apennine foothills, with a road that winds up to the church and then turns into a path—which is to say that to get to the Rossgates' house you walk. We were three people, a very large dog, my grandmother's turkey roaster, which I had carried on a plane from New York ten years earlier (turn-of-the-twentieth-century pans were made to last), and six big and extremely heavy Le Creuset pots, bought on the last day of a going-out-of-business sale in Todi and one of them filled with what was left of my gravy stock, which had splashed and splattered all over the back of the car by the time we parked. Ullie, the dog, licked up the gravy. The climb, pot by pot, in the August sun, took twenty minutes. The first thing I saw, walking up the steep stone steps to the Rossgates' house, was a fiendish circle of flames leaping out of the enormous mouth of the pizza oven, and Bruce, with a bottle of cold white wine and a pair of long iron tongs, waiting for me in a deck chair.
I fled up to the house, where Naomi was already at work, doctoring our greens with spices from Joanna's larder, and Joanna herself, an inspired cook, was slipping a paste of pancetta, garlic, and rosemary under the skin of a perfect turkey that covered most of her kitchen table. Her mother had just arrived, bearing a case of prosecco, and she and her husband were sitting in the garden, filling glasses for the first guests. They came, like Indians, with offerings—everything from caponata and olives to platters and decorations. Big cardboard turkeys were soon perched on the garden tables, their tails unfolding into a kaleidoscope of crêpe-paper pleats. The trees were draped with the Rossgates' Christmas lights, and a string of big gold letters—"HAPPY THANKSGIVING"—was dangling between two pergola poles, waiting for a breeze.
The bricks turned white by the end of the afternoon. The turkey slid into the oven. Bruce covered the mouth with an iron sheet, to seal in the heat, and the two of us settled into the deck chairs, poured some wine, and told Thanksgiving stories. (I have to admit that Bruce's were better, given that in the past five years he and Joanna had managed to pull off credible Thanksgiving dinners in Mexico, Vietnam, and Argentina and were planning to do it again this year in Laos.) From time to time, he would pull on the thickest mitts I had ever seen, lift the sheet with his tongs, prod the roasting pan into a half-turn, and, from a safe distance, fling some wine over the bird to baste it. People drifted down from the garden, watched for a while, and disappeared back up the garden steps. It has to be said that I was not much use that evening as a sous-chef. My one attempt at flinging wine into the fiery maw of the pizza oven fell at least a foot short of the roasting pan. On the other hand, Bruce was spared all my Thanksgiving-in-New York anxieties: should the bird be lying on its back in the pan, or upside down, or on one side and then the other? Should it be falling apart from "slow cooking," or turning crisp from a quick run, legs and wings akimbo, under a blast of electric heat? Should it be basted with butter, or wrapped in a cloak of wet cheesecloth, or left to smolder under a paper bag? Our eighteen-pounder—roasting, by Bruce's calculations, at somewhere between seven hundred and eight hundred degrees—was golden-brown, tender, and on its platter in not much more than an hour. The pots of pumpkin purée and doctored stuffing went into the oven to reheat. I poured some bourbon into the roaster. It sizzled into a juicy sauce, which brought my gravy pot close to brimming, and ready to carry upstairs.
It turned into a fine night. A soft breeze blew in from across the Spoleto valley and set the "HAPPY THANKSGIVING" fluttering; the chimes in the garden trees came to life. I forgot the work of the past few weeks and joined the party. The best thing about Thanksgiving is that it is always worth it. Everyone agreed on that. In fact, we decided to do it again, next summer. We toasted Thanksgiving at midnight with what was left of the wine and a bottle of Jack Daniel's that the Rossgates had stashed for the occasion. I fell asleep in the car and dreamed of leftovers, going home. ♦
Published in the print edition of the November 23, 2009, issue.
Jane Kramer has been a staff writer at The New Yorker since 1964 and has written the Letter from Europe since 1981.
More:(Pres.) Richard NixonBurt LancasterCookingDinnersFeastsFoodFrancois MitterrandItaliansItalyMary McCarthyMoroccoParisProvidenceResignationsRhode IslandRomeSilvio BerlusconiSpaghettiStovesSwedenThanksgivingTurkeyTuscanyUmbria


Every night, Master (Kaoru Kobayashi) is busy with customers at the restaurant he runs. He has a worried face, looking at the funerary urn which someone left at his restaurant. His customers also talk about the funerary urn.


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Falling In Reverse have released another epic new single and video. The track "DRUGS" features Slipknot and Stone Sour frontman Corey Taylor. Be sure to pay attention to two special cameos in the clip. Watch + listen right HERE.


text:
Q: Url smart redirect regex Im having troubles in the "domain.com" url format related to my API calls. Mostly, calls in "domain.com" and "www.domain.com" are generating different sessions values.
What I need is to redirect the user to the right url if the url is "domain.com/a/b/" to "www.domain.com/a/b/", including the root folder.
I do have a master page, and Im probaly going to check the url in the page load.
Problems:

*

*What is the regex to match the "www" in "http://www.domain.com/a/b/c/"?

*Should I use a insert to fix the url?
    string url = Request.Url.AbsoluteUri;
    if (Regex.Match(url, @"http://(www).com/.*").Success)
    {
        Response.Status = "301 Moved Permanently";
        Response.AddHeader("Location", url.Insert(8, "www");
    }

Thx

A: Why not use .BeginsWith("http://www") and .BeginsWith("https://www")?  Regex seems overly complicated for this use.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange


text:
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You are here: MPI Website /Communication /News /Focus on - Overview /Forest and climate – potentials and side effects of future reforestation
Reforestation is a widely discussed measure to counteract the increase of atmospheric carbon dioxide (CO2) concentrations. Earlier studies often referred to a reversal of the effects of past deforestation. The global model simulations presented here, however, show that the potential of reforestation to sequester carbon in a warm, CO2-rich world may be larger than anticipated. Adaptation to climate change will continue to be necessary, but climate extremes may be dampened by reforestation.
The human influence on the Earth system is so fundamental that a new geological epoch was proposed: the Anthropocene [1]. It is not yet known whether this term, as an epoch on its own, will find its way into the official geological time scale. If so, the decision would probably be made on the basis of stratigraphic criteria. The stratigraphy would essentially reveal a layer of long-lived waste such as radioactive waste, plastic and concrete. These considerations illustrate that humanity not only influences the Earth system, but also dominates it in many respects [2]. For example, the atmospheric CO2 content has risen more rapidly in recent decades than ever before in the last hundreds of thousands of years. With the development of the Haber-Bosch process (industrial ammonia synthesis), and the introduction of artificial fertilizers, more nitrogen is bound than in all natural ecosystems. And also a simple look at the Earth's surface reveals the dominant human impact: through land use.
Three-quarters of the ice-free land surface are managed by humans (fig. 1) [3]. The land cover was partly altered by transforming forest to farmland. Essentially, the vegetation type remained unchanged in larger areas, but humans cultivate these areas by grazing or wood harvesting, for example. Even the remaining quarter of "wilderness" is indirectly affected by anthropogenic climate change.
Land use has a significant effect on many components of the Earth system, from carbon and nutrient cycles to water budget and biodiversity. About one third of the total anthropogenic CO2 emissions throughout the last 150 years can be attributed to past deforestation [4]. The effects on the Earth system have long been largely unknown. In the light of global climate change, however, scientists now begin to understand how climate can be influenced by land use in a targeted way. A widely discussed measure is reforestation. Through photosynthesis, regrowing forests remove carbon from the atmosphere and store it in their stems and in soils in the long term.
Fig. 1: About three quarters of the ice-free land surface is managed by humans.
"Geoengineering" by reforestation
Deliberately influencing the climate system through land use changes, such as reforestation, is often referred to as "geoengineering". This term, however, also covers many widely discussed methods such as the injection of dust particles into the atmosphere, to partly reflect solar radiation away from Earth, or altering ocean chemistry in order to sequester more carbon dioxide from the atmosphere. These methods are often expensive and involve high risks regarding the climatic consequences of unforeseen side effects. The climate-relevant use of land, on the other hand, considerably distinguishes itself from these methods. Many land use activities have a long history and their climate impact can thus be observed. Effects of future land use changes are therefore easier to assess [5].
The competition with other types of land use constitutes an obstacle to large-scale reforestation: Food supply and biodiversity conservation in particular must be ensured. The estimates of how much area will be available for reforestation are therefore rather low in most previous studies. Some economic studies, however, suggest that agriculture will be intensified and higher yields can be achieved with the same or even smaller surface areas. The growing demand for food and plant-based materials of an increasing population could not only be met with the existing areas, but agricultural areas would even be abandoned. According to economic studies, the areas becoming available could be used for reforestation [6]. It is, however, unclear how large the potential of such additional forests for carbon uptake actually is. Earlier studies suggest that only about five percent of the future anthropogenic CO2 increase expected in case of increasing fossil-fuels consumption could be compensated by reforestation [7].
These estimates, however, are based on observations of the past. According to the assumptions, the CO2 released into the atmosphere due to deforestation is taken up again by the regrowing forests. It is not taken into account that the future climate can differ drastically from the one in the past. Despite political efforts, humanity emits 10 billion tons of carbon every year. The increase in atmospheric CO2 and the resulting environmental conditions influence forest growth. Therefore, scientists in the department "The Land in the Earth System" at the Max Planck Institute for Meteorology (MPI-M) investigate the feedback of vegetation and climate also in scenarios of massive climate change.
Assessing the carbon sink potential of reforestation
Simulating future climates and the productivity of vegetation on a global scale is a prime application of Earth system models. They describe the interplay of processes in the atmosphere, the ocean and on the land surface on the basis of laws of nature, which were translated into corresponding mathematical equations and ultimately turned into a computer simulation.
The above-described reforestation scenario was calculated with an Earth system model. The fossil-fuel emissions, which predominantly determine climate, were taken from a scenario that assumes a strong increase in greenhouse gas emissions from fossil fuels. If this scenario had been adopted as a whole - including not only the greenhouse gas emissions from fossil fuels, but also the land use scenario - a strong expansion of agricultural land would have been assumed. In contrast to the reforestation scenario, an intensification would not take place. This scenario as a whole serves the researchers as a reference, an otherwise similar world, but not permitting reforestation. As shown in fig. 2, the agricultural land decreases substantially, and the forested areas strongly increase in the reforestation scenario over the course of the century. In the reference scenario, on the other hand, agricultural land increases and forested areas slightly decrease.
Fig. 2: In the reference scenario, the global agricultural areas increase strongly over the course of the century, while the forest areas slightly decline. Due to the agricultural areas set up in the reforestation scenario, large areas are reforested, leading to a strong increase in global forest areas.
The results of the Earth System model simulations at MPI-M suggest a higher carbon sink potential than previously assumed [8]. The reason is the combined effect of an extension of forest areas and an increased carbon uptake of the terrestrial biosphere in a warm and CO2-rich climate. As a result, the simulated CO2 concentration is reduced by 85 ppm ("parts per million", about 10 percent of the projected increase, see fig. 3), compared to the reference scenario at the end of the 21st century, and reforestation leads to a slight decrease in global warming by the end of the century (fig. 3).
Fig. 3: Both the atmospheric CO2 concentration compared to the simulated value for 2005 (A) and the average global surface temperature (B) are clearly increasing in both scenarios over the course of the century. In the reforestation scenario, however, this increase is weaker than in the reference scenario.
Regional climate effects of reforestation
Politics focus on reforestation because of its carbon storage capacity. It is, however, also climate-relevant in other respects. The greenhouse gas effects need to be contrasted to the biogeophysical effects, which affect local and regional climate. Viewed from above, a field often is much brighter than a forest, reflecting more solar radiation back to space and thus warming the surface less. However, a dense forest often transpires more water than a shallow rooted field. This self-cooling by transpiration counteracts the warming effect of a dark forest.
While the emissions mix rapidly in the atmosphere, and thus always have a global effect, biogeophysical effects are primarily limited to the local and regional climate. On this scale, for example in North America and Europe, historical land use has to a large extent reduced the rise in global temperatures caused by emissions from both deforestation and fossil-fuel combustion [9].
The average warming in densely populated areas is only slightly reduced in the reforestation scenario (fig. 4). Therefore, reforestation has hardly any consequences for the need to adapt to climate change in these areas. However, the results also suggest that the reduction of temperature extremes reduces the need for adaptation in some regions. In the simulations, for example, the warmest days of a year in parts of Europe, compared to the reference scenario, are less warm in the reforestation scenario.
Fig. 4: The temperature differences between the reforestation and reference scenario, averaged over the years 2081 to 2100, are highest on average in areas with very low population densities. In some less sparsely populated areas, however, the temperature differences are larger for the warmest day of a year than for the annual mean. (The right figure shows zonally averaged values.)
Although the carbon sink potential of reforestation may have been underestimated previously and although reforestation could be used for climate change adaptation in order to mitigate climate extremes: When it comes to "business as usual", the global development of climate remains dominated by industrial activities. However, other types of land use change could help reduce fossil energy consumption. Biomass plantations such as highly productive grasses or short-rotation coppices, where fast-growing tree species are harvested at short intervals, could partially replace fossil fuels. Plantations store much less carbon in their biomass than a forest, but they contribute to the reduction of fossil-fuel emissions through their harvest and use as bioenergy.
To compare these effects on climate with those of reforestation - via the carbon cycle as well as via the energy and water budget - is therefore an ongoing project at the Max Planck Institute for Meteorology. However, follow-up work is needed to better understand the limitations of the methods. The choice of a particular model entails uncertainties because each model is ultimately only a simplified image of reality. A favored approach is therefore to use many different models. The spectrum of their results is a more reliable framework for the actual development than could be derived from individual models. Model comparison studies are also the basis for the assessment reports of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC). Preparations for the next assessment report of the IPCC are underway. It will provide an analysis of a future reforestation scenario and will paint a more comprehensive picture of the potentials and side effects of this kind of interference with the climate system.
1. Waters, C.N.; Zalasiewicz, J.; Summerhayes, C.; Barnosky, A.D.; Poirier, C.; Gałuszka, A.; Cearreta, A.; Edgeworth, M.; Ellis, E.C.; Ellis, M.; Jeandel, C.; Leinfelder, R.; McNeill, J. R.; Richter, D. deB.; Steffen, W.; Syvitski, J.; Vidas, D.; Wagreich, M.; Williams, M.; Zhisheng, A.; Grinevald; J., Odada, E.; Oreskes, N.; Wolfe, A.P.: The Anthropocene is functionally and stratigraphically distinct from the Holocene. Science 35(6269), 137-147 (2015).
2. Crutzen, P.J.; Steffen, W.: How long have we been in the Anthropocene era? Climatic Change 61, 251-257 (2003).
3. Luyssaert, S.; Jammet, M.; Stoy, P.C.; Estel, S.; Pongratz, J.; Ceschia, E.; Churkina, G.; Don, A.; Erb, K.-H.; Ferlicoq, M.; Gielen, B.; Grünwald, T.; Houghton, R.A.; Klumpp, K.; Knohl, A.; Kolb, T.; Kuemmerle, T.; Laurila, T.; Lohila, A.; Loustau, D.; McGrath, M.J.; Meyfroidt, P.; Moors, E.J.; Naudts, K.; Novick, K.; Otto, J.; Pilegaard, K.; Pio, C.A.; Rambal, A.; Rebmann, C.; Ryder, J.; Suyker, A.E.; Varlagin, A.; Wattenbach, M.; Dolman A.H.: Land management and land-cover change have impacts of similar magnitude on surface temperature. Nature Climate Change 4, 389-393 (2015).
4. Houghton, R. A.: Revised estimates of the annual net flux of carbon to the atmosphere from changes in land use 1850-2000, Tellus, Ser. B, 55, 378-390 (2003).
5. Royal Society: Geoengineering the climate: science, governance and uncertainty (2009)
6. van Vuuren, D.P.; Edmonds, J.; Kainuma, M.; Riahi, K.; Thomson, A.; Hibbard, K.; Hurtt, G.C.; Kram, T.; Krey, V.; Lamarque, J.-F.; Masui, T.; Meinshausen, M.; Nakicenovic, N.; Smith ,S.J.; Rose, S.K.: The representative concentration pathways: an overview. Climatic Change 109, 5-31 (2011).
7. House, J. I.; Prentice, C. I.; LeQuéré, C., Maximum impacts of future reforestation or deforestation on atmospheric CO2, Global Change Biology 8(11), 1047-1052 (2002).
8. Sonntag, S.; Pongratz, J.; Reick, C.H.; Schmidt, H.: Reforestation in a high-CO2 world - Higher mitigation potential than expected, lower adaptation potential than hoped for. Geophysical Research Letters 43, 1-8 (2016).
9. De Noblet-Ducoudre ́, N.,;Boisier, J. P.; Pitman, A.; Bonan, G.; Brovkin, V.; Cruz, F.; Delire, C.; Gayler, V.; van den Hurk, B.; Lawrence, P.; van der Molen, M.; Müller, C.; Reick, C.; Strengers, B.; Voldoire, A.: Determining robust impacts of land use induced land-cover changes on surface climate over North America and Eurasia; Results from the first set of LUCID experiments, Journal of Climate 25, 3261-3281(2012).
Sonntag, S., J. Pongratz, C.H. Reick, and H. Schmidt (2016). Reforestation in a high-CO2 world - Higher mitigation potential than expected, lower adaptation potential than hoped for. Geophysical Research Letters, 43, 1-8, doi: 10.1002/2016GL068824
Dr Sebastian Sonntag
Phone: +49 40 41173 437
Email: sebastian.Sonntag@we dont want spammpimet.mpg.de
Dr Julia Pongratz
Email: julia.pongratz@we dont want spammpimet.mpg.de


SKF NOTE: Following up a clip posted where guitarist Les Paul is telling a club audience of the time Buddy Rich told Les he, Buddy, was going to get a guitar, become a folksinger, and give up drums. Here's another clip, from Brett Rosenberg, Buddy Rich on In Melbourne Tonight, where Buddy performs mostly as a standup singer.
The segment closes when stage hands roll out onstage a drumset. Buddy sits down, counts off an uptempo riff blues, and away he goes. Buddy's ability to sit down, burn, and navigate strange drumsets always impressed me, especially his adapting to strange snare drums.
Buddy seems slightly uncomfortable with this snare drum tuning. (Buddy would say "tensioning.") He's also missing his two crash cymbals — which works to the advantage of drummers watching this performance. Both the overhead and side cameras provide fascinating closeups of Buddy's hands, arms, and body motion.
This entry was posted in SKF Blog and tagged Buddy Rich, Melbourne Tonight, SKFBlog. Bookmark the permalink.


MongoDB provides complete support for indexes on any field in a collection of documents. By default, all collections have an index on the _id field, and applications and users may add additional indexes to support important queries and operations.
This document describes ascending/descending indexes on a single field.
The value of the field in the index specification describes the kind of index for that field. For example, a value of 1 specifies an index that orders items in ascending order. A value of -1 specifies an index that orders items in descending order. For additional index types, see index types.
You can create indexes on fields within embedded documents, just as you can index top-level fields in documents. Indexes on embedded fields differ from indexes on embedded documents, which include the full content up to the maximum index size of the embedded document in the index. Instead, indexes on embedded fields allow you to use a "dot notation," to introspect into embedded documents.
You can also create indexes on embedded document as a whole.
Although the query can use the index, the result set does not include the sample document above. When performing equality matches on embedded documents, field order matters and the embedded documents must match exactly. See Query Embedded Documents for more information regarding querying on embedded documents.
If your collection holds a large amount of data, and your application needs to be able to access the data while building the index, consider building the index in the background, as described in Background Construction.
To build or rebuild indexes for a replica set, see Build Indexes on Replica Sets.
Some drivers may specify indexes, using NumberLong(1) rather than 1 as the specification. This does not have any affect on the resulting index.


text:
Harriet Hanson Robinson, Lowell Mill Girl
Harriet Hanson Robinson went to work as a Lowell mill girl when she was 10 years old to help support her family. She grew up to earn fame, if not fortune. She started off writing the mill girls' magazine, The Lowell Offering, then wrote books and led the woman's rights movement.
Harriet was able to leave the mills for two years to attend high school, where she studied French, Latin and English grammar. While there she wrote two essays that typified her spirit: "Poverty Not Disgraceful," was one, while "Indolence and Industry" praised the honest labor of the poor.
Harriet Hanson Robinson
Harriet Hanson Robinson, mill girl
She was born in Boston on Feb. 8, 1825. Her father died suddenly when she was six and her widowed mother struggled to support her four children. A neighbor offered to adopt Harriet, but her mother replied, "No; while I have one meal of victuals a day, I will not part with my children."
Harriet wondered for years what 'victuals' meant.
Her mother tried to run a small store selling candy, food and firewood. The family lived in a room at the back of the store, five of them in one bed. Though friends helped out, she couldn't make a go of it.
Finally, Harriet's aunt invited her to come to Lowell, Mass., to run a boardinghouse for mill girls. The giant textile mills then hired Yankee farm girls under a paternalistic system that paid them decently, worked them long hours and supervised their lives closely.
In the early years of the Lowell mills, the mill girls could take advantage of cultural offerings: libraries, concerts, improvement circles and lectures by people like Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau. Harriet recalled how the mill girls would attach poems and hymns to their looms and frames so they could memorize them while they worked.
Working conditions in the mills deteriorated over time, and the mill owners replaced the Yankee mill girls with immigrant families who were exploited and abused. When Harriet Hanson Robinson worked in the mills, though, the mill girls were respected, even admired.
Mill girls' boardinghouse in Lowell
Harriet went to work as a bobbin doffer, removing full bobbins of thread and replacing them with empty ones. It wasn't hard work, requiring only about 15 minutes of actual labor every hour, and she could read or play during her spare time.
When Harriet was 11, the mill owners raised the mill girls' boarding charges, which equaled a 12.5 percent pay cut. The mill girls went on strike, or 'turn out,' as they called it. In her autobiography, Loom and Spindle, Harriet Hanson Robinson wrote the girls in the upper rooms walked off the job, shutting down the mill.
Doffers and spinners in a South Carolina textile mill. Photo by Lewis Hine, By Lewis Hine – U.S. National Archives and Records Administration, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=16100329.
She wrote, "Then, when the girls in my room stood irresolute, uncertain what to do, asking each other, "Would you?" or "Shall we turn out?" and not one of them having the courage to lead off, I, who began to think they would not go out, after all their talk, became impatient, and started on ahead, saying, with childish bravado, "I don't care what you do, I am going to turn out, whether any one else does or not"; and I marched out, and was followed by the others."
Sarah Bagley, an important labor leader in her own right, also took part in the strike.
The mill girls' magazine
Not only did the strike fail, but Harriet's mother lost her job in retaliation for her daughter's action. Still, Harriet Hanson Robinson wrote years later that it was the proudest moment of her life, and would be exceeded only when women got the right to vote. She didn't live long enough to see it.
Harriet continued to work in the mills, rising to spinner and drawing-in girl. She fought to attend Lowell High School for two years, then afterward she returned to the mills. She wrote stories and poetry for the Offering, the first magazine in the world written exclusively by women, and which had supporters throughout the country.
One of the best writers, wrote Harriet, was Betsey Guppy Chamberlain, an Indian who published some of the first criticisms of her people's treatment. Lucy Larcom, another talented writer, also wrote for the Offering.
"The fame of The Lowell Offering caused the mill girls to be considered very desirable for wives," wrote Harriet. "Young men came from near and far to pick and choose for themselves, and generally with good success."
At 23 she married William Stevens Robinson, a journalist who strongly opposed slavery. A poem she submitted to his newspaper had first attracted him to her.
His opinions made it hard for him to keep a job and the couple often struggled. They lived for a while in Concord, Mass., where Thoreau occasionally called on them. Harriet thought he shouldn't have wasted his abilities and suspected his mother had fed him while he stayed in his cabin at Walden.
They moved to Malden, Mass., and had four children, three of whom lived to adulthood. In 1862, William got a good job as clerk of the Massachusetts House of Representatives, which he would hold for 11 years until then-U.S. Rep. Benjamin Butler forced him out.
Suffragist
At 51, Harriet Hanson Robinson became a widow when William died after a long illness. She rented out rooms to support her mother and three daughters and wrote books, including Loom and Spindle, still in print.
By then she joined the suffrage movement. She and her daughter, Harriet Lucy Robinson Shattuck, organized the National Woman Suffrage Association of Massachusetts and helped Julia Ward Howe form the New England Women's Club. A powerful advocate for women's rights as a writer and speaker, she testified before the Select Committee on Woman Suffrage in Congress.
Harriet Hanson Robinson lived to be 86. She died at home in Malden on Dec. 22, 1911.
This story about Harriet Hanson Robinson was updated in 2020.
Related Items:american, books, Boston, candy, children, Congress, England, food, Henry David Thoreau, labor, libraries, Lowell, Malden Mass., Massachusetts, mill girls, Mills, poetry, poverty, publishing, six, slavery, strike, suffrage, textile mills, Thoreau, woman's history, women, women's suffrage, writers
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It was announced today that Kevin Costner has signed on to play Superman's adoptive father, Jonathan Kent (joining Diane Lane as his wife, Martha, which was announced earlier).
It doesn't seem that long ago that both of these actors would have been considered for the roles of Superman and Lois Lane, instead of Superman's parents.
"We're making a movie that finally goes with the approach that there's been no other Superman movies," Snyder says. "If you look at 'Batman Begins,' there's that structure, there's the canon that we know about and respect, but on the other hand there's this approach that pre-supposes that there haven't been any other movies. In every aspect of design and of story, the whole thing is very much from that perspective of respect the canon but don't be a slave to the movies."
The last movie was basically a replication of the first one (with almost identical actor casting and dangling Jheri Curl in the front), which made it less interesting to watch.
I'm glad they're gonna mix things up a bit.