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Narrativa politica
Never Surrender: A Novel of Winston Churchill
Di Michael Dobbs
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From Michael Dobbs, author of the book that inspired the smash hit Netflix series House of Cards, Never Surrender finds newly-elected Prime Minister Winston Churchill in a personal confrontation with Adolf Hitler.
The battle begins on Friday, May 10, 1940, when Hitler launches a devastating attack that within days will overrun France, Holland and Belgium and bring Britain to its knees at Dunkirk. Never Surrender examines Churchill's courage and defiance and his ability to lead a nation during three of the most crucial weeks in its history. Without the physical forces necessary to stave off German attack, Churchill uses the force of words to stand in Hitler's way, to show that no accords will be made.
Dobbs is at his best in Never Surrender, a novel about the remarkable courage and defiance needed to save a nation at risk.
Praise for Michael Dobbs, bestselling author of House of Cards, the book that inspired the Netflix series:
"Dobbs is an author who can bring historical happenings to life." —The Times
"Dobbs has done a brilliant job in evoking the drama and despair of Britain hovering on the edge of the abyss." —Sunday Express
Narrativa sulla Seconda Guerra Mondiale
Narrativa militare e di guerra
Michael Dobbs
Bestselling author Michael Dobbs was at Mrs Thatcher's side as she took her first step into Downing Street as Prime Minister and was a key aide to John Major when he was voted out. In between times he was bombed in Brighton, banished from Chequers and blamed for failing to secoure a Blair-Major television debate. He is now one of the country's leading political commentators.
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Narrativa sulla guerra civile
Narrativa sulla Prima Guerra Mondiale
Narrativa sui disastri
Narrativa ebraica
Never Surrender - Michael Dobbs
© 2003, 2007 by Michael Dobbs
Cover and internal design © 2007 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover photo © Corbis
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
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Originally published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers, 2003.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Dobbs, Michael
Never surrender : a novel of Winston Churchill / Michael Dobbs.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4022-1044-0 (pbk.)
ISBN-10: 1-4022-1044-2 (pbk.)
1. Churchill, Winston, Sir, 1874-1965—Fiction. 2. World War,
1939-1945—Fiction. 3. Great Britain—Politics and government—1936-1945— Fiction. I. Title.
PR6054.O23N48 2007 823".914—dc22
Winston Churchill's literary life was extraordinary. It encompassed histories, biographies, his own memoirs, speeches, many hundreds of articles, short stories, and even a novel. In 1956 he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Yet amongst all this prodigious outpouring, one of the most inspiring pieces is also one of the least known—a private article he wrote for his family which wasn't published until after his death. It is entitled The Dream.
It concerns a conversation with his father's ghost, which he conducted while copying an oil portrait of his father that had been damaged.
Ascot, 1883.
The boy was small, only eight, the youngest in the school. Redhaired, blue-eyed, round in face and nervous. He had been at the school only a term and was not popular. One of the older pupils had written home that this new boy was irksome ; the headmaster already found him intolerable. A constant trouble to everybody and is always in some scrape or other, the headmaster wrote to his parents. He cannot be trusted to behave himself anywhere.
The boy didn't fit in. And he was about to discover that failing to conform carried with it a heavy price, even for an eight year old.
St. George's School was a private educational establishment of four teachers and forty pupils, set in woodlands that had once been the ancient hunting forests of Windsor. It couldn't claim much of a tradition since it was only six years old, so it sought to make up for that by charging outrageously high fees. It made the place instantly exclusive.
Perhaps that was why the boy's father, a man habitually committed to over-extending himself, had found the place so attractive. Anyway, it was time for his son to move on; up to that point he'd been educated by private tutors and seemed ill at ease amongst other boys—he'd developed both a nervous stammer and foul temper. But that, as his father had written to the headmaster, was what he had been sent to St. George's to cure.
He was almost a year younger than any of the others, but within days of his arrival, perhaps seeking the approval of the older boys, he had leapt onto a desk and begun to recite a bawdy song he'd learned from some of his grandfather's stable lads. Only his recent arrival saved him from a punishment harsher than being sent to bed without his supper.
Yet the boy carried with him his own sense of justice, and the following day he felt not only hungry but also poorly treated. After all, St. George's was one of the most expensive schools in the country; he felt sure his father hadn't sent him here to starve. So, in order to balance the scales of elementary justice, he had sneaked into the basement kitchens and stolen a pocketful of sugar. Inevitably, he'd left considerable evidence of his crime spilled upon the counter, so the kitchen staff had reported the loss to the headmaster, the Reverend Herbert William Sneyd-Kynnersley.
Mr. K., as he was known to the pupils, was tall, almost gangling, mutton-chopped, and sandy-haired, a graduate of Cambridge with very distinctive ideas about education. To some he was a man of impeccable standards and something of a reformer, a schoolmaster who liked nothing more than to join in with his pupils while they swam naked in the pond or pursued him on a paper chase through woodlands they called the Wilderness. For others, however, he was nothing less than a ruthless brute, who punished pupils so savagely that he would not stop beating them until they bled. It was also remarked upon that, for some reason no one either could or wished to explain, Mr. K. seemed to pay particular attention to those with hair of a color even more red than his own. His childless and overwrought wife had red hair, and pupils with similar coloring seemed to be summoned frequently to the headmaster's study. The young boy had been dubbed the red dwarf the day he arrived, and he seemed to spend more time in the study than most.
For Kynnersley, chivalry, posture and truthfulness were the highest virtues attributable to an English gentleman. The boy's relationship to these virtues was, in Mr. K.'s opinion, like a rainbow in the night. His habits and language belonged more to the stable yard than the schoolyard. He disliked sports, was constantly late, had few friends, and was rebellious with the teachers. There seemed no one in any part of the school who seemed capable of exerting a positive influence on him, with the possible exception, it was noticed, of the gardener. He was a child doomed to failure.
There was also the matter of the stolen sugar. When, at morning assembly, the miscreant was instructed to do his duty and to own up, the entire school had remained silent. But Kynnersley knew there would be tell-tale traces, and there were. In the boy's pockets. Both of them. In such circumstances, the Reverend Kynnersley found his duty clear.
The boy stood in the entrance hall outside the headmaster's study and considered what lay ahead. He knew of the punishments, had heard the cries of others even as he sat at his desk, had seen the welts at bedtime and knew of the desperate sobbing beneath the covers from boys much older than he. Now it was his turn.
He gazed at the clock, ticking so slowly, then up at the leering faces of the stuffed fox heads on the wall. He paced quietly in an attempt to compose himself, then fiddled with the ornate carvings of the mock Tudor fireplace, trying to find something for his fingers to do other than to tremble. On one side of the mantel stood the figure of a husband, on the other side stood his wife, separated by the fire. Just like home.
Suddenly the door to the study opened. Towering in it stood the headmaster. The boy wanted to run, every ounce of common sense screamed at him to flee. He strode forward.
The study was not large. It was dominated by two French windows that looked out onto the lawn and to the woodlands of the Wilderness beyond. Near the fireplace was a wooden block. It was upon this block that the Reverend Kynnersley had sat and toasted teacakes for Churchill's mother when she had first brought him to this place. Neither of his parents had been back since.
On the back of the door hung a straw boater. It was a favorite item of the headmaster, one he wore throughout the summer and would raise in greeting to all visitors. Beneath the boater, hanging from the same hook, was a length of hazel cane. That, too, judging by the splayed end, had been raised with equal frequency.
The boy was ordered to take down his trousers and underwear, and to raise his shirt. He did as he was told. The Reverend Kynnersley, cane in hand, adjusted his gold-framed spectacles.
You're a thief, and you will have your nasty little habits beaten out of you. Do you have anything to say?
What was there to say? Sorry wouldn't save him, and anyway he didn't feel in the least sorry. Only scared. And thankful that they hadn't noticed the apple he had stolen at the same time.
Kynnersley nodded towards the wooden block. The beating block. It was whispered about between the boys, and no one ever came back bragging. The boy shuffled forward, his trousers around his ankles, like a prisoner in chains.
Eight is such a tender age to deal with adversity, but perhaps lessons learned so young are those that endure. Certainly the Reverend Kynnersley thought so, which is why he persisted in trying to flog the qualities of an English gentleman into his pupils. Break them while they are young, the younger the better, and rebuild them in a better mold. It's what had made an empire.
The boy's thoughts didn't reach so elevated a plane. He was putting all his concentration into controlling his bladder and denying the flood of tears that demanded to burst forth. He knew he would cry, and scream, as they all did, but not yet. Sunlight flooded in through the French windows and he struggled to look out at the woods beyond, trying to imagine himself romping through the Wilderness, a million miles from this block.
Suddenly, he thought he saw a shadow at the window, a silhouette that looked remarkably like his father. But it couldn't be; his father had never come to the school, not once. He was always at a distance, somehow untouchable, elevated. The boy adored his father—no, worshiped him rather than adored, as one might worship a god. And feared him, too. Yet the greater the distance that stood between him and his father, the more eager he grew to bridge it. The less he knew about his father, the more the son invested him with almost heroic powers; the less he heard from his father, the more ferociously the young boy clung to his every word.
Never cry, never complain, his father had instructed, for they will only take advantage of your weakness.
So throughout that thrashing, he refused either to cry or to complain. The only sound to be heard was the swishing of the hazel branch, which fell with ever greater force as Kynnersley insisted that the boy submit. Again and again. But the boy's fear of Kynnersley was as nothing compared to the fear and adulation he felt for his own father, standing there in the doorway. And when the pain became extreme, unbearable, he cried out for his father, but only inside.
They had to get two of the older boys to help him back to his room.
You are a thief, Kynnersley shouted after him from the doorway of his study, struggling to smooth the creases in his self control. You'll never come to any good. You hear me? Never!
Once alone, Winston Churchill sobbed into his pillow until there were no more tears left to shed. In later years he would cry many times, but never in fear.
Some days later, Churchill slipped away from the swimming pond where Kynnersley and the other boys were cavorting. He ran quickly back to the school buildings, being careful not to leave any trace of wet footprints on the polished floor. He tried the door to the headmaster's study, but it was locked, so he slipped out to the garden and rattled the French windows. They were also locked, but loose. A twig thrust between the doors enabled him to slip the catch.
It was the work of only moments to snatch the beloved straw boater from its place upon the door, and it became the pleasure of an endless afternoon, alone in the Wilderness, to kick it to a thousand pieces.
Flanders, 1940.
In Private Donald Chichester's view, the war in France had been little short of sublime. Month after endless month of—well, nothing. No shelling, no air attacks, scarcely a shot fired in anger since they'd arrived the previous September. La drôle de guerre, as the locals called it. No war at all.
That suited Donald Chichester. He was not yet twenty, with dark hair and deep-set, earnest eyes that seemed to be in constant search of something he had lost. He was tall, well sculpted, but on the lean side, like a plant that had been forced to grow too quickly. There was an air of vulnerability about him that set him apart from the other men who had gone to war brimming with extravagant if superficial claims of confidence. Yet he was always bound to be set apart from the others, for he wasn't any proper sort of soldier.
Don Chichester was a nursing orderly serving with the 6th Field Ambulance Unit. Woman's work, as the fighting men suggested, a soldier who had taken up bucket and mop rather than arms, who made other men's beds and who cleaned up after the sick. There were many ways to fight this war, but being a nursing orderly wasn't any of them.
He had arrived in France eight months earlier after a crossing from Southampton to Cherbourg that had been a misery. He'd reacted badly to the typhus and typhoid vaccinations, which had made his arm swell like a bloated pig and given him a raging temperature, but there had been no point in complaining. Sympathy was as short in supply as everything else. The 6th had arrived in France with old equipment and slack-geared vehicles, only to discover that their food supplies, spares and half their officers had been sent to an entirely different destination. The confusion of disembarkation had grown worse when the only new ambulance the unit possessed was hoisted on a rope cradle from the deck of the transport ship and swivelled over the side of the dock. As Don watched helplessly, the cradle had begun to unravel like a Christmas pullover, sending the ambulance thumping to earth. It bounced almost a foot in the air, then promptly collapsed into every one of its component parts.
The fate of the ambulance had reminded Don of the last time he had seen his father. Their last row. Not too many words, they'd never gone in for words much, only periods of cold silence that seemed to say it all. His father had been standing in front of the old Victorian fireplace, beside the photograph of Don's mother, the mother he had never known. But how he had grown into her looks, and more so with every passing year until there was no mistaking the resemblance. The only attributes he seemed to have inherited from his father were a stubborn chin and an ability to harbor silent fury.
They lived in his father's vicarage—a house of peace and goodwill, according to the tapestry on the wall, but not on that day. Don had tried to explain himself yet again, but the father wouldn't listen. He never had. He was a bloody vicar, for pity's sake, he preached eternity to the entire world, yet never seemed to have any time left for his only son. Perhaps it would have been different if there had been a mother to rise between them, but instead they were like strands of badly knotted rope that twisted ever tighter. The Reverend Chichester had stood in front of the fireplace shaking with anger—the only emotion Don could ever remember him displaying—and called him Absalom.
The son who betrayed his father.
Then he had used that one final word. Coward.
Any further exchange seemed superfluous.
So Donald Chichester had gone off to be trained for his war, watching at a distance as the others wrote letters to their loved ones or bargained feverishly for two-day passes home. When the training was over and their war was about to begin, they had hung despairingly out of the windows of their embarkation train until distance and smoke had finally smothered all sight of the families they were leaving behind. Through it all, Don sat back, gently mocking the overflowing affection, and twisting deep inside.
The 6th had left England in emotion and arrived at Cherbourg in chaos. They had then driven to their billet three hundred miles away in Flines-les-Râches on the Belgian border. It was raining. The British Expeditionary Force had arrived.
It continued to rain. In fact, the weather proved to be abominable, the autumn one of the wettest on record followed by a winter where the snow lay thick and everything froze solid, including the radiator in every ambulance. But so long as German radiators froze too, Don was happy. Even when they attempted to dig sanitation pits and discovered that the water table lay beneath their feet, turning their main dressing station into a quagmire, Don was content. The war was worthless, and every step he took in the fetid mud served only to confirm it.
The conditions caused disease, of course. All drinking water had to be treated with sterilizing powder, a process which usually left the water tasting so disgusting that many Tommies decided to drink the foul French water instead, with predictable results. There were many other ailments. Training accidents. Traffic accidents. Afflictions of the feet. Bronchial troubles brought on by the fact that most of the soldiers had only one uniform, which had to be dried out while being worn. And venereal disease, as the British soldiers grew tired of their phony war and succumbed in ever-growing numbers to boredom, drink and the local doxies. The follies of Flanders. Just like their fathers before them.
As the dismal months of phony war stumbled on, there was an ever-increasing number of men who complained about the uselessness of it all, how it was a mindless war and not worth fighting. Wrong place, wrong time, and an awful bloody idea. Just what Don had argued.
That was, until the early hours of May 10. Things changed. Dawn broke through a cloudless sky, and breakfast at the field dressing station where Don was posted found the officers squinting into the rising sun. They were muttering about reports of air activity. A church bell began ringing insistently in the distance. Something was up.
A sense of anticipation crept amongst those around him, a nervous excitement he was unable to share. The distance he had always known stood between him and the other soldiers once more began to assert itself.
There's going to be a shooting war after all, Chichester, the sergeant snapped. Not that you bloody care.
An hour later, the sergeant was back with new orders. They were moving out. Two hours' time. Into Belgium. Problem was, none of their training had had anything to do with Belgium. They'd been preparing themselves for a war just like the last one, a steady, solid, stay-where-you-were war. A war fought from behind those tank trenches and pillboxes they'd spent their months in France building. They hadn't even been allowed to recce inside Belgium, it was off limits to everyone, they'd been told, and particularly the Germans.
So it was with renewed confusion that the unit prepared to get under way. Don packed the surgical kit, checked his medical bag, counted the field dressings and knocked down the casualty tents until he thought he was ready, but then he was instructed to help load additional supplies from the officers' quarters into one of the ambulances. A desk, several filing cabinets, a typewriter, a small library of Michelin guides, two tea chests of crockery, a fishing rod, a case of sherry, three new uniforms and a pair of highly polished dancing shoes: all were piled on board. Only then did Private
14417977 Donald Chichester, Nursing Orderly Grade 3 and noncombatant Conscientious Objector, drive off to war.
The three men gathered at the tall window to mourn, their cheeks fired by the setting sun as they sipped at glasses of champagne. The wine was warm. It always was in the Foreign Office.
A day for our diaries, eh? suggested the Minister, in whose elegant office they had gathered.
The darkest day in English history, the second man suggested, practicing a line for the entry he would make that night. Henry Channon was known by all as Chips. He was the Minister's parliamentary aide, an envied and potentially influential position, but it would be for his keen-eyed diaries rather than for his notoriously blunted political wits that his reputation would endure.
Will any of us survive? the third and youngest of the companions inquired. Jock Colville was only twenty-five, yet for seven months had been a private secretary to the Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain. It had given him a ringside seat at the bonfire of hopes, conceits, and monstrous complacencies that a few hours earlier had finally consumed his master. Chamberlain was no more, his resignation handed to a reluctant monarch, and now many more sacrifices would be required.
Has it come to that? A struggle to survive? Oh, I do so love being part of all this. I should miss it so, Chips muttered wistfully.
I was rather thinking of the war, Colville countered.
Ah, but we seem destined to fight on so many fronts, the Minister added, his eyes wandering northward across the gravel stretches of Horse Guards Parade to the white sandstone of the Admiralty building beyond. Rab Butler was the second-most senior Minister in the Foreign Office, a man of considerable intellectual powers whose career had embraced both ambition and Neville Chamberlain. He was talked about as a future leader. Inevitably it made him enemies, and perhaps the most significant of all his enemies was the man across the way in the Admiralty—a man who, less than an hour ago, had taken the King's commission to become the new Prime Minister.
They say he cannot last. That he will soon be gone. Even that Neville may be back, Channon suggested.
To save us all from disaster, Butler intoned.
From the Luftwaffe.
From Mr. Churchill, Butler corrected.
Such a vulgar man, Channon muttered, replenishing their glasses.
Butler's lips drooped in distaste. He had extraordinary lips, weak, as though constructed of wax that had strayed too near the flame and been melted. His eyes also drooped. It gave him an air of ingrained disapproval.
But Churchill's a man with experience of war, Colville reminded them.
There is nothing to be gained either from war or from Winston Churchill, the Minister all but spat. The fate of our country has been placed in the hands of the greatest political adventurer of modern times. A half-breed American whose entire life has been littered with failures for which other people have paid.
And now poor Neville. A pause.
What will you do, Jock? Channon asked the younger man.
I think I might apply for a transfer to the armed services. The RAF, perhaps. He seemed unaware of his implied rebuke to Butler. If war was not an answer, what was to be the point of fighting it? But the Minister had more advice to offer.
No. Wait, Jock. Don't draw stumps just yet. This game isn't over. Let Winston have his day dabbling at war. And when he falters, and then fails, as he always has, the country will need men like us. More than ever.
And after Winston?
Pray that it will be an Englishman. Perhaps Neville once more. And if not him, then Halifax. But better Neville.
The sun was almost set, its embers sprinkled wide across the spires and cupolas around them. The end of more than just another day. Chips raised his glass.
Then, to the King over the Water.
To Neville, Butler agreed.
And may God send us victorious, Colville whispered, finishing the last of his warm champagne.
So how was he?
Winston Churchill looked up from the letter he was writing to inspect the man who had just burst in upon him. A pall of cigar smoke hovered across the room in the Admiralty.
His Majesty was as ever charming. A little awkward, perhaps. Dressed in his uniform as Admiral of the Fleet.
Unbidden, his visitor helped himself to a large whiskey from the tray that sat beside the Prime Minister. The splash of soda was brief, no more than a gesture.
You know, Churchill continued, I do believe His Majesty would willingly give up all the splendors and circumstances of his role in order to return to the duties of his career in the navy.
He's out of his depth.
No, I think more out of his experience, Churchill growled. Rather like us all at this moment. He thrust his own empty glass in the direction of his visitor, silently demanding it be refilled. As on almost every occasion in the seventeen years since they had met, Brendan Bracken complied with his older friend's wishes. Bracken was a man often derided as an outrageous fantasist by those who knew him slightly, and no one could claim to know him well, not even Churchill. But for all his faults and legendary confrontations with the truth, he had remained loyal to Churchill when more respectable political colleagues had deserted him. All his life Churchill had been a man of few friends, and this friend he valued more than most.
Still, must have been awkward for you. For both of you, given the past, Bracken continued.
Ah, the past . . . Churchill wanted to believe that all his past life had been but a preparation for the trial that lay ahead, yet in truth it had been a life-time of uneasy adventures thrown together with outright failures. During the last war, for instance, he had been hurled from office—not simply resigned as his father had done before him, but thrown out by those who thought him inadequate for the job. Many of them had still not changed their minds, the King included. No, it wasn't success that had brought him here, only the still more monumental failures of others. Churchill looked up once more from his blotter. He covered it with a little joke. Asked me if I knew why he had summoned me. I replied that I simply couldn't imagine. So he offered me a cigar and asked me to form a government. Of which, I suppose, you expect to be a member. Along with many others.
The joy of it! Bracken threw his arms around in excitement. After all these years, the chance to even the score. To do unto others . . . He clapped his hands. You know, I've just been over to Downing Street. Thought I'd take a look. Went by the back gate into the secretaries' rooms. Rushing around bundling everything into sacks and waste-paper baskets, they were, even had a fire roaring in one of the grates. Several in tears. It was as though the enemy had arrived.
You don't understand, Brendan: in their eyes, he has.
Bracken lit himself a cigar using a petrol lighter that threw an immense flame, adding to the aerial confusion. So—who is to be in this government of ours?
My War Cabinet, Churchill responded, will consist of four men, apart from myself. He cleared his throat as if making an official proclamation. There will be Mr. Attlee and Mr. Greenwood from the Labour Party.
Bracken shifted uneasily in his chair.
Lord Halifax.
An eyebrow arched in disapproval.
And Mr. Neville Chamberlain.
Bracken gasped, momentarily brought to silence. You cannot be serious.
In most deadly earnest. Our lives may depend upon it.
But . . . Suddenly the energy was upon him once more, his body contorting in exasperation. They're the four most bloodyminded men in the country. Two socialists with whom you've got nothing in common, the former Prime Minister, who's devoted most of his limited talents to keeping you at the outer edge of the universe, and… He wondered for a moment how best to sum up Edward Halifax, Churchill's chief rival for the post. And an Old Etonian.
You're right. Churchill smiled. Throughout all the years of drought Bracken had had an unquenchable talent for making him smile. You are absolutely right. We need more Harrovians.
Seriously, Winston, how can you include Chamberlain after everything that's happened?
Can't you see, Brendan, it's because of everything that has happened that I must embrace him? He is still the leader of the majority party in the House of Commons, and if I am to build a truly national government, I must include him as well as the Socialists. He picked up his pen and resumed his work. That is what I have had to insist to Mr. Attlee, who, I m afraid, rather shares your opinion about Mr. Chamberlain."
But you've nothing in common with any of them.
I can count on the claws of a chicken's foot the number of men you and I can trust. It's not enough. We need more. He finished off the letter with a flourish. "Which is why I have just written to the Kaiser inquiring whether,
philipjhunt
2nd in the series of four books about Winston Churchill's war. My review of Book 1 "Winston's War" is apposite. Dobbs does a good job of filling in gaps for the reader who starts with Book 2, but reading Book 1 first makes sense. This series is no mere hagiograph of Churchill. Dobbs gives him to us warts and all. The book ends with the evacuation of Dunkirk and there also Dobbs avoids the popular view of Dunkirk as some kind of success. The fictional characters that Dobbs invents give us the nitty-gritty and awfulness of the war. Now onto Book 3...
jbennett_733672
THe second in Dobbs' series taking a brief period in Churchill's life during the War and showing the intrigue and problems he faced whilst giving the broader context.It seemed to me well researched and whilst it may have put extra 'spin' on the lack of support from Halifax, Kennedy and others, I am sure that they were difficult to handle.The relationship with the memory of Churchill's father seemed over-played to me.


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Home / Locations / United States / Minnesota / Eagan
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About Eagan
Eagan is a flourishing city in Minnesota's Dakota County, just south of the city of St. Paul. It's among the largest suburbs in the region, serving as a major commuter town for both St. Paul and Minneapolis. Originally, Eagan was an Irish farming town and earned the title "Onion Capital of the U.S." Today, it's home to several major corporations and organizations, including the headquarters of the NFL's Minnesota Vikings.
Living in Eagan
A significant portion of the Eagan population is made up of young families that have been attracted by the city's many family-oriented amenities. More than 1,300 acres of green space are spread across 55 different parks. Playgrounds, walking trails and athletic fields are features at many of the local parks, which also include an off-leash dog park, a bike park, an archery range, a disc golf course and a tubing hill.
In addition to the city's parks and recreational facilities, there are plenty of other local attractions to explore. Holz Farm is a unique facility, offering a close-up experience of rural life as it was throughout Eagan's history. Special events at the farm include plant sales, the Lone Oak Days celebration and the Spring Festival. Another Eagan highlight is the Eagan Art House, which offers many art classes, workshops and exhibitions every year.
Jobs in Eagan
Many people in Eagan commute to work in Minneapolis or St. Paul, which are both less than a half hour away. In addition to the metro area's large and thriving job market, Eagan also hosts a number of large businesses that provide a variety of jobs for locals. A handful of major companies are headquartered in Eagan, including Buffets Inc., Universal Cooperatives and Regional Elite Airline Services. Other major employers in the city include Thomson Reuters, Blue Cross Blue Shield, the United States Postal Service, UPS and Ecolab.
Eagan Schools
Three different school districts serve the public schools of Eagan: Independent Schools Districts 191, 197 and 196. Because Minnesota has an open enrollment statute, students can attend schools within any district, providing there is classroom space. There are also a few private schools in and around Eagan, most of which provide faith-based education.
If you're hoping to pursue higher education in Eagan, you'll have two campus options to consider: Rasmussen College and Argosy University.
Resources for Moving to Eagan
Here's some useful information to make your move to Eagan as easy as possible:
Utilities: Major utilities providers include Dakota Electric, Xcel Energy and Minnesota Energy Resources.
Garbage and Recycling: While there is no city-provided collection service, there are a few different disposal companies that facilitate trash and recycling pick-up.
Transportation: The Eagan Transit Station provides easy access to a handful of routes operated by the Minnesota Valley Transit Authority.
Eagan Housing
Eagan is a desirable commuter town and, as such, is home to a thriving housing market with prices that are steadily rising. The median home price in Eagan is higher than the national average, and more expensive than much of the Minneapolis area. In addition to established apartments, town houses and single-family homes, there are also new construction options throughout the city.


They waddle when they walk and shake their tail feathers on your cuff! These beautiful brushed satin waddling duck cufflinks have a moveable tail and moveable legs. Set with sapphire eyes, these cufflinks are sure to create lots of quacking remarks.


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Our Second Year and the 100 year flood
9 Percorso dei laghi
Il relazione di viaggio da vedere lungo:
Percorso dei laghi
Al percorso
Bike Switzerland was created to help North Americans discover the culture and bike routes of Switzerland. When we launched our rides in 2004, everything ran as perfectly as a Swiss watch. The flooding in August of 2005 however, made our second year considerably more adventurous.
Bike Switzerland 2005, August 18 to 28th
We picked up our nine cyclists at the Geneva airport. All of our riders were American and between the ages of 32 and 72. We spent the first nigh on our hotel's terrace, drinking local wine and sharing stories.
We spent the morning going over our itinerary with the excellent "Suisse à Vélo" map books. We also went over Swiss signposting, the train system and our cell phone system. Afterwards we explored Geneva's old town, had lunch and walked on to "Bike Passion" (Rue Masbou) to fit everyone.
Around 3 O'clock we broke into teams and went to Carouge (my neighborhood) for a good old-fashioned scavenger hunt, followed by well deserved beers at "La Plage" (Rue St. Joseph). The evening was spent at the United Nations private beach where the cyclists met the other guides, our local friends, had a swim and ate big duck steaks.
We packed our carry-ons into the van and were on the road by 8 a.m. (1)
It was Saturday and it seemed as though there was a different celebration in each town we passed through: a folk festival in St-Prex, a country music celebration outside Morges and a world class triathlon in Lausannexgood reasons to stop and stretch.
We followed Route One until Grandvaux and then climbed 300 meters through the vineyards (2). Weather started to turn on us and our raingear came out. After about 30 minutes of drizzle and slow climbing, we made it to the town of Chexbres. Everyone appreciated the views of the lake, the Jacuzzi and sauna.
No rain that morning, but we knew it would come. From Chexbres we hooked up with Route 9 outside of Chatel-St-Denis. The hills between here and Gruyère offer great views and I was hoping that everyone would dawdle and take pictures of the church steeples and chalets, but the clouds were black and there was a west wind so no one cared to linger in the valley. I called Tim Anderson, our van driver and technical advisor to cancel our picnic in Gruyère and he reserved tables for lunch at the cheese museum. August can be a hot month, but on that day it was 60 degrees and with the light rain it felt even colder. We were glad to be sipping soup and eating hot plates of food.
Everyone was warmed up and ready to go by 1 O'clock. I was eager to show them the route between Gruyère and Montbovon: it's stunning and there is a kind of prehistoric majesty in that valley. The clouds and rain, however, soon moved in. Most of the riders rode bravely ahead to Chateau d'Oex (3). The more rational put their bikes on the train at Montbovon. We arrived at our massive 18th century chalet at around 5 O'clock, took hot showers and sat at the bar trading war stories. Rarely do you find a day in August deserving a fondue and a log fire, but that evening was an exception and we enjoyed both (4) It rained all night.
It was still raining when we woke up and it would continue all day. I had a meeting with Tim and Frog (the other guides) and we decided that the group would not ride. We left the bikes at the chalet and proceeded to the train station and arranged for travel to Interlaken. We were told that there was flooding and there would be delays. Ten minutes later they announced that the flooding was severe and that there would be no trains to Interlaken from Chateau d'Oex. We would have to go to Montreux and then take the train to Berne to go to Interlaken. This meant four hours on the train, but it was the only solution if we intended to stay on course. Tim and Frog took the luggage to Interlaken and I took the group to Berne.
Strange, but Berne was warm and sunny. Still, it had rained all night and the low lying neighborhoods were flooded. We stood on a bridge high above watching water streaming out of second and third story windows in the houses below. We ate lunch and enjoyed the drier parts of Berne before getting back on the train to Interlaken. Tim and Frog picked us up at the train station: their nerves were a wreck. They told us how they had driven through flooded roads, past mudslides and over tree limbs. We had to get to our hotel in the small lakeside town of Bonigen very quickly because the roads were already covered by 10 inches of water. We made the best of things: unpacking bottles of wine and opening up our room for a party (5). Things turned more sober, however, as we turned on the television: there were numerous massive mudslides and flooding in the valleys of central Switzerland: homes were wiped away and lives lost. These were the same valleys that we were supposed to bike through in the days to come. There hadn't been floods like this in central Switzerland for over 100 years.
Day Six:
We woke up to pounding on our door and megaphones in the street. Our guests were worried: our hotel was on the lake and water was starting to creep over the sidewalk into the front yard. We got up and took a short walk down the street: people were piling sandbags against their front doors and fishing their lawn ornaments from the lake, but otherwise everything was calm. Most of the other hotels in Bonigen were flooded and people began moving into ours (6) (7). We quickly resigned ourselves to spending another night in Bonigen.
Day Seven:
Central Switzerland was still flooded, but there was sun and the water was receding. Still, we didn't have our bikes, they were in Chateau d'Oex. Even if we had had the bikes, Route 9 was full of water, mud and brambles for miles and miles. The reality was that we would lose another day of biking and everyone silently accepted this fact.
Leaving our hotel wasn't easy. The Interlaken airport served as a temporary highway and we drove through water to get there. When we got to the Interlaken train station, we had to stand with a thousand other "tourist refugees". Buses were loaded up and we were taken to a station where the tracks were NOT underwater. We spent the next four hours changing trains in various backwater towns before arriving in Rapperswil. At last, a beautiful unflooded city waiting to be explored (8). At 5 o'clock Tim and Frog arrived with the bikes and most of our guests quickly mounted their machines and took a short ride in the hills.
Day Eight:
It was sunny and we had our bikes: all seemed well. We spent the first 20 kilometers riding through fields on perfect paths. Somewhere near the Linnthkan River, our route disappeared: it was submerged under a foot or more of water at a culvert under the train tracks (9). We spent an hour exploring alternative routes, but they were all dead ends.
Anne, one of our more adventurous guests, had been on a bike trip through Costa Rica the year before and so gamely suggested going through the water. This seemed risky, not knowing what lie beneath, nor did we know what was beyond this flooded section. Still, there was no solution and we were very eager to continue biking, so we lifted our machines, muddied our shoes and continued on (10). Of course, that wasn't the last of our problems: we did encounter more water, lots of mud, logs and flood debris (11).We finally make it to the picnic spot though (12), and the rest of the day went on without a problem. We ended our day at huge Swiss country-side auberge in Buchs and celebrated with an excellent 5-course meal.
Day Nine:
Our three-day break caused us to miss the most spectacular and difficult sections of the itinerary. The rest of the ride would be flat, giving us plenty of time for morning coffee breaks and afternoon beers (13), (14). Tim set up a beautiful picnic outside of Alstatten and we then continued on Route 9 along the Rhine and through a section of Austria. We eventually came out on Lake Constance and then headed west on Route 2 through Rorschach, finishing in Romanshorn where we stayed at a converted 14th century monastery overlooking the lake.
Day Ten:
We were not scheduled to bike on this day, but we finagled our schedule in order to fit in some more time on the saddle. We decided to shoot for Schaffhausen which was only a flat 50 kilometers down the road. Although an easy ride, this short path offers a lot: Lake Constance, the Rhein, forests, vineyards, medieval villages and brief moments in Germany (15).
We arrived in Schaffhausen at 3 O'clock to took the train back to Geneva for our last evening together. The bikes were muddy, but everyone happy.
Despite weather, everyone enjoyed the trip. In fact, three of our nine guests are coming back this summer. We can practically guarantee better weather and we're getting some Swiss and French riders to join us. See www.bikeswitzerland.com to find out about the ride and see more pictures.
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Parrot Flower Power Launch Detailed For Green-Fingered Geeks
By Chris Davies/Oct. 15, 2013 5:11 pm EST
Parrot has confirmed launch details for its Flower Power plant monitoring sensor, the wireless plastic shrub that shares pot space with your petunia and tells your iPhone when it needs water. Shown off at CES back in January, though with no price attached, the Parrot Flower Power uses Bluetooth LE to push information on soil moisture, fertilizer, ambient temperature, and light intensity to the companion app, which can then give advice on different types of plant, where they should be placed during the day, and what might be wrong for them.
Thanks to the low-power Bluetooth connection, the Flower Power will run for up to six months on a single charge. The data isn't actually perpetually transferred; instead, the gadget caches it evert fifteen minutes until your phone is nearby – Parrot says it'll work between 16 and 82 feet away – and then transfers it over.
The app itself does all the historical crunching. After selecting which plant you have – from a database of around 6,000, including vegetables and trees – the various graphs show detailed analysis, but also a traffic light style warning to flag up anything that needs specific attention there and then.
Those tasks are also pushed to the cloud, and Parrot gives predictions about what will happen to your plant next. The Flower Power records information from the environment 2-4 inches around it, but you can plant multiple units and have them all feeding in data about different flowers to the same account. Then, Parrot will put together a task-list of gardening chores that need doing, depending on what the plants themselves are reporting.
It's not the first geek-gardener's tool we've seen, though the segment is yet to become a significant part of the smart-home movement. The stumbling block has generally been the balance of data timeliness with battery life, though low-power wireless like Bluetooth LE have begun to address that.
Parrot says the Flower Power will hit shelves in November, priced at $59.99. It'll be available in three colors: brown, blue, and green.


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« David Fodel / Ardai Collaborative MP3 Album
One Bow to Infinity »
Gentle Buddha Machine Techno MP3
[ July 7, 2009 / Department: downstream / Leave a comment ]
The Buddha Machine is an engine for background sounds. Created by the China-based duo FM3, the Machine is a tidy little box of sound loops. There are two versions of the Buddha Machine (thus far). Each contains nine brief loops, ranging from beat-less reveries to subtly pulsing tones. Two Buddha Machines are more than twice as useful as one, because the layering of Buddha Machine sounds — the effect, that is, of playing them simultaneously, whether with the same or different loops — creates the effect of a new, more complex sound.
There is a Buddha Machine Effect, in that the longer you listen to a Buddha Machine loop, the less generic, the less plain, that loop comes to appear. Perhaps the second Buddha Machine was arguably necessary, because by the time it was released, the first Buddha Machine had, to its most frequent users (the word "user" seems more appropriate than does "listeners"), become familiar, recognizable.
The longer you employ a Buddha Machine, the more you become attuned to its loops — not only in your own practice of listening, but as the Buddha Machine is employed by other musicians. It's proven to be a useful sound source for music-makers, and a search for "Buddha Machine" on many music forums yields homebrew experimenters. Take, for example Sinehead, a German who makes his public home at the sound-sharing site soundcloud.com/sinehead. His "FM3 buddha machine countryside" is a singular, linear experiment in pastoral collage. One of the beautiful things about soundcloud.com, in contrast with, say, myspace.com, is that each track (see below for an example) is given its own waveform image.
And thus, even before you venture into Sinehead's Buddha experiment, you understand its structure: there's a slow build, and then two separate lengthy sections, each with its own unique contours. In this case, the slow build is a rising tide of loops, with a single gentle thud suggesting imminent momentum. That first lengthy section brings a click track and more regular thud that organizes but doesn't overpower the roiling loops. And the second lengthy section doubles the beat's speed.
[ Tags: copyleft, free, gadget, netlabel / Leave a comment ]


802.11ac is a Wi-Fi networking standard which provides high-throughput Wireless Local Access Networks (WLAN) on the 5 GHz band. 802.11ac is often referred to simply as "Wireless ac" or "Wi-Fi ac", much like its predecessors 802.11a/b/g/n are referred to as "Wireless a/b/g/n" or "Wi-Fi a/b/g/n".
802.11ac is currently the fastest available Wi-Fi standard, offering the fastest data transfer speeds to your devices at home and work.
The 802.11ac standard is capable of fast speeds generally between 100 to 400 Mbps depending on your router, the client device, and the environment.
Most of the newest mobile technology built since 2015 uses 802.11ac.
An 802.11ac router allows your compatible devices to have the best Internet experience. Without an 802.11ac router, your 802.11ac compatible devices would be forced onto slower connections such as 802.11a/b/g/n (depending on you router and device compatibility).
On the 5 GHz band, the wireless N and AC standards support a technology called MIMO, meaning "multiple-input, multiple-output". Modern routers have multiple 5G antennas and can send data to multiple devices at once (to devices A, B, and C all at once... rather than A, then B, then C like older routers).
MIMO also allows the combining of multiple 5G antennas together when the device (computer, phone, etc) also has more than one 5G antenna in it. This is how certain devices can surpass the approx 225 Mbps real-world maximum of a single 802.11ac link.
If a device has two 5G antennas (sometimes referred to as a "2x2" antenna), it can bond the 2 together. The effect is best achieved when you have line-of-sight to the router and while not a perfect doubling of speed, it can be a drastic improvement.
The router we offer supports MIMO, and has 7 antennas (three on the 2.4G band, four on the 5G band) -- and most modern 3rd party routers do as well.
Keep in mind most client devices do not have more than a single 5 GHz antenna and will not benefit from the benefits of MIMO technology, but select higher-end devices may.


Binevenagh, at 385m high, isn't the biggest mountain, or hill more accurately, but it is fairly isolated in a flat landscape, and dominates the surrounding countryside, prominant on the skyline for miles around. I have photographed it many times from a distance, with the cliffs on its western edge being particularly impressive, even from afar. Earlier this month, I finally made for the summit. I wanted to visit the cliffs and summit, but also get a good walk around the base of the cliffs looking up at their rugged heights, so I took an unconventional approach to this hill. There is a road from the east which goes right up to the flat top, with a car park near the cliffs. I decided to use this to access the top, and when I had finished walking up there, to take the car back down to the bottom and round to the western edge. I intended to walk to the bottom of the cliffs from there, eventually almost reaching the top again from the southwest, easing my conscience a little at this "cheating" by driving to the top. This approach would allow me to see the greatest possible amount of Binevenagh in the time available.
Parking the car, I initially moved away from the cliffs to a small height just to the south, giving a good view over the lough found on the flattish top.
I then headed north, straight for the cliffs, indicated by this sign.
The sign is definitley not a case of "health and safety gone mad", as the drops are pretty much vertical in most places, all the way to sea level. I gingerly moved as close to the edge as I dared to peer over at the ground far below. In many places there were good views to the cliffs themselves farther along.
There were also impressive views across Lough Foyle to Inishowen in Co. Donegal and its distant mountains.
Looking further west along Lough Foyle, and the River Roe entering the sea.
The view north to Benone strand.
And towards Magilligan and the narrow entrance to Lough Foyle.
Looking down on the flat countryside far below.
I initially went to the east to the farthrest point of the cliffs in that direction, then started walking anti-clockwise to the west taking in the constantly changing views in the distance, and of the cliffs themselves.
At this point, with extreme care, you can climb out on to a rocky area very close to the edge, which made me feel very brave without much actual risk.
The mountain edge began to curve round in a southwesterly direction now, opening up different views, and I'll continue the walk in a separate post. The forest that can be seen in the photo above would form part of my later walk at the bottom, through it initially, and then after emerging from the trees, along the line of the cliffs, ascending all the way.
Posted in Landscape, Nature, PhotographyTagged Benone, Binevenagh, cliffs, Co, County, Derry, Ireland, Magilligan, River, Roe, ValleyBookmark the permalink.


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Our integrated team provides year-round care, including counseling services and medication therapy. We manage your or your loved one's physical needs, address housing and employment issues, and provide other services.
Our complete care includes counseling services and medication management. We provide individualized care, meeting each person's needs and helping them maintain success in their community.
Mental Health Services at Chesapeake Connections: Why Choose Us?
Our team includes experienced counselors, psychiatrists, and other support staff. We work together to provide creative solutions for your needs, giving you the best chance at success in your treatment or recovery.
We recognize that mental illness requires a personalized approach to care. We support our patients' physical needs so they can focus on managing their mental health and maintaining success in the community.
Sheppard Pratt has a history of providing leading-edge mental health treatment. Our patients can access our wide array of services, including intensive therapy, addiction services, neuropsychiatry, and residential rehabilitation.
Through the right combination of mental health services and support programs, we help people achieve success in their community.
The Maryland Department of Health and Mental Hygiene supports Chesapeake Connections, which means there are no fees for the services we provide.
The Baltimore City Health Department screens patients for referral to us. Learn more about the referral program by calling the Behavioral Health System Baltimore at 410-837-2647.
For more information about Chesapeake Connections, please call us at 443-573-6088.


2018 Calendar Printable for Kids: Free to Use!
Fun 2018 Calendar Printable for Kids with Student Planner!
Are your kids getting ready for school? Help them get organized with this fun 2018 calendar printable for kids which also includes a free student planner! This printable planner comes in playful print that kids will love. Teach the young ones how to systemize their schedule in school. Start by helping them print this fun planer especially designed for them today!
Hello, friends! Welcome back to Shining Mom! While I have already shared several designs of free 2018 calendars here on the blog, I thought of publishing another one today– this time, for your little ones!
I know staying organized in school can be a struggle and so here's a 2018 calendar printable for kids that comes in playful print to help them organize their schedules and activities.
Train your kids to become more successful in school and in life by teaching. Start by teaching them how to get organized and focused while having fun as early as now! I am so, so excited to show you this freebie. Let's get started with a quick preview to some of the monthly printable pages!
The 2018 calendar printable for kids that I have here comes in different colors for each month of the year. I know kids love fun designs in bright colors and so I made sure come up with playful prints. A shoutout to Design Cuts for some of the graphic elements I used here!
Each monthly 2018 calendar printable for kids that I am sharing away is something that kids can easily bring to and from school. It's designed to be printed in standard US size paper that can inserted in school binders easily!
As I have said, this freebie also comes with a free student planner! Kids will love that they can now easily organize their homework and weekly schedules with these free planners that match the 2018 calendar printable!
With this free printable student planner, planning can be fun, right! Grade school and middle school kids are going to love this planner, that's for sure!
Help the little ones have their own copy now by helping them download this free calendar and planner. Since it's a newsletter-exclusive freebie, quickly sign up HERE to receive the files right away.
Will you be using any of the Shining Mom planners this year? I'd love to hear from you at the Comments!
Please enjoy the free planners that I have for you and don't forget to pin us on Pinterest! Have an amazing 2018, friends! I am so thrilled to welcome the year! Cheers to a blessed and prosperous 2018!
« Free January Planner to Start an Amazing Year!


Georgia Tech chaplain gets the Yellow Jackets fired up to take on Miami. Watch and feel the pre-game fire.
The weekend before last, Georgia Tech football suited up for a game against the Miami Hurricanes. Before taking the field, the team gathered in the locker room with team chaplain Derrick Moore.
Moore gave a thrilling speech, a pep-talk for the ages.
Georgia Tech won the game 28-17.


Friday was a bit of a travel day. An appearance on GPB Radio and then a ride back home followed by a trip to Carroll County that afternoon meant eight counties in a day. That's not a big deal in our interstate age. I-75 goes through 19 counties from here to the Florida Line. So eight counties in a day...no big deal. But it wasn't always that way.
When I left the GPB studio I decided to follow up on a tip about a priceless piece of Georgia history. What is possibly one of the best-kept secrets in all of Georgian preservation, there is a covered bridge (ca. 1872 to replace the ca. 1840's bridge destroyed during the Civil War) that is still in everyday use! It's not some long ago detoured relic you can walk across. If you meet the seven foot clearance requirements you can drive across!
I had to take the farthest left of the four turn lanes off the 285 exit so I'd be in place to make the left hand turn onto Spring Rd, right next to the Lexus dealership. Then I wound through shopping malls, Indian restaurants, and subdivisions filled with stately homes. Until I found myself in a tree-filled hollow and a real covered bridge that carried me across a rain-swollen Nickajack Creek.
All this in Smyrna. In the shadow of the proverbial Ring of Fire - Interstate 285.
The very next day, I'm in Carroll County listening to my mother-in-law telling stories about visiting her great-grandparents in the Smyrna of that day. Her family took dirt roads to a little cracker cabin where her great-grandmother awoke early to prepare streak-o-lean biscuits for the sharecroppers who hit the fields early, trying to pay the rent. That's a long way from Indian restaurants and Lexus dealers.
The next segment off the big road was to get off the interstate and follow the old road - Old 41 - from Wild Man's up to the new ball fields in Emerson. The speed limit is lower but so is the traffic and the scenery is exponentially better.
Between the two locations I encountered the trauma of crossing the interstate not once, but twice, on the left side of the road. This isn't due to a construction detour or an accident, this is Georgia DOT's answer for long turn lane waits for left-hand exits. Just crisscross the traffic on overpasses. Dear Lord, just get me to the two lane.
Old 41, as the name suggests, is old. It is largely residential, homes and small businesses, schools and churches, trees and shrubs. In some places the road spreads into turn lanes, even four lanes in a few places but the highlight this time was Acworth.
This wasn't my first time in Acworth, not by a mile. But this time was intentional. Although not a full fledged stop with details on stores and restaurants, I did want to get some photos and enjoy the architecture. Acworth is a lovely town. The downtown area is tastefully preserved and vibrant. This is not the woeful southern small town that is in disrepair and vacated. There are businesses - shops, restaurants and such - lining both sides of the road. Like so many similar towns, the railroad tracks cut right through the middle of town so you have to check both sides of the tracks to see it all. There are plenty of well-kept homes just behind the rows of businesses. A new apartment complex has broken ground just east of downtown promises to stick with the prevailing architecture and fit in rather than stick out.
Seeing Acworth yourself requires a short drive off Exits 277 or 278 and just following signs for a mile or less.
Or just take the Road Less Traveled...in this case Old 41 and see what else you can find on your own.


So, for our family of four I use two large chicken breasts, sliced up and marinated (for anything from half an hour to overnight depending how long you have) with a couple of cloves of garlic and a thumb sized piece of ginger, both roughly chopped, and a splash each of soy sauce and Chinese rice wine.
When we're ready to eat, I put three cups (the sort that come with the rice cooker) of rice in the cooker with the amount of water the machine asks for. I use chicken stock as part of the liquid if I have any, and if not I add one teaspoon of stock powder. The marinated chicken is added on top along with the rest of the marinade, and then I turn the machine on. Near the end of the cycle, I add chopped quick cooking greens such as broccolini, bok choy, gai laan etc.
If it's a really hectic evening we just eat with extra soy, but it's quite easy while the rice and chicken are cooking to make a wonderful sauce by heating a few tablespoons of peanut oil until it just starts smoking, and then pouring it over finely sliced extra ginger and spring onions. Add salt to taste and drizzle over your chicken, rice and greens.
So what do you think about recipes that provide detailed information compared to those that just give an outline? And do you like making your own variations, or do you want to make something exactly like the original recipe?
I use recipes for inspiration. I never follow them completely as I like to cook to taste and intuition. Never cooked raw chicken in our rice cooker though I have steamed fish and vegetables. To be honest, I wasn't sure that chicken would cook all the way through.
Inspiring Beck. I love recipes like this and I am sending the link off to my son pronto.
I like ideas recipes too 🙂 But I've never used a rice-cooker, especially for the whole meal, and I'm wondering how you know how long to give it and about how long it takes for everything to cook through. This sounds yummy and delightfully simple!
I love this Beck. So easy. My type of cooking.
Great ideas, just all in the rice cooker. I rarely follow recipes, exceptif I am trying something new for the first time. Those regular favourites are often the best meals.
Yes, this is a quick and easy and delicious sounding meal. I think the rice cooker is a fabulous implement for doing an all in one type of dish. By using stock instead of water to cook the rice and then adding in the marinade and ginger oil on top of the other ingredients, you're getting super flavours intermingling.
And with a non-stick rice bowl, the washing up is almost non-existent.
I made this! I increased the amounts for our larger family – worked a treat. Will be doing it again, so easy.


text:
Tag Archives: belonging
Daughters – Paule Marshall (1991)
Posted on April 25, 2018 by lizipaulk
I can't help it. I really adore Paule Marshall's work, and so I'm lucky that she has a good backlist of other titles to read and enjoy. Perhaps when I've finished that last read, I'll just cycle back through them to enjoy them again. 🙂
Paule Marshall was an American author with immigrant parents from Barbados, so it's easy to understand why several of her characters in the titles in her oevre straddle the two different worlds.
In this title, Daughters, her protagonist, Ursa, has spent her first fourteen formative years growing up on the fictional island nation of Triunion, and then is sent to the U.S. to continue her education there. Her father and US-born mother had met in the US earlier and then the couple had moved back to Triunion where her father had a career in governmental politics.
This political position influences everything and everyone throughout the novel, and just as a career based on election results can be unstable, Ursa remains conflicted about who she is: a serious research analyst or a father's rock-solid support for his never-ending elections… Or can she be both?
The title, Daughters, also reflects the scope of the plot accurately as well as Ursa is not the only daughter who is involved in the narrative. Her mother, Estelle, is a daughter who grew up in a different country from where she lives, and Ursa's life overlaps with other women who are daughters.
It's also arguable that the idea of the fictional island of Trunion could also be a young daughter in terms of the nation only having earned its independence from England in the not-so-far past. So – who can a daughter be when she wants to be herself?
The story starts with Ursa returning to her apartment in New York after having just had an abortion at a local clinic. As she's buttoning up and going home, she worries whether the doctor really completed the procedure and perhaps left a piece of a medical device inside her. (Again, this idea of children….)
Ursa's really concerned about whether the fetus is really gone and this concern continues through the narrative – how much of her is all hers? It's a question of identity that threads through this novel for most of its characters, and as the reader follows these characters chapter by chapter, so Ursa goes on a journey of discovery of herself, her life choices, and the people who surround her.
Ursa is currently unemployed but anxiously waiting to hear whether a grant proposal has been funded by a private foundation. It's a project that continues from her earlier work about studying a small city in New Jersey and how its heavily African-American population is faring in terms of economic prosperity and other QOL issues. (Interestingly, it could be argued that the people of this town are also undergoing their own journeys, along with the town itself.)
With her unemployment period overlapping with her father's upcoming political election, Ursa is torn. Her pattern of the past is that she flies down to Triunion to support her political parent at each of the elections that occur, and up until now, she has been content to play that role but she's now wanting to break away from that.
As Ursa gets older, she is realizing that perhaps her father, always worshipped by most people (including her), isn't the perfect person that she had thought he was. Age brings distance and clarity to some issues, and Ursa's removal from Triunion has given her the necessary space to evaluate her perspective and it is this new view that is uncomfortable for her.
Ursa is an independent twentieth century woman, unattached for the most part (except for current boyfriend although this is not a deep attachment for her). Without a regular job and with questions about her future, she feels uncomfortably unmoored about her life and her future.
In contrast, she relies heavily on her best friend, Viney, for advice and consolation and a steadying influence and Marshall uses the instability of the lead character to compare and balance out the more anchored life of Viney, who has roots in the city. She has a son, no partner, and has just bought a house in Brooklyn so, to Ursa, it seems as though she herself is the one who is behind the curve and who needs to choose and then commit to how her life will pan out.
How will this play out for her in the end? That's the big question.
Loved this read just as I've loved Marshall's other titles so far (Praisesong for the Widow, Merle and Other Stories, and Brown Girl, Brownstones).
A good solid read that kept me thinking way after I'd finished the book.
Posted in books, Fiction, TBR, travel, World | Tagged belonging, Caribbean, identity, literary fiction, relationships, USA | Leave a reply
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This 3 piece boutique style layette set includes a one-piece bodysuit, a pair of matching pants and a matching headpiece. The romper features an adorable red, white and blue patriotic theme and an applique that says "I Love My American Dad"; the accompanying headpiece and pants complete the look with American Flag embroideries!
The perfect outfit for you baby's first Father's Day and 4th of July! This outfit is made with a soft blend of 95% Egyptian cotton and 5% Lycra; Available in sizes Newborn to 18 Months for boys and girls.


Fomerly the Priory Church of St John the Evangelist, dating back to the twelfth century, when the church was founded as a cell of Battle Abbey (Sussex). Much of the church was built during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, with numerous subsequent alterations. The church was home to the famous Brecon rood and the large decorated twelfth century font remains in the nave. Following the dissolution in 1536, the building served as the parish church until the creation of the new diocese for Swansea and Brecon, when the priory church was made its cathedral. Modern restorations by George Gilbert Scott (1861–72) and W.D. Caröe (1925–37).


Tonight is the first night of Wednesday night church classes for Dominic so Gavin and I decided to go back to our normal Wednesday tradition… coffee & other goodies at Java Vino!
Tonight we had a special project that we needed to work on as we drank our decaf and cookies and cream frosty (guess who had which? 😂). With the scouting year rapidly approaching it is go time! We busted out the Den Leader Guide, a calendar, and a couple of spreadsheets and hit it hard. There was maybe a short snack break… but before we left we had the entire year's worth of meetings all mapped out so we can get the boys through as much as possible while still having a great time.
What made it especially awesome tonight was Gavin's help. He was focused and helping the entire way through and took on parts of the planning process. Whenever there was a decision to be made I got his feedback first and we ran with it. It was pretty sweet to have a great helper!
The scouting year will be fun (& our last year of Cub Scouts), but I'm also sure to remember this night of planning with my buddy. Having this time and activity together was a great way to spend the evening!


Save the date for CAP's annual Kentucky Derby Party on Friday, May 5th 2017. This year, CAP also celebrates 45 years of finding homes for the longest waiting children in foster care! If you have had a blast at CAP's Derby in the past, get ready for an even bigger, more exciting event complete with dinner, CAP's live horse race game, silent auction, live music and more! More details to come.
© Children Awaiting Parents 2019.


I received an ebook copy of this book from the author in exchange for an honest review. Thank you Morgan Sheppard!
What an exciting start to a series! The world Sheppard has created os fantastical yet coherent; it is understandable despite its lack of connection to reality.
I found that Sheppard's writing was very stylistic. What I mean is that it has a flair that just makes me want to keep reading! She has a knack for describing colour in her world. Her descriptions of hues really come through and I kelt picturing vibrant colours as I was reading.
I love fantasy novels about Element Weavers. I just find them so cool, so obviously I knew I would like this one *wink* I really enjoyed the author's concept of everyone having an animal partner. I thought it was clever, and well I love animals!
Finally, how could I not love a book which mentions a grey water system? I just nerded out, don't pay mind to the Architecture student.
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