Abstract: This book considers how people talk about the location of objects and places. Explanations in Gesture, Diagram, and Word ; 10. However, the vast majority of work in this area has examined spatial language in monologue situations, and often in highly artificial and restricted settings. His current interests centre on the construction of computational dialogue systems for robot-human communication using linguistically-motivated ontologies. The E-mail message field is required.
His research focuses on the relationship between language and perception from a multidisciplinary perspective. The present volume provides such integration for the first time and reports on the latest developments in this important field. The present volume provides such integration for the first time and reports on the latest developments in this important field. Perspective Alignment in Spatial Language ; 7. She is the author of Space, Time, and the Use of Language 2007. Yet there is a growing recognition in the language research community that dialogue rather than monologue should be a starting point for language understanding. Written in a way that will appeal to researchers across disciplines from graduate level upwards, the book sets the agenda for future research in spatial conceptualization and communication.
This book considers how people talk about the location of objects and places. Responsibility: edited by Kenny R. Formulating Spatial Descriptions Across Various Dialogue Contexts ; 8. Formulating Spatial Descriptions Across Various Dialogue Contexts ; 8. Grounding Information in Route Explanation Dialogues ; 13. He is the author, with Simon Garrod, of Saying, Seeing and Acting: The Psychological Semantics on Spatial Prepositions 2004. Spatial Dilogue Between Partners with Mismatched Abilities ; 4.
The book reports on the latest developments in the field of spatial language and sets an agenda for future research on spatial conceptualization and communication in cognitive science, computer science, psychology, and linguistics. This book considers how people talk about the location of objects and places. Yet there is a growing recognition in the language research community that dialogue rather than monologue should be a starting point for language understanding. Introduction - Spatial Language and Dialogue: Navigating the Domain ; 2. Consistency in Successive Spatial Utterances ; 5.
John Bateman is Professor of Applied Linguistics at the University of Bremen, Germany. A Computational Model for the Representation and Processing of Shape in Coverbal Iconic Gestures ; 11. A Computational Model for the Representation and Processing of Shape in Coverbal Iconic Gestures ; 11. Coventry, Thora Tenbrink, and John Bateman. An Interactionally Situated Analysis of What Prompts Shift in the Motion Verbs come and go in a Map Task ; 6.
Perspective Alignment in Spatial Language ; 7. This book considers how people talk about the location of objects and places. The book reports on the latest developments in the field of spatial language and sets an agenda for future research on spatial conceptualization and communication in cognitive science, computer science, psychology, and linguistics. This book provides such integration and reports on the latest developments in this important field. Knowledge Representation for Generating Locating Gestures in Route Directions ; 12. Thora Tenbrink is a research fellow in linguistics at the University of Bremen, Germany where she is principal investigator in two projects concerned with the empirical investigation and interpretation of natural spatial language and dialogue. However, the vast majority of work in this area has examined spatial language in monologue situations, and often in highly artificial and restricted settings.
Explanations in Gesture, Diagram, and Word ; 10. Spatial Dilogue Between Partners with Mismatched Abilities ; 4. Coventry, Northumbria University Thora Tenbrink, University of Bremen John Bateman, University of Bremen Holly Branigan, The Univeristy of Edinburgh Laura Carlson, University of Notre Dame Justine Cassell, Northwestern University Marie-Paule Daniel, Universite de Paris-Sud, Orsay Anna Filipi, Australian Council for Educational Research Julia Heiser, Adobe Systems Incorporated in San Jose Patrick Hill, University of Notre Dame Shi Hui, University of Bremen Paul U. However, the vast majority of work in this area has examined spatial language in monologue situations, and often in highly artificial and restricted settings. .
It reports on the developments in the field of spatial language and sets an agenda for future research on spatial conceptualization and communication in cognitive science, computer science, psychology, and linguistics. Grounding Information in Route Explanation Dialogues ; 13. The E-mail message field is required. Knowledge Representation for Generating Locating Gestures in Route Directions ; 12. Yet there is a growing recognition in the language research community that dialogue rather than monologue should be a starting point for language understanding. Yet there is a growing recognition in the language research community that dialogue rather than monologue should be a starting point for language understanding. The book reports on the latest developments in the field of spatial language and sets an agenda for future research on spatial conceptualization and communication in cognitive science, computer science, psychology, and linguistics.


+ Standard build regenerates *_js.h now. Update README.jquery.
+ Add doxygen.NEWS for GENERATE_HTML default change.
* Also remove winbuild to avoid accidentally using it.
dependency because #744246. Thanks to Daniel Schepler and Wookey.


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In my previous post I've mentioned, that currently there are significant feature differences between Microsoft Azure, purchased via traditional channels (Direct, Open, EA), and Azure CSP. In this port I'll continue my CSP story and describe Azure CSP in details.
I've already wrote about 2 different Azure models - ASM and ARM, which use different portals and APIs for management. Some services are available only on "current portal" (ASM-based services), some services, especially new ones, appear only on "new portal" (ARM-based services). Additionally, some ASM services (like "classic" VMs) are available on the new Portal, and it confuses customers.
Azure CSP approach simplifies the experience for end customers, because only ARM-based services are available in it. More than 95% or revenue generating services are already available in CSP, so don't worry about VMs, vNets, Web Sites, SQL Azure etc. Azure CSP is great and can be used by most customers. But you need to understand the limitations.
1. Only new portal is available for management. If an end user with Azure CSP subscription admin rights will try to log on to the current portal, he'll receive an error.
2. Only ARM services, ARP APIs and ARM PowerShell cmdlets are available. Services, which are managed on the current portal only, are not available in Azure CSP.
3. No "classic" deployment method is available. Compare New VM creation UI in traditional and CSP subscriptions.
4. 3rd party solutions in Azure Marketplace are limited only to that ones, which support "Bring your own license" model. You need to purchase the license for 3rd party Marketplace software somewhere else, and then use it for the 3rd party service, deployed in Azure.
To get the most recent details about which services are available in Azure and which are not - just go to "Sales" page in the Partner Center portal and download "Release Notes" document for Azure Services in CSP. Current version was updated on 29th of February, less than a week ago.
Azure Backup is available in CSP via Azure PowerShell and ARM API. It is not available in the portal, but this will be changed soon. Currently Azure Backup management via UI is in Private Preview, which you can join. Instructions are available in the "Release Notes" document.
UPDATE: Azure Backup is now available via CSP. Details are here.
ASR management is available only via Azure PowerShell and ARP APIs. Also you can configure ASR via ASR Agent and VMM. ASR Management will added to the portal during next months.
UPDATE: Azure Site Recovery is now available via CSP. Details are here.
Azure Log Analytics (also called Operational Insights) is not available in Azure CSP yet. So customers need to purchase it as a part of OMS Suite, which is sold as an add-on to System Center licenses.
UPDATE: Azure Log Analytics is now available via CSP.
Azure RemoteApp is not available in Azure CSP yet. If a customer wishes to have similar functionality from Azure, then service provider can deploy Windows Server 2012 R2 RDS farm on Azure VMs.
Full Azure AD management in not available for tenants directly on the portal. Check here for details. But Office 365 and Azure CSP use Azure AD as an identity provider inside. When CSP Direct partner or CSP Distributor create a new customer on ParnerCenter portal, a primary domain should be specified (*.onmicrosoft.com). For every new customer an Azure ID directory is being created automatically, named <primarydomain>.onmicrosoft.com.
Of course, you can manage this Azure AD through Office 365 admin portal - create new users, manage permissions, configure the integration with On-Premise AD. This will enough for the most customers.
If you need full Azure AD management capabilities, there is a workaround. First, you can try to use this link to access old Azure portal for Azure AD management purposes only. But sometimes it doesn't work. In such cases use the following workaround.
1. Logon to Current Azure Portal using an account with a traditional Azure subscription. It can be free Azure trial subscription, MSDN Subscription (which is available to all SilverGold Microsoft Partners) or any paid subscription.
2. Click +New -> App Services -> Active Directory -> Directory.
3. Choose "Use existing directory" and click "I am ready to be signed out now."
4. You will be logged out. Login using any user, that has Global Administrator rights to the Azure AD directory, that you want to add. For my case it can be admin@kotlyarenko.onmicrosoft.com (user, that was created during New Customer creation on Partner Center) or kirill@kotlyarenko.com (user, that I've created on Office 365 admin portal and assigned Global Admin rights).
5. After that your Azure subscription admin will be added to this directory with Global Admin rights.
6. That's all, logon back with your Azure subscription admin credentials and you'll be able to fully manage this directory.
BTW, all main Azure services and features will be migrated to the new portal during the next year, so don't worry about these issues and challenges in long-term.
CSP Direct partners can use Partner Center portal to manage customer service subscriptions.
By default, CSP Direct partner is the only owner or customer's Azure subscription. He can add other users as owners, readers, contributors etc. to the tenant's subscription.
For example, he can specify customer's Microsoft ID or another account, such as Office 365 e-mail.
Service Provider can offer fully managed Azure-based services (e.g. service provider creates VMs and configures everything), or he can delegate Azure management responsibilities to customer's IT guys or even to an outsourcing organization.
I've recently posted a full list of Azure services, currently available in CSP.
In CSP Indirect model it depends on the used management panel and process automation, which is unique for every CSP Distributor.
By default, CSP Distributor creates a new customer on Partner Center portal and assigns him Microsoft Azure subscription. After that, CSP Distributor can assign other users with Owner rights to this subscription on New Azure Portal. Procedure is the same, as described above for CSP Direct. It can be customer's account or CSP Indirect partner account.
If you need more information about Azure in CSP - look at "Azure CSP in a Box". It covers technical aspects (API, pre-sales, administration) and business scenarios. It is a very valuable resource regarding Azure in CSP.
Is it possible to use this method for accessing the classic portal for CSP customers to create classic storage to be used by the Import/Export Service?
no, this won't work for classic non-ARM services.
Can CSP customers be moved to EA subscription?
There is no simple "switch to another subscription" button in Azure CSP. So the only way is to move resources from subscription to another.
E.g. you can use methods like asyn blob copy to copy VM VHDs from CSP subscription to Azure subscription.
Hi – is it possible for a CSP client, with an existing Office 365 subscription, to use the directory for the 365 subscription with the CSP Azure instance?
Office 365 via CSP includes Azure AD directory, which can be managed on old Azure portal using the trick described above. In fact – additional Azure CSP subscription is not needed for that.
MFA itself is working (we used the Workaround you described) , but only for Azure itself, not for external providers.
The customer`s problem is to get it work with external auth providers, in this case via Radius protocol.
In a "credit card Azure" sandbox it is working.
The Azure Portal Shows the the external Providers.
Using CSP Azure, the Azure portal does not show the external providers.
Again, MFA itself is working in CSP, but not for the external providers ….
So this seems to be a CSP related problem.
The question is: How to get MFA in CSP working using external providers (Radius) !
I don't understand what do you want to achieve. Are you talking about Azure MFA server? Or about Azure AD itself?
Also I recommend you to reach Azure Mentor Program or Global Partner Support to help you with that issue.
3.Select License (Microsoft Azure Multi factor Authentication ) click OK.
5. Download the Multi factor server and generate the keys.
Now the process will remain same for as of other Azure Subscription.Like configure MFA on-premise server/Import user/enable user etc.
I have a customer that has an existing O365 subscription – its a direct bill. We just added them on as an Azure CSP customer. I would like their Azure subscription to be able to leverage the accounts they have in O365 (which are synchronized to on-prem using Azure AD Connect). Is this possible, and if so, how do you go about switching the Azure CSP subscription over to their O365 directory?
You need to use "Request a reseller relationship" to add an existing tenant to Partner Center and create an Azure subscription there.
How can third party Azure solution vendors make their solutions to be ARM-based so they are made available for procurement through CSPs?


text:
Teacher Blogs > Prove It: Math and Education Policy View more opinion blogs
From September 2015 to September 2017, John Troutman McCrann, a high school math teacher, NBCT, and MfA Master Teacher Fellow in New York City, wrote about his quest to integrate inquiry- and performance-based learning into his instruction, and how these concepts might inform education policy. Follow him on Twitter: @JohnTroutMcCran
« Teaching Work-Life Balance: Be the Worker You Want to See | Main | Proud of Her Public School: A Teacher's Appeal to Secretary DeVos »
Don't Cut Students Off From Their School's History
By John T. McCrann on May 30, 2017 8:39 PM
One of my favorite places in my parents' house is the staircase. Along the walls my folks have placed pictures of members of our family, some of the four of us (my mom, dad, older brother, and I) and others of extended family. It's always a joy to walk up the stairs and smile alongside pictures of my nephews, grandparents, cousins, aunts, and uncles.
My one-year-old nephew also loves this spot.
Well, to be fair I'm not sure whether he loves the pictures or the thrill of rushing up and down the wooden stairs. Either way, he and I had a fun experience in that stairwell a couple of months ago that reminded me of an important—if overlooked—component of an education policy issue.
At one point after my nephew had bolted up the stairs I got him corralled in my arms where he began to utter what I'm told are two of his favorite words. "Dis?" he said pointing to a my grandmother when she was a child. "This?" I replied, "this is Gran, she's your Daddy's and my grandmother, Nana's mom."
"Dah?" this time pointing to a picture of my uncle Ben when he was a young adult. "That? That is Daddy's and my uncle Ben. He was Pappi's brother and he lived for a while in New York, near where I teach now."
And so it went, we "dis"-ed and "dah"-ed up and down the stairs and throughout about a hundred years of our family's history.
My nephew is a pretty lucky little guy.
He has parents and lots of other adults in his life who love him and will help him along the road of life (as well as one particular adult who loves him and will provide all the free math tutoring he could ever want!).
The little game of "dis and dah" reminded me that he is also lucky to have family who he will never meet, but whose lessons—passed down from generation to generation—will help him as well.
He will grow up hearing about Gran, Ben, and the other people who came before him in our family. Their successes. Their failures. He may not even realize it, but their stories will surround him just as their pictures surround us in the stairwell.
The same week I visited with my family, I attended a delegate assembly where the delegates of our union addressed a group of students who won't be so lucky. JHS 145 and four other schools in our city were scheduled to be closed by a vote from our city's Panel for Educational Policy in late March.
As with many hot-button issues, I see some reasonable positions on both sides of the school closure debate. A school's job is to promote student learning. Those that are consistently ineffective in meeting that mission ought to experience some intervention by public accountability systems in an effort to ensure good stewardship over public dollars. Yet it is also true that our neediest schools need more resources, not fewer.
My experience working with a diverse group of students indicates that, on average, students with disabilities, English-language learning students, and students who have had their educations interrupted due to the trauma of immigration and/or poverty require more resources than others of their peers. I don't know the details of school budgets in question in the latest round of NYC school closings, but I think it's pretty obvious that a school of almost 300 students where "Nearly half the students are English learners" ought to have more than "just one bilingual teacher and one ESL teacher on staff."
The Trump/DeVos budget made it clear that, at least at the federal level, the market-driven ideologies that lay beneath the school choice and school closure movements will persist. These policies will doubtless leave in their wake a group of students who are cut off from the history of their schools and education.
What kinds of stories will students like the ones who would have attended JHS 145 tell and be told? How will they place themselves within the context of schools and school history in our city? At what pictures will they point to ask about and try to make sense of where they came from and where they will go?
At the small and young high school where I teach, we try to institute traditions that help students connect with those who have come before. Right before winter break we had a group of alumni come back to speak to current students in 9th and 10th grades. At an end of year celebration on last week, we had an "hola y adios" ceremony where students shared experiences and memories from their current grade with students rising into that grade next year.
I hope that our school will be around long enough for future students to look at 100 years worth of pictures in our hallway, but it won't unless we instill value for this kind of knowledge in our students and our leaders.
What are the ways that you build on the rich educational history of your community to empower the students with whom you work? Please share ideas in the comments and on Twitter.
Photo of the stairwell at my parents' house by Anna Troutman
Follow John McCrann on Twitter.
Engaging with families
Social Justice in Education
Work and Labor Issues
Trump budget
Final Post: Did We Prove It?
Put Me in, Coach: Reworking Social Studies for Participatory Democracy
Teaching From a Textbook Makes My Class More Student-Centered
Two Years Is the Worst Amount of Time to Teach
Worth a Disruption: Prioritizing Education from South Korea to New Jersey
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redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


Avril Lavigne is collabing with Nicki Minaj for her new single - Oh No They Didn't!
Singer Avril Lavigne will be releasing a song in collaboration with rapper Nicki Minaj.
The single is titled "Dumb Blonde" and is set to drop tomorrow.
Nicki apparently stans Avril? idk.
is there a glitch in the algorithm?
She did thaT! It's lil mama and avril lavigne!
Certified trash and it's not even out yet.
Avril's career has been.........interesting in recent years.
Is she still married to Nickelback?
Nope. They've been divorced for a while now.
Ah okay. Wonder what ugly Canadian rock star she marries next?
Trash #1 making trash music with trash #2?
What did Avril ever do ?
Their Gwen Stefani/Sweet Escape parody? TOP TIER!
Same but so many of their sketches wouldn't fly today, especially with ONTD.


A United States court has dismissed a lawsuit against Iran by Americans taken hostage at the US embassy there in 1979, saying the accord to end the crisis bars such actions.
In Tuesday's ruling, a three-judge panel of the US Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia ruled that the US Congress must expressly abrogate the 1980 Algiers Accords before the lawsuit can proceed.
"There is no clear expression in anything Congress enacted abrogating the Algiers Accords," the judges wrote.
The 52 former hostages had at first failed in their efforts to win damages from Iran for being held captive for 444 days.
1996 law allowing lawsuits for "state-supported acts of terrorism".
But the appeals judges said the 1996 law cannot be used as a basis for the lawsuit because it does not specifically abrogate the Algiers Accords.
The United States and Iran cut diplomatic ties in April 1980 after Islamic students stormed the US Embassy in Tehran in November 1979 and held the staffers hostage.
The Algiers accord, signed in late 1980 between the two countries, detailed the conditions under which the hostages were released.


text:
The works of J. R. R. Tolkien have generated a body of research covering many aspects of his fantasy writings. These encompass The Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion, along with his legendarium that remained unpublished until after his death, and his constructed languages, especially the Elvish languages Quenya and Sindarin. Scholars from different disciplines have examined the linguistic and literary origins of Middle-earth, and have explored many aspects of his writings from Christianity to feminism and race.

Biographical

Biographies of Tolkien have been written by Humphrey Carpenter, with his 1977 J. R. R. Tolkien: A Biography and of Tolkien's wartime years by John Garth with his 2003 Tolkien and the Great War: The Threshold of Middle-earth. Carpenter edited the 1981 The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien, assisted by Christopher Tolkien. The brief period after the war when Tolkien worked for the OED is detailed in the 2006 book The Ring of Words: Tolkien and the Oxford English Dictionary by Peter Gilliver, Jeremy Marshall and Edmund Weiner.

On Tolkien's writings

Institutions

A variety of institutions have developed to support Tolkien research. These include The Tolkien Society and The Mythopoeic Society. Tolkien archives are held in the Bodleian Library in Oxford and Marquette University in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Publishers of scholarly books on Tolkien include Houghton Mifflin, McFarland Press, Mythopoeic Press, Walking Tree Publishers, Palgrave MacMillan, and Kent State University Press.

Journals

Early publications on Tolkien's writing were essentially fanzines; some, such as Mythlore, founded in 1969, developed into scholarly peer-reviewed (refereed) technical publications; among the "reputable" journals is Mallorn by the Tolkien Society. Other specialised journals include Tolkien Studies (2004–) and Journal of Tolkien Research (2014–). There are several journals that focus on the literary society The Inklings, of which Tolkien was a member, especially Journal of Inklings Studies (2011–).

Conferences

In 1992, the Mythopoeic Society held a conference for the centenary of Tolkien's birth, combining papers that were published in the conference proceedings, with a mixed programme of events over a period of eight days, 17–24 August 1992, in Oxford.

Omentielva is a European bi-yearly conference on research into Tolkien's invented languages.

Fields

A large literature examines Tolkien's Middle-earth fantasy fiction from numerous points of view, including medievalism, its philological roots in languages such as Old Norse and Old English, its influences from literature of different periods, its poetry, its Christian symbolism, feminism, race, sexuality, and many other themes. These are overviewed in Blackwell's A Companion to J. R. R. Tolkien, which effectively marked his acceptance into the English literary canon.

Constructed languages

Tolkien's constructed languages, Quenya and Sindarin, the main languages of Elves, have inspired linguistic research. Parma Eldalamberon and Vinyar Tengwar are published by the Elvish Linguistic Fellowship of the Mythopoeic Society a non-profit organization. The Vinyar Tengwar and Parma Eldalamberon material published at an increasing rate during the early 2000s is from the stock of linguistic material in the possession of the appointed team of editors (some 3000 pages according to them), consisting of photocopies sent them by Christopher Tolkien and notes taken in the Bodleian Library around 1992.  An Internet mailing list dedicated to Tolkien's languages, called tolklang, has existed since November 1, 1990.

Bibliography

Major introductory books

  (Revised and expanded 1992, 2005)

Journals

 Current
 Tolkien Studies (, West Virginia University Press)
 Mythlore (, Mythopoeic Society)
 Journal of Tolkien Research (, Valparaiso University)
 Mallorn (, The Tolkien Society)
 Vinyar Tengwar (, Elvish Linguistic Fellowship)

 Transitory
 Fastitocalon: Studies in Fantasticism Ancient to Modern: Immortals and the Undead briefly existed in the 2010s.

References

External links

 The home page of the Elvish Linguistic Fellowship, which publishes the journals Parma Eldalamberon, Vinyar Tengwar, and Tengwestie, and sponsors the discussion list, Lambengolmor (discussion list launched 29 May 2002, archives at lambengolmor-l)
 Tolkien's Linguistic Writings and Drafts by Ryszard Derdzinski
 TolkienBooks.net Chronological Book Index - a comprehensive index of Tolkien Publications
  A List of Tolkien's Unpublished and Slightly Published Manuscripts by Lisa Star (concentrates on linguistic materials)
 Publications of the Tolkien Society (UK)
 Tolkien Studies at Signum University
 The Tolkien Professor website, offering free materials from Corey Olsen's courses at Signum University

Reception of J. R. R. Tolkien

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


We've received numerous requests for copies/photos/depictions of the City of Newcastle Flag. While we have a brand new flag, we do not have photographs, yet. On an interesting note, our City Council just discontinued use of a "logo" we used for just a few short months - and went back to using the former logo. For your 'knowledge' though... I'm enclosing the "old" logo and the "new logo." Our flag is simply white in color - and the logo "floats" in the center of it... No extra lines, outlines, strips, ribbons, shag or décor.


There are points in your feet which correlate to areas of one's body. When the stress in your feet is alleviated, it may help alleviate the stress in your body.
A foot massage session may be combined with other modalities.
To schedule your Foot Massage session call 641-224-2577.
facilitate a deep state of relaxation, calm the emotions, and produce a serene mind.


Charles Phelps Taft was born in Cincinnati, December 21st, 1843, and is the eldest son of Hon. Alphonso Taft. He prepared for college at Phillips Academy, Andover, Massachusetts, entered Yale Law School in 1860, and graduated in 1864. Having decided upon law as a profession, he entered the Columbia College Law School, of New York, and graduated in 1866. Shortly after his graduation he engaged in the practice of law, with Sage & Haacke, the firm being known as Sage, Haacke & Taft. In the latter part of the same year he withdrew from the firm and went to Berlin, Prussia, where he remained about four months, studying German and attending the Berlin University.
In March 1867, he went to Heidelberg, and in December of the same year took the degree of "Juris Utriusque Doctor" at the University of Heidelberg.
In March 1968, he went to Paris, France, where he spent another year in the study of the French language and literature, and in attendance at the College de France. In 1869 he spent three months in Italy, and two months in England and Scotland.
In November of the same year he returned to Cincinnati, and formed a partnership with General E. F. Noyes, in the practice of law. The firm continued up to 1871, when General Noyes was elected Governor of the state, and he himself elected to the State Legislature. In 1873 Mr. Taft resumed the practice of law, in company with his father and brother, Peter R. Taft. The firm continued in the enjoyment of an extensive practice till 1876, when, by the appointment of Judge Taft as Secretary of War, it was dissolved. From that time to the present (1884) Mr. Taft has continued to practice alone.
In 1879 he bought a controlling interest in the Cincinnati Times. In June 1880 Mr. Taft made a proposition to the Daily Star, the only other evening paper of that city, to consolidate the two papers. His proposition was accepted, and the consolidation was effected. The paper has since been known as the Times-Star. Mr. Taft is also vice-president and stockholder in the Volksblatt Company, the most prosperous German newspaper in the country. He has been identified for several years with numerous public enterprises and interests, among which might be mentioned the Zoological Garden of Cincinnati, of which he was one of the founders and for several years of its directors.
Mr. Taft was married December 4th, 1873, to Miss Annie Sinton, daughter of David and Jane (Ellison) Sinton, of Cincinnati. Four children have been born of this union, viz: Jane Ellison, David Sinton, Annie Louise, and Charles Howard.


text:
War-Torn and Overgrown, Ghost Town Was Soviet Paradise
Author: Matthew Shechmeister. Matthew Shechmeister	Photo
<< previous image | next image >>
With grand buildings, subtropical climate and scenic location amid the forested hillsides of Georgia's Black Sea coast, the resort city of Gagra was once known as the "Russian Riviera."
At the turn of the 20th century, it was a getaway for wealthy tourists, anchored by a luxury hotel owned by aristocrat Duke Peter of Oldenburg. The duke built an opulent palace for himself nearby.
It is widely claimed that, shortly after the Soviet triumph, Lenin personally gave the order to convert this haven of the rich into a paradise for the proletariat. In the 70 years that followed, Gagra was to the USSR what Hawaii was to the United States, an exotic foreign kingdom located within its borders — all the sunshine you can handle and no need for a phrasebook.
Yet, almost immediately after the collapse of communism, this former playground of Czarists and lucky Soviet citizens became the scene of open combat and ethnic cleansing. Significant sections of the city were abandoned after the conflict came to an end in 1993, and since then have crumbled into an eerie ruin.
Russian photographer Oleg Slesarev visited Gagra to document the area's scenic beauty, and to take a firsthand look at what remained of a place that had captured the imaginations of his parents and grandparents. While some inhabitants have returned and renovations have begun, Slesarev's photos show a once-opulent paradise overrun by nature and and beset by decay.
Top photo: A gutted shopping mall overlooks the entrance to Gagra.
Bottom photo: Ruins of Zhoekvara Hotel in Old Gagra.
Gagra is split into two districts, Old and New, which are divided by the river Tsiherva. The city sits at the northern tip of Abkhazia, formerly a part of the Soviet Republic of Georgia. Abkhazia was home to large numbers of ethnic Georgians, who fought to keep Abkhazia within the Georgian state.
The ethnic group native to the region, the Abkhazians, rebelled against Georgian rule after the fall of communism. They demanded autonomy, and later independence, from the Georgia government.
In the summer and early fall of 1992, Gagra was the site of the largest battle in the war, with multiple offensives by both Georgian and Abkhazian troops and militias.
Fighting raged in Old Gagra, wrecking the city's storied resorts. Abkhazian forces, backed by the Russian military, eventually gained the upper hand, a decisive moment in the conflict, which ended in the retreat of Georgian troops not only from Gagra but the whole of Abkhazia. As the Abkhazian military closed in, the Georgian population of Gagra fled en masse, fearing reprisals by the invading army.
According to photographer Oleg Slesarev, both New and Old Gagra are now "more alive than deserted," as the Abkhazian population has returned. A few of the more modern resorts near Old Gagra have been revived, particularly those located directly on the beach. Slesarev reports that they have a poor "price/quality" ratio and attract a fraction of the tourists who flocked there in the past. The grand resorts of years past have gone to seed.
The center of New Gagra is dominated by bleak highrises built in the Soviet era, about half of which are occupied, according to Slesarev.
Above: A gondola cabin hangs abandoned on the Park-to-Spa line. The gondola line once carried visitors from Primorskiy (Maritime) Park to the nearby Skala Health Resort.
When it was operational, the gondola line had two cabins, the yellow one pictured above, and a red one that was blown up.
When the shooting stopped in 1993, Abkhaz forces had pushed out the Georgian military and declared Abkhazia a sovereign country. Human Rights Watch documented a large number of atrocities, including ethnic cleansing, perpetrated by both sides during the war.
Above: The bone-dry Three Graces Fountain stands in the pavilion in front of the mall.
According to a Soviet-era guidebook, "Gagra is one of the most beautiful resorts on the Black Sea coast. Pressed against the sea by a mountain ridge, it stretches along the beach of a mirror-like bay. Protected by mountains from cold continental winds and at the same time opening onto the warm sea, Gagra is one of the best places for relaxation in Soviet Union."
The pastel colors and high ceilings inside the Gagra Cinema are reminiscent of pre-Castro Cuba, and are a reminder that Gagra was a tropical destination for Russian visitors.
Some parts of the Cinema's interior are surprisingly intact, including the center of its stucco ceiling.
The exterior of the Gagra Cinema.
In the first years of the 20th century, Duke Peter of Oldenburg, a Russian aristocrat, built a palace (above) and a hotel in Gagra, and put Gagra on the map as a holiday destination for the wealthy. Both buildings were designed in art nouveau style, though many of the finishing touches have since disappeared from the dilapidated edifice.
The Soviet government nationalized the palace built by Duke Peter and converted it into the Hotel Chaika (Seagull), which maintained the air of an aristocratic refuge. However, during the war between the Abkhaz and Georgians, the Chaika was looted and has never been repaired.
The office of Duke Peter of Oldenburg looks out over the sea.
The Abaata Station was named for a fortress built in Gagra more than 1,000 years ago. A small section of the fortress' wall is still standing near the Zhoekvara Hotel (shown on page 1). The area has been inhabited since ancient times, starting as the Greek colony of Triglite.
Interior of the Gagripsh Station, another of the city's abandoned railroad depots.
One of the walkways of the Gagripsh Station.
The Zhoekvarskoye Ravine is a 15-minute walk from Old Gagra. Its shady groves are a good place to cool off during the noonday heat.
Visitors to Gagra can climb the mountains on foot trails or on horseback, and quickly reach the low waterfalls of the Zhoekvara River.
According to a Russian tourism company, "Old Gagra features the chic building of Gagripsh Restaurant with the clock (early 20th century). It was there that the opening of the resort was pompously celebrated by the Emperor's family on January 9, 1903."
Photographer Slesarev says the building was bought by the Duke of Oldenburg in Paris, disassembled and then shipped to Gagra. Originally, he says, a hotel that had been transported from Norway was located on the same property, but by the late 1980s it was falling apart and was subsequently demolished. The restaurant (above) is still operating, but according to the photographer, the food is terrible.
Sitting below the unappetizing Gagripsh is the pre-Soviet Primorskiy (Maritime) Park, still maintained but "slightly neglected," says Slesarev, with "overgrown slime in the ponds."
Currently, only Russia, Nicaragua, Venezuela and the tiny island nation of Nauru have recognized Abkhazia as an independent state. According to news reports, Nauru, a country known for exporting phosphate harvested from bird droppings, bartered its recognition of Abkhazia for $50 million in Russian financial aid.
Gagra's future is far from certain. Investment is scarce and not likely to pick up in the near future, given the limited resources of the Abkhaz government and unease in the private sector about the volatile politics of the region. However, some of the resorts continue to operate near the balmy coastline and verdant mountains, an entrance to a lost city.
For those who grew up in Soviet era, Gagra was a precious refuge of pleasure inside communism's bleak expanse. Now its ruins are a memento mori of poetic deterioration.
Above: View from the balcony of the palace of Duke Peter of Oldenburg.
Above: Exterior of the palace balconies.
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At the eight mile part of the race in Deptford, south-east London. People arrived with trolly and large shopping bags and carried away dozens of bottles which were prepared for the runners. These station which are run by volunteers were emptied in a few short minutes.
As one by passer said, "whats the idea of stealing water, when they can open the tap at home and get free water.
This entry was posted in Europe Marathons and tagged 2016, London Marathon, Water station by Long Distance Runner. Bookmark the permalink.


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A HAWTHORNS TOP TEN: 5
At five, a bunch of fives
While all is quiet at The Hawthorns during the international break, Publications Editor Dave Bowler chooses his ten favourite games from 45 years of visiting the home of football, some of them obvious, some very personal.
5. 19 May 2013 - Albion 5 Manchester United 5
Just as some games have very personal resonance, others are the big ones that exist in the wider consciousness, special days when remarkable things happen and which everyone carries away with them forever more.
Albion 5 Manchester United 5 was such a game and there's precious little I can tell any of you about it that you don't already know. Albion were busily being shredded by the newly crowned champions in the first half an hour, 3-0 down before we dragged it back to 3-2, only to go 5-2 down in the second half before improbably rescuing a point with three goals in the last ten minutes, spurning the opportunity to go and win the game into the bargain.
For all that, it's the game's surroundings that made this one especially memorable for me, if you'll forgive a large helping of self indulgence, required as I am to get some modern games into this list and not simply recount the 1978/79 season.
It started a dozen days earlier when we were up at the City of Manchester stadium to play City, slipping to our seemingly customary defeat up there. But whilst there, rumours started to circulate that Sir Alex Ferguson was about to announce his retirement from the game at the end of the season, bringing to an end the single most decorated managerial career in English football history.
And that would end at The Hawthorns.
Early the following morning, a Wednesday, I got a phone call from work to suggest that instead of 84 pages, we go up to 144 pages for this issue, all extra content, no extra ads.
There are those of you who may believe that there is a team of people all slaving away on the programme, each putting in their bit of work. Not at this place there ain't. We run a tight ship, and so the extra space that needed filling was down to me. And all of it to be signed off by 3pm the following Wednesday. And a Sunday day trip to Norwich – a 4-0 thumping that I've happily forgotten – in between times.
The thing got done without any sleep for a week, just like most of the staff here had to put in long, long hours to get the ground, the infrastructure, tickets sales, the whole production number on the road. For those who think people who work here don't care, I can promise you that you are wrong. In every nook and cranny of the Albion there are people who regularly go far above and beyond the call of duty time and again for no extra reward and in the face of plenty of obstructions.
Anyway, back at the ranch, it was then the chaos truly began. Despite printing way more copies than we ordinarily would, it was quickly clear than it still wasn't going to be enough. Given that a match programme is the only souvenir that properly commemorates a game – you know what you can do with you half and half scarf – the world and his wife wanted one from Fergie's last stand.
Arriving at The Hawthorns early, we were soon getting word of people driving up to programme sellers, handing over wads of cash and chucking boxes of programmes into the backs of vans. It was pretty clear that we were going to sell out way in advance of kick-off time, though we then applied a swift kick to the tender portions of those hoping to make an ebay killing by announcing an immediate reprint.
In truth, going up on to the gantry and reporting upon the ten goal carnage that unfolded was a doddle after all that.


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Austerity, injustice and the forces of callous Conservatism
I did not get where I am today predicting the future of the Labour party's electoral prospects; nor, for that matter, by forecasting the outcome of a referendum called by a prime minister prepared to gamble with the future of the United Kingdom in order to keep his party in office.
For, although it may now be conventional wisdom that Ed Miliband was never going to win an election in a thousand years, it did not seem such an odds-on bet to David Cameron at the time, when, frightened by the threat to his position by Ukip and his Conservative colleagues, he committed himself to the coming referendum.
But what seems to be generally agreed is that Cameron's election gamble paid off handsomely, with no shortage of assistance from the Scots, while the Labour party has gone outside and may be some time – even, according to the pessimists, some decades.
It is also glaringly obvious that the travails of the Labour party are taking up an unconscionable amount of media space, and therefore diverting attention from the truly appalling economic and social record of this government.
But first let us at least attempt to put a spanner in the works of those critics who are trying to damn almost everything the Blair/Brown governments did on the domestic policy front. (I wrote enough about my views about Tony Blair and his misadventures in Iraq at the time.)
The background was that, although my old friend Ken Clarke was a successful chancellor who presided over a sustained economic recovery between 1993 and 1997 after the travails and humiliation of Black Wednesday, his success with the budgetary accounts was at the expense of Britain's public services.
This running down did not begin under the premiership of John Major and Clarke's chancellorship; the bad work was done by Margaret Thatcher. But it continued under the Major premiership, which was unfortunate, because I, for one, have never doubted Major's good intentions.
Thus, when the Blair/Brown duumvirate came to power in 1997, there was a lot of work to be done to improve the National Health Service and the state of our schools and transport infrastructure.
Unfortunately there was a slight delay because, out of a desire to gain economic credibility with the financial markets and other sceptics, Brown announced a two-year freeze on public spending before he finally got going.
After that, much was achieved and – partly because of the impact of that freeze on average spending and borrowing levels in the period 1999 to 2007, before the onset of the financial crisis – the statistics for borrowing and debt as a percentage of gross domestic product under Brown compared favourably with those of the Thatcher/Major years.
This, of course, did not stop Messrs Cameron and Osborne from blaming the subsequent increase in public sector borrowing and debt on Labour, when it was entirely attributable to the consequences of the banking crisis.
Then came Austerity. Now, I keep meeting people who claim that the talk of austerity is exaggerated. And, certainly, it is possible to wander around Covent Garden and the West End of London and wonder what commentators such as myself are going on about.
But the evidence from the nation at large is loud and clear. A growing number of our fellow citizens are becoming homeless or poverty-stricken – or both – as a direct result of this government's obsession with cutting spending on social services.
In a addition to trying to improve the public services, Brown, when he was chancellor, devoted much Treasury time to trying to alleviate the plight of the least well-off. Some called it "redistribution of income", but often it was a case of simply trying to stop things from getting worse.
However, under the present chancellor there has been a determined, and mean-minded, attempt to destroy the "Brown settlement" – not least with the policy of cutting tax credits. When the injustice of this policy dawned on those who are not exactly poor but were also threatened, they had no hesitation in complaining to their MPs, and Osborne had to back down in his recent budget. But the suspicion is that the attack on tax credits has merely been kicked into touch.
Now, it must never be forgotten that whole point of the chancellor's obsession with achieving a surplus on our current and capital accounts is so that he can cut taxes.
But, given that the Labour party has gone outside, we are dependent for a shift to a more humane strategy on a change of heart from within his own party. It is about time that prime minister Cameron was true to the beliefs of his professed Conservative party heroes Harold Macmillan and Ian Gilmour and rediscovered "compassionate Conservatism".
In this article:Conservatives, Labour, Tax and spending, Tax credits


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Hell is Hell's Kitchen
RP Logs » RP Log Archives » Hell is Hell's Kitchen
Hell's Kitchen is in midtown Manhattan. It should be gentrified by now, shouldn't it? Jane Foster discovers that it's not really, and terrible misunderstandings ensue when two men both try to pull her out of trouble at once.
Hell's Kitchen, New York
NPCs: Some Russian Mafia
Hell's Kitchen, as an area, is kinda just like it sounds. It always seems like it's about to get on track and gentrify right on up with the rest of Manhattan, but something always happens to boot the neighborhood right back down to "not so good."
A large part of that reason might be that a lot of different mobs and crime families just love doing business here. Maybe it's the proximity to the Hudson, its docks and shipping ports and industry; maybe it's tradition, maybe something else. Maybe they just love the punch that comes from operating in a place called /Hell's/ Kitchen. Whatever the case, Hell's Kitchen remains the festering sore in the gut of Manhattan that it just can't get healed.
None of that really bothers a certain personage making his way quietly through the area by unconventional, circuitous routes this evening. Crime isn't really his concern. He IS crime, if you want to get technical.
Winter makes the nights darker, just by itself; a thick layer of cloud cover and a complete absence of wind— rare, in Manhattan— makes this night in particular darker still. It's not a good night for anyone to be out, but doubtless that's not going to stop certain people who need to be out and about, and who have more determination than sense.
Whatever that certain personage and his unconventional route through the bowels of Hell's Kitchen, it probably has nothing to do with that little slip of a thing, surfacing up from the subway and crunching fresh snow underfoot as she lingers, head craned up to read the street signs. She pulls back the oversized hood of her winter coat to better see. And she frowns.
Sighing a breath that mists on the air, the woman immediately violates rule number one of Hell's Kitchen: she pulls a phone from her coat pocket, illuminating herself in the screen, paying absolutely no attention to the world around her as she strenuously taps her way to a digital map. Its evidence seems to mollify her, like the terminally lost-at-sea finally seeing the first dredge of dry land, and she continues forward to her destination.
Because Jane Foster is on a mission. All the metalwork shops in Queens suggested she try here. One guy, definitely skeevy, looked her up-and-down, and laughed at himself, like he was sharing a private joke, and said definitely here. She wants vanadium. That is — clean vanadium. Really clean vanadium. And she'd rather not SHIELD know, with their questions, and their prying, and their insinuations to stop by and see what she's spending their money on. Because she has the sinking feeling they really won't like what they would find, in the flesh, the design that is now clawing at the neural insides of her mind. Desperate to get out. Desperate to GET MADE.
Jane walks her way off the well-beaten (domestically abused and otherwise) path of Hell's Kitchen towards its shipping ports, thrusting her hands into her pockets against the ice-wet air. It annoys her she can't seem to find any offices, anything that looks to be populated or staffed by normal people, and pokes around the storehouses, looking through the dark and dead of night any sign of life. Finding a wreath of parked cars — parked expensive cars — gives her hope.
And that is how Dr. Jane Foster manages to walk into a Russian mafia trade gone wrong, with about six men and a lot of drugs and a LOT more money and, well, here, five-feet-nothing and quickly losing the cheery hope off her face. "Hey! Sorry, would anyone know where I could find — oh."
"More determination than sense" might as well /define/ a man stalking from rooftop to rooftop, decked in black and capped with a glorified sock. Still, he does so with stealthy aplomb, just one more shadow amid the millions that wreathe New York City tonight as sturdy boots navigate ice-rimed ledges. The "man in the mask," as some of the whispers around town have just started to name him, has become a growing fixture of conversation around the Kitchen's corners and dives. It started with an MTA worker — a famous drunk, but still — beaten within an inch of his life on the tracks, who claimed (through swollen lips, a bruised jaw, and shattered teeth) that he was assaulted by a "mother-fucking ninja." Then a prostitute saved from her knife-happy client by a masked man; the john himself exiting the scene with a broken wrist. More stories have bubbled up: muggers foiled, a few small time heists upset. Enough to stir talk, but hardly enough to draw scrutiny of the powerful men and women who make sure Hell's Kitchen continues to live up to its name.
That may change tonight, for better or worse.
It's not the light the light that catches his attention, but that unmistakable 'TAP TAP TAPPING" of fingertips on touchscreen he can hear from seven stories up. /Jesus/, he thinks, but doesn't say. No Hail Mary's for just /thinking/ the Lord's name in vain, right? Maybe it's some tourist who didn't listen to the goddamn concierge and decided got lost on the way to Hamilton instead of taking an Uber; it's been known to happen. Regardless, they're wandering into a bad scene, the edges of which the fresh-faced vigilante has, for whatever reason, been so far been reluctant to directly confront.
No time like the present.
Six Russians, about two hundred pounds of drugs, a lot of money, and one Jane Foster.
One of these things does not belong, and it's definitely not any of the first three.
The six men look between themselves. The guy who's apparently in charge eventually turns his head and spits to one side. "No witnesses," he says in Russian, his grim stare and the pistol he's unholstering making pretty clear what he's talking about even through the language barrier. "Can't take the risk."
"At least the river's right here," another remarks. This one speaks in English, perhaps because he's a sadist and wants to see the effect of his obvious implication.
The rest don't say much at all, but they draw in closer and circle around Jane, in the silent way a wolf pack closes on prey.
A few blocks distant, a certain someone has an abrupt feeling on his very specialized mental radar. It is a radar he has had all his life. It is a radar that tracks when 'a tiny person is doing something extremely stupid.' He turns and starts heading in.
Unfortunately, he's a little far distant to do anything about it right away…
"I'm looking for Hudson Fabricators," Jane rambles weakly, perhaps hoping even against her own failing logic that this probably isn't a business, she probably isn't going to find some amiable employee who is going to laugh off this awkwardness and ask her what she needs, and that over there definitely isn't about an entire table-weighed stack of cocaine. Still, she tries. It's a noble human instinct. To keep trying even in the face of overwhelming failure. "I — I know you're not supposed to be open, on — on holiday hours, but I —"
Six men stare at her. She knows enough to slowly take her hands out of her pockets, empty palms upraised, just to prove just how harmless she is. As if that fact where not tomed so transparently on her, head to tow, from her brown boots to the panic breaking out over her cold-chilled face. Her dark eyes twitch back-and-forth as they speak, but in no language she can parse, looking on in guileless miscomprehension. "I haven't seen anything," Jane tries, though she's clever, she knows she has, she's seen all their faces, she knows their plate numbers, she knows the address — she remembers everything. "I promise. I'm from out of town, I'm lost, I won't — you won't see —"
Someone comments about the river in a language Jane can understand.
Her heart lurches in her chest. They begin to advance. She begins to backstep, though she can't keep her eyes on all of them, and trying to just has one of them nearly come too close for comfort. Realizing she's being herded, and yet still unable to turn off the instinct that forces her to keep drawing back, Jane searches her panicked find for something to say. Bargain? Negotiate? Bribe? With what? Blackmail? Call with her phone? Won't have time to. Beg them? Probably beg. Definitely beg, please, please —
One man, already tired of this night, too cold and now this, grabs for her, the stupid myshka who he could probably drag with one hand. Count him surprised when she snaps, reels back an angry slap, and on the cusp of her worst week, loses her temper: "Get the HELL off me!"
But the man in the mask is descending down the building that looms over this burgeoning clusterfuck only a few (precious) seconds behind necessity. He slides down fire escapes, hoists himself down chains, all with no more noise than an oversized rat might make in one of the fetid garbage bins across the dimly-lit street.
He hears everything as he comes; the authority and menace behind the leader's terse mandates would have translated from the original Russian even if the crystal-clear sound of a pistol drawn from its holster hadn't underscored it. The sadist's English, the woman's slamming heartbeat; and then her flailing attempt to will the situation into something other than what it is. Each sound quickens his pace, has him judging angles, distance before he's even two stories above them.
There's no time for a stealthy landing, or the careful lining up of opportunity and takedown. This moment, which has turned into a melee before he even got on the scene, requires a blitz. And so he takes advantage of the chaos created by Jane's spirited slap to /leap/ from the fire escape, hurling himself onto the leader and rolling the two of them from the slowly tightening circle. Pistol is wrested, slammed upwards with bone-crunching force into the mobster's jaw before this shadow of a man throws himself upward from prone on his back to a fighter's stance, then lunges for the nearest Russian with preternatural speed.
The Russians do not look impressed at all with Jane and her desire to find Hudson Fabricators.
Instead they just move in. One moves in to grab her, only to get a ringing slap to the face. Angered, he seizes her by the arm, just beneath the shoulder, and gives her a hard shake. Another moves up on the other side of Jane to secure her other arm, the two men holding her immobile between them as two others contemplate shooting her and dumping her in the river.
The leader lifts his pistol to get started on the first part. And that's when part of the night detaches from the nearest building and resolves into a lithe, agile form which CANNONS into him and bowls him over.
He doesn't even have the time to react before his own pistol knocks him the hell out.
The others freeze for only a second; then they drop Jane and start fumbling for their own guns, their fingers scratching audibly on holsters and cocking the hammers of pistols. The one that's being straight-up attacked, however, decides he really doesn't have time for that, and figures he'll try his luck swinging fists at the shadow that's already full in his face. He's not bad, but every movement is telegraphed by the sound of his fist cleaving through air.
It's almost comical, thinks one small, detached, and very pragmatic part of Jane Foster, as she steps backward, circled by rough-faced, thick-handed men whose cold eyes carry no patience or charity to a stupid woman whose reckless timing has brought her to the last place she should be. She's survived an attack by alien Nordic gods, hired terrorists, apparent demons summoned up from the mouth of Hell, and not to mention a home-invasion by a metal-armed assassin who ended up becoming anything but a threat to her life… only to go this way?
Shot by, what she supposes, a bunch of drug dealers? Or criminals? Shot and thrown in the Hudson River? Will they weigh her down? Or let the ice keep her where the current is weaker, and keep her until the thaw, when the months will make her body near-unrecognizable? Will they take her apart first? Why is she thinking about this?
Finally touched, something snaps. Jane hits her limit, officially beyond her patience this week alone — too many demons, too many SHIELD meetings, too many sleepless nights, too much worrying, too much, so much, and now ENOUGH — and furiously backhands one man across the face. If he was thinking about being gentle before, he sure isn't now, and neither is his friend, grabbing her arms to twist them painfully behind her back, with enough force that she feels her shoulders seizing against her joints — and cries out in sharp, breathless pain.
Her eyes clear enough to see what, Jane assumes, will be the last look of anything in her short life. She catches glimpse of that gun, and her momentary bravery forgotten, she shakes her head in last-minute pleading, because she doesn't want to d—
A shadow brakes from the swath of darkness and crashes straight down on the man, gun snagged and stolen, and Jane looks on with widening eyes to simply witness — try to witness — someone move with speed that shouldn't be possible.
Speed she's seen before, and her first thought is — it's him! — but no, even in the dark, when it's so hard to see, something is still different, still wrong —
Let go violently, Jane hasn't time to think, thrown savagely aside as they claim the space and mind to draw their guns and focus on something far more important than her. She shrinks, hunkered beside a silent fabricator, cringing down with a shocked cry when the loud reverberations of gunshots echo painfully within the confined space. They're aiming at the dark, desperate to hit SOMETHING.
Those bullets are, as it happens, desperate to hit /him/, this masked man in makeshift garb who is literally faking it until he makes it as a vigilante. But he's a pretty good fake; his instincts are right and his movements quicksilver. Two punches, cat-quick to the side of the Russian's head, one swing ducked. All of that, even though it's right in his face, takes place in the /background/. At the forefront of his attention are the sounds of guns drawn and cocked, the shifting of feet and positions as the remaining four Russians recover their wits and take aim.
The grim calculus takes all of a millisecond. The masked man suddenly grapples with his opponent, swinging him around so that the gangster's back is between him and the incoming shots. The move costs him time and robs him of the opportunity to avoid the two punches from his dance-partner that land right in his ribs. He's no superhuman; each impact draws a grunt of pain — but it was a risk and price worth paying for the way that his assailant catches those first shots from the Russians instead of him.
Later, perhaps, in the quiet of his apartment, Matt will ruminate over how, just five minutes into his first tangle with the mob, he was willing he was to blur the clearly delineated lines of his code and use an opponent as a human shield. But right now all he's concerned with is survival; his and the lady's. He shoves already slumping, bullet-ridden body of his opponent towards a pair of Russians with a roar before rounding on the third, aiming to kick the weapon out of his hand.
The Russian has no chance against the preternatural senses and reflexes of his masked assailant. His swings, all of them too-large, sweeping motions, are dodged easily, countered by swift efficient strikes that send him reeling. The other four have gotten their guns out by now, however, and the sounds of them assuming firing stances and lifting their weapons is loud and menacing at the masked man's back.
No time. No choice. He whirls around with a human shield at the ready, and bullets hit the criminal instead of him. Another thing for him to think about later.
For now, there's only the innocent life to save; the men who would have taken it, to subdue. He burdens two of them with the body of their erstwhile compatriot and leaps for a third. The gun slaps straight out of the man's hand from the force of the kick, leaving him open and unarmed. He stumbles backwards, his expression of hostility transformed in an instant to the very clear beginnings of fear. Fear of the unnatural attacker that has dropped so suddenly upon them, who moves too quickly to be hit.
There is a brief lull, as the six people still standing move in a deadly dance. Then, in the next moment, there is a sudden sense that there are seven.
Something lunges down the same way the Daredevil came in earlier: via fire escape. Some/one/, dressed in black, identity shrouded in a half-mask, left arm catching the light in an unnatural, reflective way. He mows through the two men still tangled with their bullet-ridden companion, barreling them into unconsciousness, on a beeline for the third man even now trying to backpedal away from Matt.
This newcomer's right fist swings out, slamming into the man and sending him bowling back into the last of the standing Russians. Both go down in a heap.
His head turns immediately afterwards, appraising the Daredevil. Guy's wearing a sock. He must have been part of this!! Without sound, without word, without inquiry, the newcomer twists smoothly in place and throws his left metal fist straight at Matt, clearly intent on tangling with the guy to save Jane from him! It's a devastating blow, but there's one issue the Winter Soldier is going to run into against the likes of the Daredevil.
His metal arm, with its whirring metal and gears, is real damn loud.
It all happens so fast. Jane Foster's only fortune is a fast mind, which is now ever-so-desperate to keep up.
She hangs back and keeps low, fear and panicked instinct hunkering her away, already coming to grips with the idea that someone new is here — someone who is definitely on her side. Or so she thinks, maybe isn't certain, as from her hiding space can do little but watch. It's dark, and he moves seamlessly among shadow, so seamless that her first hopeful thought is that it's her soldier, despite no reason for him to even be here, to be anywhere in her life save for his errant, late-night visits at her apartment —
But even if the speed is similar, the movement isn't — not what she's been able to glimpse and witness — a different sort of agility, not to mention a different frame, no weight and sounds of that left arm, and a mask that covers the opposite half of his face. No eyes, no nose, perhaps just flickeringly, the shape of someone's jaw moving in-and-out of the little light.
She isn't sure what to do. He probably isn't here for her. He could be some, she doesn't know, a rival? Criminals turning on criminals? And once he subdues them, she's next? But he has no gun. That is the strangest part, she wonders, as she watches — and she thinks again, as she watches the Russians pull theirs.
He should really have a gun.
"Watch—!" Jane hears herself yell, acting on faith, even if it's quickly drowned out under the concussive record of gunfire, the echoes so violently loud that she jumps with each shot, a hand cupped over her mouth, certain she's going to see that masked man die — and instead witnessing him turn one of her would-be killers on the bullets, embedding flesh and ventilating him silent. Numb, she shrinks back down, the shock receding enough that her trembling has begun, adrenaline shot to her legs as she contemplates just taking a run for it. She should, she wants to — but she can't leave someone, even if she doesn't know, and —
Not that Jane is even thinking about that anymore, the moment a second blur of shadow leaps down not unlike the first, taking out men as he goes. THAT, she recognizes. She slowly rises, heart pounding, recognizing light glinting off metal and — oh God. She's not seeing things. Oh thank GOD. Her soldier's here, James is, somehow and she has no idea, but she's not thinking about this right now, and especially not —
— as he rounds on the second masked man with his deadly left arm. Jane cringes. Oh, that's probably not good.
/The mind controls our body, the body controls our enemies, our enemies control jack shit by the time we're done with them./
It's Stick's voice Matt Murdock hears in the rush of adrenaline that crests as he closes in on his third target of the evening. All his training since being mentored by the blind martial artist has been self-conducted, surreptitious, and had only theoretically prepared him to take on multiple opponents. Later he'll obsess about the death toll, but to be here, in the thick of it, and with momentum on his side is nothing short of thrilling. Matt has let the devil out, and the man already spinning on his heels doesn't stand a cha —
He hears the leaping arrival of the /second/ masked man on the scene unforgivably late, given his prodigious senses — another failure he's likely to castigate himself for hours from now, should he survive. As the Winter Soldier slams into the stumbling Russians like a bowling ball through a set of pins and then barrels into /Matt's/ intended target, Murdock steps backward and gathers his breath and his wits.
There's little time for doing either when the newcomer throws his — his /what/, exactly? — at Matt. Sledgehammer? Crowbar? Cudgel? Saw? None of these — it's…
…coming right for his face, fast. But between it's bulk and Matt's superhumanly attuned senses, the metal arm misses its mark. Still, even as he's ducking and weaving, Murdock is clearly on the defensive — baffled at this new opponent that has savaged his adversaries and now seems ready to do the same to him. There's nothing to do but fight, though, and so after moments of backpedaling he searches for opportunities to land some blows of his own while keeping his distance from a weapon he's pretty sure could cave in his face.
It is not much to be ashamed of— not hearing the Winter Soldier earlier. The Soldier has been moving silently, scouting and operating in stealth, since 1941. By now, when he wants to, he can utterly vanish from perception.
He clearly has stopped wanting to, however.
Complete silence explodes into raucous noise as the Soldier plows straight into the fray and— planting himself squarely between Jane and her perceived 'attacker'— starts assailing Matt viciously. His swung first strike misses by a mile, to his surprise; his blue eyes watch Matt move, narrowing, assessing the other man's sheer speed and agility.
That metal… thing the Soldier flung at him retracts swiftly. It hums as it goes, emitting a telling set of noises that start to form a picture of what it might be. There's plates, many articulating moving plates, almost like the scales of a serpent fitted together… there's the pulley whir and hum of things that shift and catch and move like artificial tendons. And then, most tellingly, there's the sound of clicking as joints articulate, almost as if the sound of fingers uncoiling from a fist were cast into steel instead of flesh and bone…
That much can be perceived before Matt's attacker presses his offensive, closing distance, striking out again with that metal arm. This time much more swiftly. He seems to be trying to herd Matt away from Jane, though whether for her safety or because he wants her for his own nefarious purposes is terribly unclear.
Definitely not good. Absolutely not good.
The only problem is Jane cannot seem to move. Cannot seem to find her feet, much less feel them, rooted to place under the shock of what just happened. Her head pounds with the phantom echoes of gunfire, and more than a little shell-shocked, she simply stands there, coming quietly and methodically to terms with just — nearly dying.
And yet she did not.
And the only reason she did not is currently trading fists, one of them METAL, with a sudden James Barnes out of NOWHERE and here, putting his back to her in a familiar, seen-before posture of protecting her. Did he /follow/ her? Has he been following her? Is this some coincidence? He wouldn't have anything to do — no. Obviously, he seems to think whoever the other masked man is, one Jane has never seen before in her life, is out to kill her like those men musing about throwing her body into the Hudson.
She doesn't want more blood on James's hands. And she doesn't want anyone dead on her account, not someone whose only sin might have been to help her. And she —
— watches the two move in ways that shouldn't be /human/, dodging and parrying punches, and she can't understand how that other guy just sidestepped James's left fist while wearing a mask that looks impossible to see through, but — she has to stop this.
"Wait, wait, stop!" Jane yells feebly through the traded hits, stumbling forward, lingering panicky at the Soldier's turned back, hands outstretched, trying to get noticed. It's not easy to get noticed, not when two deadly men seem set on breaking each other.
She mumbles a curse and thinks of the only thing she can do. One man will see the movement on his periphery. The other will hear it. It's Jane Foster, trying to do the most irrational thing possible, but her head's still spinning, and she's not thinking right, and all she wants is the fighting to — "STOP!"
/It's his ARM/, Matt realizes as the sensory data slides forms a coherent — if utterly improbable — picture. He's only able to make the leap with help from recent experience. The arc of the weapon's movements, the clinking articulation of metallic knuckles wouldn't be enough for him to make the cognitive leap to such an outlandish conclusion had he not… just encountered another robot arm the very week before. That one was worlds apart — an elegant simulacrum compared to this crude cudgel, but it has planted the concept freshly enough in his mind to allow him to make the inference.
/Two robot arms in two weeks. What the actual fuck? Is this the Rise of the Machine Limbs or something?/
But he can worry about the Robot-Arm Apocalypse later, right now what he needs to do is stop /this/ robot arm from crunching his skull to a bloody pulp. To wit: the way one of his dodges is just a little late, just a little slow, allowing the Winter Soldier to finally land a blow between the crook of Matt's shoulder and his chest. It sends the black-clad man staggering backwards, on his heels as he searches his brain and his senses for anything that might change an unsustainable dynamic.
Roll five feet to your left and pick up the gun — no.
Twenty feet away is a chain attached to a barbed wire fence — but he'll never make it.
There's a baseball bat belonging to one of the Russians, but it's too close to the woman the Winter Soldier /seems/ to be placing himself in front of, protectively or otherwise.
The intermediate solution comes from behind — the hood of one of the Russian's black SUVs just feet away. Matt will allow himself to be driven backwards one step, two, three, until he's backed into a corner the way his father "Battlin' Jack" might be towards the end of a losing fight. Just enough to put himself and the car itself in arm's reach of the Winter Soldier. When the blow is set to land next, he places his hands on the hood of the vehicle and vaults himself upwards with a gymnast's grace to a full stand on top of the car, which jostles with the impact. In the best case scenario, Winter Soldier finds a fist-full of solid SUV when he lands his next blow. In the worst case, Matt still has the higher ground and a chance to choose terrain and advantages more to his liking.
But then the woman's coming out of hiding, shouting, shouting for them all to just "STOP!" It narrows the range of equally improbable possibilities down to a handful, and provides an ounce of clarity to the motivations of this second masked man to enter the fray. "TELL HIM THAT!" Matt shouts back, voice ragged. Not that he's ready to line up a truce. He's already lining up a leap and roll towards that steel bat if a cease-fire isn't called in seconds.
It is indeed his arm. And that arm is rapidly ramping up in speed, clearly adjusting to Matt's own speed and agility as the Winter Soldier discovers that this sock-wearing goon is clearly a cut— several cuts— a lot of cuts— above the rest.
Irritation starts to appear in the Winter Soldier's blue eyes as he swings repeatedly and misses repeatedly, the Daredevil's agility getting him out of trouble each time. He doubles the response time of his arm again, then again— rapidly pushing it up to its maximum. Somewhere along the way he finally scores a hit, a swift boxer's jab that connects right where shoulder meets chest.
It's clearly a light strike where the Winter Soldier is concerned— a love tap. And judging from the force behind it, Matt doesn't want to graduate up to the really heavy stuff.
But /why/ all this? That question is still outstanding. For what reason is this interloper fighting so fiercely? The woman he's obviously placed at his back, whether to protect her or simply, in some primitive predatory way, signal that this prey is now his? The picture isn't getting any clearer, because the Soldier just won't SPEAK, and won't stop either. He just keeps advancing, keeps attacking, as if defensive fighting were not in his repertoire at all.
He lets himself, in the end, be led right up to the SUV.
The Soldier's metal arm reels back. This blow doesn't look like a love tap at all. But Matt has it handled; he plants his hands and flips up, simultaneously launching straight out of the way of the blow and repositioning himself to the higher ground of its roof.
He might have to adjust his landing slightly, however, because when the Soldier's whiffed strike hits the front of the car, it doesn't just dent the thing— it shoves the entire vehicle a few inches backwards with a horrific clang of metal on metal.
Right about that time, Jane finally gets her head together enough to jump in before things get dire. The Winter Soldier immediately pauses at her voice, to his credit, though he doesn't drop out of his hostile stance, nor does he dare take his eye off Matt for longer than it takes to shoot a questioning glance over his shoulder as Jane flails and tries to cut RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM.
Tell him that!! Matt yells. That gets the Soldier's attention too. He glares at the Daredevil a moment, before he finally looks at Jane more closely. "What is this?" he finally says. Oh, so he CAN speak.
Eyes wide, hands flexing, knowing she's waiting in the wings of some superhuman match-up of physicality far, far beyond what she's capable of, beyond what she's ever really witnessed in life, Jane lingers anxiously. Her boots scrape with the restless flexing of a dancer waiting for her cue, for the right moment when she can cut right in —
It's an impulsive move. A wilful move. A reckless, stupid, stupid move, but Jane doesn't want anyone else dead, as she skids into the brief window between the vigilante and soldier, arms outstretched to try to look bigger, try to make her tiny self SEEN. What's worse is this strange woman, traipsing all through Hell's Kitchen at god knows what time of night, phone out in the open, walking blinding into Russian mafia drug deals… doesn't sound or act too surprised when the man with the metal arm physically SLAMS an SUV back with a punch alone.
She just gazes pleading askance up at him, her open hands outstretched, begging, head only turned when the other, unknown masked man yells somewhere at Jane's back to TELL HIM THAT.
Her lips purse with brief agitation, but Jane lets it go, whuffing a breath that mists visibly into the air. What does it look like she's doing?! Never mind she has no idea a certain vigilante couldn't exactly look —
The Soldier's question, coupled with his temporary stay against further violence, gives Jane hope. What she really wants to ask is HOW, how did he get here, how did he find her, but she's not exactly angry about that — she's relieved, so relieved. "He's OK! I think! —You're OK?" she asides back over her shoulder, body still facing the Soldier's, her bet hedged on him being the one who will cause the most damage. Especially with the arsenal she knows he carries, and hasn't yet pulled, thank God, thank God.
"I — I got here and these guys. It's obviously not… they were going to." Jane doesn't even want to say it aloud, even in her detached shock, it's hard to voice 'they were probably going to dump my body in the icy Hudson River.' "He helped me. It's OK."
As the Winter Soldier's metallic fist connects with the car, Matt steadies himself atop the lurching vehicle — barely — with only his superhumanly gifted sense of balance keeping him from tumbling off and slamming right into what's surely the oddest couple he's ever run into in his 26 years on this planet.
As Jane is explaining and pleading her case to the assassin, Matt is busily, warily preparing contingencies in case this all goes south again. "Russian mob," is all he interjects on the matter of 'these guys', willing his naturally soft-spoken voice into harsh gravel. He cocks his head, listening for heartbeats. Save for the bullet-riddled body of his former shield, all are alive will be out cold for a few minutes, at least. Then he's refocusing his attention on the lady and her protector. "I'm assuming you didn't mean to walk in on a drug deal," he says to Jane, even if the brunt of his attention remains fixed on the Winter Soldier. "Unfortunately, lady, it's hard to walk very far in this neighborhood, this time of night, without stumbling into a bad scene."
The Winter Soldier does not relax, but he does stop. All his forward momentum, his strength, his ferocity— braked by a tiny woman that probably weighs in at a hundred pounds soaking wet. He tilts his head, still wary, as Jane insists the odd vigilante is OK— she thinks, she verifies that over her shoulder— but he seems to have enough trust in this odd lacking-in-common-sense woman that he stands down.
She just got here, she explains, and these guys, they were going to— but the vigilante helped her. The Winter Soldier's blue eyes flick up to appraise Matt over that half-mask, weighing the information.
Russian mob, Matt explains tersely. Drug deal. He helpfully informs Jane that this is not exactly a great place to be walking at night. Internally, the Winter Soldier sighs just thinking about what on earth could have possessed Jane to come squirreling out here at night. It's a question to ask later.
Instead he just nods once, accepting this. "Well, glad I didn't kill you then," he says, displaying a plain lack of social skills, before he glances at the men out cold. And draws a compact pistol, clearly considering NOT extending the same favor to all of them.
The vigilante with a black mask over his face assumes she didn't mean to walk in on ALMOST DYING.
Pretty certain she's being lectured, lectured at the worst place at the worst time, while she's wading around six bodies and not certain which and which not may even be dead, using both outstretched arms to try to soothe and gentle down a metal-armed assassin from doing what she knows he's been programmed to, Jane still finds some time to crane an incredulous look over her shoulder. "Are you serious?!" she sputters, adrenaline launching a flurry of words free. "I pay about three thousand a month to live in a SHOEBOX, and Asian pears are four dollars each, so I should be allowed to walk wherever in this stupid city I want! How am I supposed to know the nineties yuppies missed a spot?! I mean, this is still Manhattan! I was just following my Google map!"
Russian mob?! she thinks. She walked in on the Russian mob. She sideeyes bodies, that distant stack of money, that distant, unmistakable buttload of some sort of drug, she guesses, the worst she did was two really inadvisably deep tokes of pot back in college and threw up a bit, and now —
Jane forgets whatever she was thinking about, because she's busy wincing the moment she sees the Soldier unholster a gun. "No, nonono —" is all she has time to plead, terrified enough to dare a hand to touch his right arm.
/Jesus Christ/, Matt thinks as his sideways corrective prompts a flood of indignation from the distraught near murder-victim. "Lady, I don't disagree with anything you just said…" he begins, summoning the better angels of his nature.
But Matt will, violently, disagree with what happens next. His forceful "NO!" somehow comes before Winter Soldier's hand even reaches the pistol's grip. He leaps down from the SUV and places himself squarely in front of the assassin, whose talent for death and destruction he's already had a taste of. The shoulder — set to purple tomorrow for sure — throbs with the sudden impact. His jaw is tight, his posture full of tensile readiness. He's not in fighting stance, but he /could/.
"That's /not/ how this goes down," he's saying to the Winter Soldier in his ragged voice. "You should get her out of here, and I'll make sure the police get /them./"
The Winter Soldier remains silent through Jane's tirade about New York City living— though his brow does twitch a little at the words three thousand a month, as if something buried deeply in his psyche was trying to remember how to be appalled.
It passes. He stares blandly through her generalized verbal assault on how ridiculous the city is. If Matt weren't wearing a sock on his head (how does he SEE?), he'd probably exchange a look with the man. As it is, he sighs slightly, apparently well-used to these random tirades.
And draws a gun.
Or tries to, anyway— the vigilante startles him with the vehemence of his reaction. The only thing keeping him from dropping back into a hostile stance, in fact, is Jane's hand on his right arm. He tenses, shooting her a look, but his hand pauses on the grip of the pistol without fully drawing.
The assassin appraises Matt's ultimatum coldly. His gaze flicks right to Jane, back to Matt, then down to the five unconscious men. "I don't like loose ends," he grumbles, but eventually his hand reseats his pistol and leaves the holster. "I suppose it's not a significant compromise." Most likely none of the men got a clear look at him, anyway.
He makes no secret of his contempt about giving the men to the police, but he seems ready to let Matt do as he pleases. "Fine. You leave mentioning us out of anything you might say, and I won't have to come back and correct the oversight."
Then he turns to Jane. "Where the hell were you trying to go? …Never mind. Just go straight back to the A and get on it and go home." He eyes her grimly. "I'm gonna be watching. I'll know if you don't."
And with that, he moves to scale right back to the rooftops from whence he came.
It is a tense moment, too tense, one that feels like it lasts a small infinity — Lorentz's time dilation made real as Jane's anxious eyes flick between the Soldier, his gun, and the startling, too-fast way the masked vigilante slips closer, inserting himself between them and the bodies of — men who would kill her. Protecting their lives, she supposes, in that same way.
It's not how this goes down, he says, and she finds herself silently agreeing. She's too far in shock to even feel properly, even righteously, angry about possibly dying, but her first instinct — her sincere instinct — is she doesn't want anyone dying on her account. And she's trying to help this masked Soldier before her reclaim his humanity, and that can't be helped with a few point blank executions. She keeps her hand on his arm, her touch careful, but at the same time insistent, as if she were trying to gently lever him back from old, powerful conditioning.
Her heart hammers so hard it doesn't take superhuman senses to hear.
Eventually, and to her hope, Jane bows with relief when that gun returns to his side. Her hand drops gratefully. She listens on, however, brow furrowed with clear askance when the Soldier speaks — well, threatens — of correcting oversights, her mouth parting —
— to purse back shut when he turns on her with the question of the week. Jane frowns silently through it. And then receives some very firm instructions about the train she'll be taking out of here and how she won't be doing anything else. Were not a gun pointed at her minutes ago, the woman looks liable to get indignant. For now, she's spooked and shocked enough to quietly, complicitly nod.
He leaves with his usual quickness. And Jane lingers, attention straying, not yet forgetting that masked man still here, who may well be the reason she doesn't have a bullet in her right now. Backstepping, awkardly trying not to touch any of the stray, strewn bodies lying about, she chances a searching look at his concealed face, seeing nothing but formless black. "I… thank you," she calls. "Do you… have a name?"
It's bizarre behavior on the part of the man-in-black, truly, this brinkmanship to save the lives of men he just helped beat into unconsciousness. But obviously it comes from a place of either deep conviction — fortunately, he needn't spell them out, thanks to Jane's intervention and some surprising agreeability from the masked assassin. Tension eases out Matt's frame, fists unclench, and his hammering pulse begins to quiet.
The Winter Soldier's conditions could be another sticking point. Matt might, under other circumstances, make a bid for Jane to testify. The lawyer in him knows it's the best way to ensure the DA has a rock-solid case against the Russians, potentially flipping them against their bosses up the food chain. But each of them are carrying contraband guns and standing on top of a mountain of heroin; the risk that they'll walk seems slim enough not to force the issue. Especially when forcing the issue is likely to lead to another brawl. He lifts his chin — pale in the moonlight — in rough assent to the Winter Soldier's condition. And then he watches the alternate fighting partner and opponent steal back into the folds of the night.
Sirens twenty blocks away; this time of evening they'll be here in minutes. He should really go — but then the woman is addressing him directly. He turns, takes her in. The first question is ignored; this budding vigilante has given little thought to the symbolic trappings of heroism cultivated by veterans like the Batman. But her gratitude? That he'll gladly accept, even if his only reply to it is a simple, "I'm glad you're alright. You should have a clear path to the A from here. Take care of yourself, lady." And with that, he begins stepping backwards, sure-footed, towards one of the shadowed walls that encircle them.
After all, he has a shoulder to ice, some meditation (and self-flagellation) to undertake, and tomorrow — very likely — a street war with the Russian mob on his hands.
_2016daredevil_decemberdr._jane_fostermatthew_murdock_nonethe_winter_soldier


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text:
Single Vehicle Fatal Accident On Clifty Drive
More from Local News
Monday, April 15th, 2019 3:41pm
By David Thomas, Jefferson Co. Sheriff
Crash under investigation
Sunday evening at approximately 6:29 PM, Jefferson County Deputies were dispatched to the intersection of Clifty Drive and Meadow Lane in reference to a single vehicle traffic crash.
Madison Township Fire Department arrived first on scene and discovered that the vehicle's lone occupant was deceased. Additional fire department personnel were requested to assist in the extrication, once removed from the vehicle, the vehicle's occupant was identified as Charles T. Stewart; age 73 of Madison, Indiana.
After processing the crash scene, the Jefferson County Sheriff's Deputies believe that Mr. Stewart was traveling southbound on Clifty Drive when, for unknown reasons, Mr. Stewart crossed the center and northbound lanes of the road.
The vehicle then traveled off the east edge of the roadway, before striking a tree and coming to rest.


Autumn has definitely arrived. During these long, cold evenings we will be often looking for comfort in food. Warm, rich soup are perfect for this time of the year.
The tomato soup is my favorite one! Especially when colder days arrive I feel I could have it every day!
My mum makes it with an aromatic chicken broth and serves it with rice and a drop of cream. And I would love to share this recipe with you.
1. Prepare the chicken broth. Pour 2,5-3L of water to a big pot. Add chicken, peeled carots and onions, celery. Bring to the boil and cook it covered on a medium heat for 2-3hours.
2. After 2-3h of cooking add blended tomatoes to the soup and again bring to the boil. Cook for another 20min. Add salt and pepper to taste.
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