life is like a bycicle

life is like a bycicle...
in order to have balance you have to keep moving!

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The Interpreter's Resource

camera collections

Vegan Waffles (Gaufres Vegan)

Vegan Waffles
Para 6-8 waffles

2 cháv. farinha
1/2 cháv. açúcar granulado (preferenc. castanho)
1 c.sopa de fermento
1/2 c. chá de sal
1 1/2 cháv. de leite de coco

óleo ou margarina vegetal para a máquina de Waffles
e açúcar em pó para decoração
ou maple syrup/agave syrup e fruta fresca.


Primeiro ligar a máquina e deixar ficar bem quente. Misturar todos os ingredientes e untar a margarina ou o óleo na máquina.
fechar e esperar que a luz fique verde.
Não abrir para espreitar é a regra mais importante a ter em conta.

Que delícia!!!
Estes waffles são fofinhos por dentro e estaladiços por fora.
O sabor é divinal!

best tips out there for a flat stomach

bunny rabbits

Find a little 2 year old child put it in a crib, and in the crib place a live bunny rabbit and an apple. If the child eats the bunny rabbit and plays with the apple send me an e-mail!!!

Chutney doce de pimentos e chillis

Quando voltei de férias fui confrontada com o terror de ver todas as minhas plantas secas. Tinha esperado um milagre, mas o calor de agosto foi tanto que as pobrezinhas não sobreviveram, à exceção de duas lutadoras sem frutos.
Depois de arrancar ramos secos tive de colher os chillis que eram tantos que não sabia bem o que lhes fazer.
Não sou grande fã de piri-piri então escolhi procurar uma receita que me abrisse mais o apetite.
Encontrei uma do Jamie Oliver chamada "Cheeky Chilli-Pepper Chutney" e pareceu-me tão deliciosa que decidi tentar.

O problema foi mesmo o pelar dos pimentos e dos chillis... Deu muito trabalho. Mas a beber café e a comer figos pelo meio, acabou por ser uma manhã bem passada na cozinha!
Para quem tenha paciência então recomendo esta receita...

Para quem não tenha, também a recomendo, mas com umas alteraçõezinhas:


Ingredientes:
6 pimentos vermelhos grandes (tipo paprika)
6 a 12 chillis (consoante a tolerância ao picante)
2 cebolas roxas médias
azeite
100grs açúcar
150 ml de vinagre (balsâmico de preferência)
2 folhas de louro
canela (1 pau ou 2 colheres de sopa em pó)
sal e pimenta a gosto
tempero aromático a gosto: p.ex. ervas arom. da Provence (tomilho, rosmaninho, manjerona etc.)

primeiro preparam-se os pimentos ( lavar e tirar sememtes) depois grelham-se os pimentos e os chillis para que a pele se retire mais facilmente. O Jamie recomenda tapar-se os pimentos já grelhados com papel aderente para que enquanto eles arrefecem irem cozendo no próprio vapor.
A ideia não é retirar todas as peles da maneira mais perfeita possível. Eu retirei toda e depois fiz puré da minha mistura. O resultado é algo comparável a uma compota.
Se não se retirar toda a pele e não se triturar a mistura, o resultado será um chutney!

Depois de preparada a parte vermelha corta-se tudo em pedaços e já temos a mistura! Agora é uma boa altura para se juntar aos pimentos o vinagre. Paralelamente faz-se um refogado de cebola cortada ou picada com o azeite em lume médio.
Acrescentam-se os temperos todos. E por fim também o açúcar.

Depois de se acrescentarem os pimentos banhados em vinagre é só deixar a cozer até que o líquido diminua o suficiente para a mistura ganhar consistência.

Para conservar esta fabulosa delícia vermelha deve-se ferver 3 frascos de compota e enchê-los com o líquido ainda quente. Para os manter alguns meses deve-se escondê-los num armário da dispensa que seja escuro e fresco. Depois de abertos têm de ir para o frigorífico.

Para quem goste de molho-agridoce esta é uma alegre variação :)

c'est ça qu'est la verité

Si on n'a pas ce qu'on aime, on doit aimer ce qu'on a

a Lover's Discourse - roland barthes

"There's a point (...) when he says the situation of a rejected lover is not unlike the situation of a prisoner in Dachau. (...) It's about the loss of self. And when you lose yourself where do you go? There's nowhere to go, it's actually a kind of madness."

"When you love obsessively, you do lose yourself. And when you then lose the object of your love , you have none of the normal resources to fall back on. It can completely destroy you. And very obviously concentration camps are about dehumanizing people before they are killed. I wanted to raise some questions about these two extreme and apparently different situations."

Sarah Kane in "Love me or Kill me" by Graham Saunders

bolo de ananas

poor interpreters

July 1955

July 1955
Der Arme Dolmetscher
by Kurt Vonnegut

I was astonished one day in 1944, in the midst of front-line hell-raising, to learn that I had been made interpreter, Dolmetscher if you please, for a whole battalion, and was to be billeted in a Belgian burgomaster's house within artillery range of the Siegfried Line.

It had never entered my head that I had what it took to dolmetsch. I qualified for the position while waiting to move from France into the front lines. While a student, I had learned the first stanza of Die Lorelei by rote from a college roommate, and I happened to give those lines a dogged rendition while working within earshot of the battalion commander. The colonel (a hotel detective from Mobile) asked his executive officer (a dry-goods salesman from Knoxville) in what language the lyrics were. The executive withheld judgment until I had bungled through Der Gipfel des Berges foo-unk-kelt im Abendsonnenschein.

"Ah believes tha's Kraut, Cuhnel," he said.

The colonel felt that his role carried with it the obligation to make quick, headstrong decisions. He made some dandies before the Wehrmacht was whipped, but the one he made that day was my favorite. "If tha's Kraut, whassat man doin' on the honey-dippin' detail?" he wanted to know. Two hours later, the company clerk told me to lay down the buckets, for I was now battalion interpreter.

Orders to move up came soon after. Those in authority were too harried to hear my declarations of incompetence. "You talk Draut good enough foah us," said the executive officer. "Theah ain't goin' to be much talkin' to Krauts where we're goin'" He patted my rifle affectionately. "Heah's what's going' to do most of youah interpretin' fo' ya," he said. The executive, who learned everything he knew from the colonel, had the idea that the American Army had just licked the Belgians, and that I was to be stationed with the burgomaster to make sure he didn't try to pull a fast one. "Besides," the executive concluded, "theah ain't nobody else can talk Kraut at all."

I rode to the burgomaster's farm on the same truck with three disgruntled Pennsylvania Dutchmen who had applied for interpreters' jobs months earlier. When I made it clear that I was no competition for them, and that I hoped to be liquidated within twenty-four hours, they warmed up enough to furnish the interesting information that I was a Dolmetscher. They also decoded Die Lorelei at my request. This gave me command of about forty words (par for a two-year-old) but no combination of them would get me so much as a glass of cold water.

Every turn of the truck's wheels brought a new questions: "What's the word for Army?…How do I ask for the bathroom?…What's the word for sick?…well?…dish?…brother?…shoe?" My phlegmatic instructors tired, and one handed me a pamphlet purporting to make German easy for the man in the foxhole.

"Some of the first pages are missing," the donor explained as I jumped from the truck before the burgomaster's stone farmhouse. "Used 'em for cigarette papers," he said.

It was still dark when I knocked at the burgomaster's door. I stood on the doorstep like a bit player in the wings, with the one line I was to deliver banging around an otherwise empty head. The door swung open. "Dolmetscher," I said.

The burgomaster himself, old, thin, and nightshirted, ushered me into the first-floor bedroom which was to be mine. He pantomimed as well as spoke his welcome, and a sprinkling of danke schon was adequate dolmetsching for the time being. I was prepared to throttle further discussion with Ich weiss nicht, was soll es bedeuten, dass ich so traurig bin. This would have sent him padding off to bed, convinced that he had a fluent, albeit shot-full-of-Weltschmerz, Dolmetscher. The stratagem wasn't necessary. He left me alone to consolidate my resources.

Chief among these resources was the mutilated pamphlet. I examined each of its precious pages in turn, delighted by the simplicity of transposing English into German. With this booklet, all I had to do was run my finger down the left-hand column until I found the English phrase I wanted, and then rattle off the nonsense syllables printed opposite in the right-hand column. "How many grenade launchers have you?" for instance, was Vee feel grenada vairfair habben zee? Impeccable German for "Where are your tank columns?" proved to be nothing more troublesome than Vo zint eara pantzer shpilzen? I mouthed the phrases: "Where are your howitzers? How many machine guns have you? Surrender! Don't shoot! Where have you hidden your motorcycle? Hands up! What unit are you from?

The pamphlet came to an abrupt end, topping my spirits from manic to depressive. The Pennsylvania Dutchmen had smoked up all the rear area pleasantries, comprising the pamphlet's first half, leaving me with nothing to work with but the repartee of hand-to-hand fighting.

As I lay sleepless in bed, the one drama in which I would play took shape in my mind….

DOLMETSCHER (to BURGOMASTER'S DAUGHTER): I don't know what will become of me, I am so sad. (Embraces her.)

BURGOMASTER'S DAUGHTER (with yielding shyness): The air is cool, and it's getting dark, and the Rhine is flowing quietly.

(DOLMETSCHER seizes BURGOMASTER'S DAUGHTER, carries her bodily into his room.)

DOLMETSCHER (softly): Surrender.

(Enter BURGOMASTER)

BURGOMASTER (brandishing Luger): Ach! Hands up!

DOLMETSCHER and BURGOMASTER'S DAUGHTER: Don't shoot!

(A large map, showing disposition of American First Army, falls from BURGOMASTER'S breast pocket.)

DOLMETSCHER (aside, in English): What is this supposedly pro-Ally Burgomaster doing with a map showing the disposition of the American First Army? (He snatches .45 automatic pistol from beneath pillow and aims at BURGOMASTER.)

BURGOMASTER and BURGOMASTER'S DAUGHTER: Don't shoot! (Burgomaster drops Luger, cowers, sneers.)

DOLMETSCHER: What unit are you from? (BURGOMASTER remains sullen, silent. BURGOMASTER'S DAUGHTER goes to his side, weeps softly. DOLMETSCHER pauses significantly, suddenly points at BURGOMASTER'S DAUGHTER.) Where have you hidden your motorcycle? (Turns again to Burgomaster.) Where are you howitzers, eh? Where are your tank columns? How many grenade launchers have you?

BURGOMASTER (cracking under terrific grilling): I -

(Enter Guard Detail composed of Pennsylvania Dutchmen, making a routine check just in time to hear BURGOMASTER and BURGOMASTER'S DAUGHTER confess to being Nazi agents parachuted behind American lines.)

Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller couldn't have done any better with the same words, and they were the only words I had. There was no chance of my muddling through, and no pleasure in being interpreter for a full battalion in December and not being able to say so much as "Merry Christmas."

I made my bed, tightened the drawstrings on my duffel bag, and stole through the black-out curtains and into the night.

Wary sentinels directed me to Battalion Headquarters, where I found most of four officers either poring over maps or loading their weapons. There was a holiday spirit in the air, and the executive officer was honing an eighteen-inch bowie knife and humming Are You from Dixie?

"Well, bless mah soul," he said, noticing me standing in the door, "here's old 'sprecken zee Dutch,' Speak up, boy. Ain't you supposed to be ovah and the mayah's house?"

"It's no good," I said. "They all speak Low German, and I speak High."

The executive was impressed. "Too good foah 'em, eh?" He ran his index finger down the edge of his murderous knife. "Ah think we'll be runnin' into some who can talk the high-class Kraut putty soon," he said, and added, "Weah surrounded."

"We'll whomp 'em the way we whomped 'em in Nawth Ca'lina and Tennessee," said the colonel, who had never lost a maneuver. "You stay heah, so. Ah'm gonna want you foah mah pussnel intupretah."

Twenty minutes later I was in the thick of dolmetsching again. Four Tiger tanks drove up to the front door of Headquarters, and two dozen German infantrymen dismounted to round us up with submachine guns.

"Say sumpin'," ordered the colonel, spunky to the last.

I ran my eye down the left-hand columns of my pamphlet until I found the phrase which most fairly represented our sentiments. "Don't shoot," I said.

A German tank officer swaggered in to have a look at his catch. In his hand was a pamphlet, somewhat smaller than mine. "Where are your howitzers?" he said.

Vol. 196, No. 1, pp. 86–88

by Kurt Vonnegut

collections of cameras

new camera

http://www.treehugger.com/culture/downloadable-designs-build-your-own-pinhole-hasselblad.html

dirty house sign

blossom

Lychee Tree

My lychee tree

piece of cake apple cake

3 Apples peeled & chopped
on top 2 tbsps of cinnamon
2 tbsps of caster or vanilla sugar

for the batter:
2 cups of flour
2 cups of sugar
4 eggs
1 cup of veg. oil
250 grs of quark
1/4 teaspoon of salt
lemon or vanilla essence 1 teaspoon
4 tbsps of baking powder


mix the batter first. after mixing add in the apples you had chopped previously
bake for 60 minutes at 180°C
or 350° F

and voilá

a bout de souffle

6

it doesn't matter

One day Alice came to a fork in the road and saw a Cheshire cat in a tree-
"Which road do I take?" she asked.
"Where do you want to go?" was his response.
"I don't know," Alice answered.
"Then," said the cat, "it doesn't matter."

ravishing

enormous emptiness

"This modernity which we have constructed annihilates us through its enormous quantity of emptiness, through the frightening train of meaningless yet daily and continuous events in which it presents itself. But, at the same time, this hard awareness liberates in us the power of imagination. To go where? Nobody knows."
(Antonio Negri: Letter to Giorgio on the Sublime)

Weihnachtsstern - Euphorbia pulcherrima

Der aus Mexiko stammende Weihnachtsstern wird in warmen Regionen, im Freien kultiviert. Bei uns möchte die pflanze hell und unbesonnt, aber nicht allzu warm stehen. Mit 13 bis 15 °C sind die Weihnachtssterne bereits vollkommen zufrieden. Doch auch höhere Temperaturen sind kein Schaden.

Äusserst empfindlich reagieren Weihnachtssterne auf Staunässe und kalte Füsse. Deshalb immer mässig und mit zimmerwarmem Wasser giessen. Nur im Frühjahr und Sommer werden Weihnachtssterne reichlich gegossen. Die Ballen sollten stets feucht sein und dürfen niemals austrocknen, sonst stockt das Wachstum. Von Juni bis Oktober wöchentlich düngen. [img]Im Winter nicht mehr düngen![img]

Damit die Pfanzen auch zum nächsten Weihnachsfest ihre farbigen Hochblätter bilden, müssen Sie folgendes beachten: Im März werden die Pflanzen auf die Hälfte zurückgeschnitten. Die Erde lässt man einen Monat lang nahezu austrocknen und stellt die Pflanzen hell und warm. Giesst man nach dieser Ruhepause wieder kräftiger, setzt neues Wachstum ein. Ende September beginnt man dann damit, die tägliche Lichtmenge künstlich zu regulieren. Dazu stellt man die Pflanzen zwei Monate lang täglich 12 bis 14 Stunden lang unter eine lichtundurchlässige Haube. Das kann ein Pappkarton oder ein schwarzer Eimer sein. Hauptsache, Sie gaukeln den Pflanzen lange Nächte vor und sorgen dadurch für den Impuls zur Blütenbildung. Denn Weihnachtssterne sind sogenannte Kurztagspflanzen.

Man topft die Pflanzen zwar jedes Jahr im Frühjahr zeitgleich mit dem Rückschnitt um, steigert aber die Topfgrösse nicht. In grösseren Töpfen würden sich die Weihnachtssterne zwar prächtig entwickeln und viele Blätter, aber nur wenige Blüten und Hochblätter entwickeln. Man sollte dem Weihnachtsstern jeweils nurfünf Triebe lassen. Die übrigen werden weggeschnitten. Die verbleibenden Triebe zusätzlich regelmässig stutzen, damit sie sich möglichst oft verzweigen und die Pflanzen buschiger wachsen.

Vergilbte oder welkende Blätter sind meist Folge kalter Zugluft. Ebenso kann zu viel Giesswasser schuld daran sein. Wer seine Weihnachtssterne zu nass hält, erhöht nicht nur das Risiko von Wurzelfäule, sondern auch das Risiko von Pilzerkrankungen, zum Beispiel Botrytis. Schneiden Sie befallene Blätter sofort aus und entfernen Sie sie vorsichtig, damit sich die Pilzsporen nicht weiter ausbreiten können. Blattläuse tun sich gern an den jungen Trieben gütlich. Dagegen hilft eine kräftige Dusche in der Badewanne. Achten Sie jedoch darauf, die zarten Blätter nicht zu beschädigen. Ist der Befall zu stark, helfen zugelassene Pflanzenschutzmittel wie zum Beispiel Pflanzenschutz-Stäbchen.

unarmed

aha!

Shielding your film using a darkslide from Impossible Project on Vimeo.

Vitamins and organic Nutrition against Cancer

Michael Sowa - the cat story

michael sowa's rabbit fairytale

I love love love Michael Sowa's Art work
I love his fairy-tale gone wrong paintings
I love his portraying of utopias with a sense of humor
I wish I could paint just like him... His work makes me smile, even though all of it is rather sad than happy.


for more of Sowa's Illustrations click here

i don't think about you anymore but, I don't think about you anyless

smart driving

Alfred & Tippi

by Lawrence Schiller

vegetating

Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.
Mark Twain - Innocents Abroad

rough