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Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone
“The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop. Cauldrons- All Sizes- Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver- Self-Stirring- Collapsible, said a sign hanging over them.
"Yeah, you'll be needin' one," said Hagrid, "but we gotta get yer money first."
Harry wished he had about eight more eyes. He turned his head in every direction as they walked up the street, trying to look at everything at once: the shops, the things outside them, the people doing their shopping. A plump woman outside an Apothecary was shaking her head as they passed, saying, "Dragon liver, seventeen Sickles an ounce, they're mad...."
A low, soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign saying Eeylops Owl Emporium- Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and Snowy. Several boys about Harry's age had their noses pressed against a window with broomsticks in it. "Look," Harry heard one of them say, "the new Nimbus Two Thousand- fastest ever-" There were shops selling robes, shops selling telescopes and strange silver instruments Harry had never seen before, windows stacked with barrels of bat spleens and eels' eyes, tottering piles of spell books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion bottles, globes of the moon....”
Owls
Cauldron
Shops
Diagon Alley
Magic Shops
“There is an untapped beauty which lies just below the surface of the face of the ability to strip oneself of all of the veils that one covers himself/herself in before looking into the mirror. I wrote something many years ago, which has to do with the mermaid speaking to the white witch: "I am a mermaid and I know what I am but you are a white witch draped in silver robes"... it was about how people lie to themselves about who they are. They cover themselves in silver linings, in silver veils, in silver robes, while the cauldron they stir comes from hell! This piece that I wrote has since become exceedingly popular and exaggeratedly quoted. But even when we are mermaids, we still need to stop and look into the mirror and remove the silver lining we outline ourselves in, so that we can see who we really are, practice what we really are, thus becoming authentic through-and-through. Because this is the only way that we can reach our full capacities to enliven what we are capable of becoming and being. We often believe that silver linings are what enables us; nevertheless, silver linings often hold us down. Silver is heavy metal. Imagine all you could be, if you could be YOUR ACTUAL SELF. Who are you without your silver paint and paintbrush? It is a very liberating practice, a practice I am most eager to continue cultivating within me. Who are you without all of the adjectives you add to your existence? How do you move? What is that look in your eyes? Does your heartbeat match the pulses of the Sun? You'll never know until you put down your paintbrush.”
Know Thyself
Be Real
Becoming Better
Being Genuine
Authentic Self
How To Live
Being Brave
Being Authentic
How To Grow
Supper Club
“Hunter's stew is also known as hunter's pot or perpetual stew.
It is made in a large pot, and the ingredients are anything you can find. The idea is that it is never finished, never emptied all the way- instead it is topped up perpetually. It is a stew with an unending cycle. It is a stew that can last for years.
It dates back to medieval Poland, first made in cauldrons no one bothered to empty or wash. It began with the simmering of game meat- pigeon, hare, hen, pheasant, rabbit- just anything you could get your hands on. It would then be supplemented with foraged vegetables, seasoned with wild herbs. Sometimes spices or even wine would be added. Then, as time went by, additional food scraps and leftovers were thrown in- recently harvested produce, stale hunks of bread, newly slaughtered meat, or beans dried for the winter months. It would exist in perpetuity, always the same, always new.
Traditionally the stew has spicy, savory, and sour notes. An element of sourness is absolutely necessary to cut through the rich and intense flavor. It is said to improve with age.”
Reality Of Life
Sisterhood
Hunters
Club
Hard Life
Stew
Scraps
Combinations
Hungry Hearts: 13 Tales of Food & Love
“Practice, Ami. There is no talent without practice."
And practice you did. You hacked at livers and pig brains for sisig, spent hours over a hot stove for the perfect sourness to sinigang. You dug out intestines and wound them around bamboo sticks for grilled isaw, and monitored egg incubation times to make balut.
Lola didn't frequent clean and well-lit farmers markets. Instead, you accompanied her to a Filipino palengke, a makeshift union of vendors who occasionally set up shop near Mandrake Bridge and fled at the first sight of a police uniform. Popular features of such a palengke included slippery floors slicked with unknown ichor; wet, shabby stalls piled high with entrails and meat underneath flickering light bulbs; and enough health code violations to chase away more gentrification in the area. Your grandmother ruled here like some dark sorceress and was treated by the vendors with the reverence of one.
You learned how to make the crackled pork strips they called crispy pata, the pickled-sour raw kilawin fish, the perfect full-bodied peanuty sauce for the oxtail in your kare-kare. One day, after you have mastered them all, you will decide on a specialty of your own and conduct your own tests for the worthy. Asaprán witches have too much magic in their blood, and not all their meals are suitable for consumption. Like candy and heartbreak, moderation is key.
And after all, recipes are much like spells, aren't they? Instead of eyes of newt and wings of bat they are now a quarter kilo of marrow and a pound of garlic, boiled for hours until the meat melts off their bones. Pots have replaced cauldrons, but the attention to detail remains constant.”
Moderation
Filipino
Experimenting
Cuisine
Offal
Vendors
Mangkukulam
Persianality
“I could burn a forest down with these feelings--feelings desperate to erupt. Volcanic. A cauldron expanding with the fullness of longings, ready to scorch this backward little village.”
Alive
Unbroken
Soundless
Schlitz
Rice, Noodle, Fish: Deep Travels Through Japan's Food Culture
“Kamimura has been whispering all week of a sacred twenty-four-hour ramen spot located on a two-lane highway in Kurume where truckers go for the taste of true ramen. The shop is massive by ramen standards, big enough to fit a few trucks along with those drivers, and in the midafternoon a loose assortment of castaways and road warriors sit slurping their noodles. Near the entrance a thick, sweaty cauldron boils so aggressively that a haze of pork fat hangs over the kitchen like waterfall mist.
While few are audacious enough to claim ramen is healthy,
tonkotsu
enthusiasts love to point out that the collagen in pork bones is great for the skin. "Look at their faces!" says Kamimura. "They're almost seventy years old and not a wrinkle! That's the collagen. Where there is
tonkotsu
, there is rarely a wrinkle."
He's right: the woman wears a faded purple bandana and sad, sunken eyes, but even then she doesn't look a day over fifty. She's stirring a massive cauldron of broth, and I ask her how long it's been simmering for.
"Sixty years," she says flatly.
This isn't hyperbole, not exactly. Kurume treats
tonkotsu
like a French country baker treats a sourdough starter- feeding it, regenerating, keeping some small fraction of the original soup alive in perpetuity. Old bones out, new bones in, but the base never changes. The mother of all ramen.
Maruboshi Ramen opened in 1958, and you can taste every one of those years in the simple bowl they serve. There is no fancy
tare
, no double broth, no secret spice or unexpected toppings: just pork bones, noodles, and three generations of constant simmering.
The flavor is pig in its purest form, a milky broth with no aromatics or condiments to mitigate the purity of its porcine essence.”
Healthy
Pork
Steam
Fountain Of Youth
Ramen
Fukuoka
Wrinkle Removal
La Cucina
“I began by preparing my pasta: my deft fingers forming the intricate shapes of rigatoni, ravioli, spiralli, spaghetti, cannelloni, and linguini. Then I would brew sauces of sardines, or anchovies or zucchini or sheep's cheeses, of saffron, pine nuts, currants, and fennel. These I would simmer in the huge iron cauldrons, which were constantly bubbling above the fire. My pasta dishes, I have to say, were famous throughout the province, and the scent of my sauces carried by the breeze was sufficient to fill a poor man's stomach.
I also kneaded bread and produced the finest
pane rimacinato
, the most delicious
ciabatta
and
focaccia
that had ever been tasted in the region. Sometimes I would add wild thyme to the dough, or fragrant rosemary; plucked fresh from the hedgerow, with the dew still on the leaves.”
Pasta
Bread
Sauces
Italian Cuisine
Italian Cooking
Rosa Fiore
Angelina's Bachelors
“She made her aubergine napoleons, a beautifully layered dish of smoked mozzarella paired with a nutty, millet flour-coated, sautéed eggplant, finished lightly crispy on the outside and velvety smooth on the inside. She peeled her roasted peppers and laid them out with fresh balls of salty mozzarella, cherry tomatoes, fresh basil, and a sprinkle of balsamic vinaigrette. She broke out a mixture of ground beef, veal, and pork for the rosemary and garlic meatballs, fried up in a cast-iron skillet and set swimming in her red-gravy cauldron.”
Cooking
Vegetables
Ingredients
Herbs
Angelina D Angelo
Meatballs
Napoleons
Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble
“I don't think of myself as evil, but no can say they've led a perfect life.”
Evil
No One Is Perfect
Not Evil
Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble
“Always trust your intuition as it won't steer you wrong.”
Intuition
Trusting Your Intuition
“Savage and unpredictable, a woman, like the sea, takes what she wants and spits the remains back into the boiling cauldron of humanity ...”
Humanity
Woman
Sea
Unpredictable
Take
Savage
Boiling Cauldron
Spits
Being Bold: Quotes, Poetry, & Motivations for Every Day of the Year
“On Hallows Eve, we witches meet
to broil and bubble tasty treats
like goblin thumbs with venom dip,
crisp bat wings, and fried fingertips.
We bake the loudest cackle crunch,
and brew the thickest quagmire punch.
Delicious are the rotting flies
when sprinkled over spider pies.
And, my oh my, the ogre brains
all scrambled up with wolf remains!
But what I love the most, it’s true,
are festered boils mixed in a stew.
They cook up oh so tenderly.
It goes quite well with mugwort tea.
So don’t be shy; the cauldron’s hot.
Jump in! We witches eat a lot!”
Poetry
Witches
Richelle Goodrich
Richelle E Goodrich
Halloween
Hallows Eve
Halloween Poems
Night Soldiers
“In return for their faithful service, they would receive Red Army food rations, which amounted to a generous ladle, twice daily, from a cauldron into which all appropriated food was thrown. The stew boiled twenty-four hours a day, a fatty broth of onions, roosters, rabbits, dead horse, turnips - whatever they happened on in the course of their collecting forays - the Red Army essentially lived off the countryside.”
Communism
Descriptive Writing
Brilliant Verse
Deadly Ideologies
Reality Of Collectivism
A Court of Wings and Ruin
“I believe everything happens for a reason. Whether it is decided by the Mother, or the Cauldron, or some sort of tapestry of Fate, I don't know. I don't really care. But I am grateful for it, whatever it is. Grateful that it brought you all into my life. If it hadn't... I might have become as awful as that prick we're going to face today. If I had not met an Illyrian warrior-in-training," he said to Cassian, "I would not have known the true depths of strength, of resilience, of honor and loyalty." Cassian's eyes gleamed bright. Rhys said to Azriel, "If I had not met a shadowsinger, I would not have known that it is the family you make, not the one you are born into, that matters. I would not have known what it is to truly hope, even when the world tells you to despair." Azriel bowed his head in thanks.
Mor was already crying when Rhys spoke to her. "If I had not met my cousin, I would neer have learned that light can be found in even the darkest of hells. That kidness can thrive even amongst cruelty." She wiped away her teas as she nodded.
I waited for Amren to offer a retort. But she was only waiting.
Rhys bowed his head to her. "If I had not met a tiny monster who hoards jewels more fiercely than a firedrake..." A quite laugh from all of us at that. Rhys smiled softly. "My own power would have consumed me long ago."
Rhys squeezed my hand as he looked to me at last. "And if I had not met my mate..." His words failed him as silver lined his eyes.
He said down the bond,
I would have waited five hundred more years for you. A thousand years. And if this was all the time we were allowed to have... The wait was worth it.
He wiped away the tears sliding down my face. "I believe that everything happened, exactly the way it had to... so I could find you." He kissed another tear away.”
Rhysand
Sarah J Maas
Rhys
Cassian
Acowar
Azriel
Mor
Morrigan
Nesta
Feyre Archeron
Elain
Amren
A Court of Mist and Fury
“I moaned then, tilting my head back to give him better access. His hands clamped on my waist, then moved—one going to cup my rear, the other sliding between us.
This—this moment, when it was him and me and nothing between our bodies …
His tongue scraped the roof of my mouth as he dragged a finger down the center of me, and I gasped, my back arching. “Feyre,” he said against my lips, my name like a prayer more devout than any Ianthe had offered up to the Cauldron on that dark solstice morning.
His tongue swept my mouth again, in time to the finger that he slipped inside of me. My hips undulated, demanding more, craving the fullness of him, and his growl reverberated in my chest as he added another finger.
I moved on him. Lightning lashed through my veins, and my focus narrowed to his fingers, his mouth, his body on mine. His palm pushed against the bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs, and I groaned his name as I shattered”
Erotic
Erotica
New Adult
New Adult Romance
Erotic Fiction
Smut
Orgasms
Adult Books
New Adult Lit
New Adult Fantasy
Erotic Romance Novellas
A Court of Thorns and Roses
“If she captured Tamlin’s power once, who’s to say she can’t do it again?” It was the question I hadn’t yet dared voice.
“He won’t be tricked again so easily,” he said, staring up at the ceiling. “Her biggest weapon is that she keeps our powers contained. But she can’t access them, not wholly—though she can control us through them. It’s why I’ve never been able to shatter her mind—why she’s not dead already. The moment you break Amarantha’s curse, Tamlin’s wrath will be so great that no force in the world will keep him from splattering her on the walls.”
A chill went through me.
“Why do you think I’m doing this?” He waved a hand to me.
“Because you’re a monster.”
He laughed. “True, but I’m also a pragmatist. Working Tamlin into a senseless fury is the best weapon we have against her. Seeing you enter into a fool’s bargain with Amarantha was one thing, but when Tamlin saw my tattoo on your arm … Oh, you should have been born with my abilities, if only to have felt the rage that seeped from him.”
I didn’t want to think much about his abilities. “Who’s to say he won’t splatter you as well?”
“Perhaps he’ll try—but I have a feeling he’ll kill Amarantha first. That’s what it all boils down to, anyway: even your servitude to me can be blamed on her. So he’ll kill her tomorrow, and I’ll be free before he can start a fight with me that will reduce our once-sacred mountain to rubble.” He picked at his nails. “And I have a few other cards to play.”
I lifted my brows in silent question.
“Feyre, for Cauldron’s sake. I drug you, but you don’t wonder why I never touch you beyond your waist or arms?”
Until tonight—until that damned kiss. I gritted my teeth, but even as my anger rose, a picture cleared.
“It’s the only claim I have to innocence,” he said, “the only thing that will make Tamlin think twice before entering into a battle with me that would cause a catastrophic loss of innocent life. It’s the only way I can convince him I was on your side. Believe me, I would have liked nothing more than to enjoy you—but there are bigger things at stake than taking a human woman to my bed.”
I knew, but I still asked, “Like what?”
“Like my territory,” he said, and his eyes held a far-off look that I hadn’t yet seen. “Like my remaining people, enslaved to a tyrant queen who can end their lives with a single word. Surely Tamlin expressed similar sentiments to you.” He hadn’t—not entirely. He hadn’t been able to, thanks to the curse.
“Why did Amarantha target you?” I dared ask. “Why make you her whore?”
“Beyond the obvious?” He gestured to his perfect face. When I didn’t smile, he loosed a breath. “My father killed Tamlin’s father—and his brothers.”
I started. Tamlin had never said—never told me the Night Court was responsible for that.
“It’s a long story, and I don’t feel like getting into it, but let’s just say that when she stole our lands out from under us, Amarantha decided that she especially wanted to punish the son of her friend’s murderer—decided that she hated me enough for my father’s deeds that I was to suffer.”
I might have reached a hand toward him, might have offered my apologies—but every thought had dried up in my head. What Amarantha had done to him …
“So,” he said wearily, “here we are, with the fate of our immortal world in the hands of an illiterate human.”
Fate
Power
Feyre
Rhysand
Human
Tamlin
Touch
Innocence
Son
Faeries
Rage
Weapon
Fae
Whore
Fury
Punish
Amarantha
Pragmatist
The Family Crucible: The Intense Experience of Family Therapy
“When Carl asked the Brices to bring their whole family to therapy, everyone in the family knew intuitively what that meant. Their whole world would be exposed: all its caring, its history, its anger, its anxiety. All in one place at once time, subject to the scrutiny and invasion of a stranger. And that was too much vulnerability. With its own unconscious wisdom, the family elected Don to stay home and test the therapists. Did we really mean everybody? Would we weaken and capitulate if they didn't bring Don?
They had something to gain by the strategy. If we were hesitant and unconfident in our approach to their defiance, they would know that they could not trust us with the boiling cauldron of feeling which their family contained. If we were decisive and firm, they would guess that maybe we could handle the stresses which they intuitively knew had to be brought out into the open. One way or another, they had to find out how much power we had. In the meantime, they postponed facing that mysterious electricity, that critical mass, the whole family. Perhaps they thought they could be spared what Zorba called the full catastrophe.”
Family
Psychology
Counseling
Therapy
Family Therapy
Operation Cosmic Teapot
“Nietzsche felt like Rommel, hiding behind The Cauldron at Gazala – waiting and biding his time while his enemies took their shots, holding his position. The impenetrable defense took down tank after tank until the enemy couldn’t fight any more. Then, a quick attack was mounted and Rommel took Torbuk in a single day. He chased the British to Egypt. That’s where Nietzsche was right now, mounting his offensive, ready to chase both God and the Norse. Oh, how he wanted vengeance on both fronts.”
Nietzsche
Rommel
Dark Desire
“Into the middle of that cauldron of intense, violent emotion suddenly came something soft and gentle. A wisp of memory. Courage. Beauty. A woman. Not any woman, but his woman, his lifemate. All red hair and fire. She walked like an angel where men feared to tread, where even his own kind would fear to venture.”
Jacques Thoughts
Dark Prince
“Distorted, clawed hands hung the bag of precious herbs around the thick, muscular neck of the wolf, and then the animal took off in a dead run, racing the climbing sun as it burned away the thick cloud covering. Fur began to smoke, and blisters rose beneath the thick pelt.
Thunder cracked unexpectedly. Thick black clouds, heavy with rain, blew across the sky, providing Mikhail with dense cover from the sun. The storm rolled in over the forest fast, with wild winds kicking up leaves and swaying branches. A bolt of lightning sizzled across the sky in a fiery whip of dancing light. The sky darkened to an ominous cauldron of boiling clouds. Mikhail bounded into the cave and raced along the narrow maze of passages toward the main chamber, shape-shifting as he ran.
Gregori’s cool silver gaze slid over him as Mikhail relinquished the herbs. “It is a wonder you have been able to tie your shoes without me all of these centuries.”
Mikhail sank down beside his brother, one hand over his burning eyes. “It is more of a wonder you have stayed alive with your ostentatious displays. Remind me to remove my impressionable brother from your disrespectful presence before your winning ways rub off on him.”
Haha
Gregori
Mikhail
“Birds of the Western Front
Your mess-tin cover's lost. Kestrels hover
above the shelling. They don't turn a feather
when hunting-ground explodes in yellow earth,
flickering star-shells
and flares from the Revelation of St John.
You look away
from artillery lobbing roar and suck and snap
against one corner of a thicket
to the partridge of the war zone
making its nest in shattered clods.
History
floods into subsoil to be blown apart. You cling
to the hard dry stars of observation.
How you survive. They were all at it:
Orchids of the Crimea
nature notes from the trench
leaving everything unsaid - hell's cauldron
with souls pushed in, demons stoking flames beneath -
for the pink-flecked wings of a chaffinch
flashed like mediaeval glass.
You replace gangrene and gas mask
with a dream of alchemy: language of the birds
translating human earth
to abstract and divine. While machine-gun
tracery gutted that stricken wood
you watched the chaffinch flutter to and fro
through splintered branches, breaking buds
and never a green bough left.
Hundreds lay in there wounded.
If any, you say, spotted one bird
they may have wondered why a thing with wings
would stay in such a place.
She must have, sure, had chicks
she was too terrified to feed, too loyal to desert.
Like roots clutching at air
you stick to the lark singing fit to burst at dawn
sounding insincere
above the burning bush: plough-land
latticed like folds of brain
with shell-ravines where nothing stirs
but black rats, jittery sentries and the lice
sliding across your faces every night.
Where every elixir's gone wrong
you hold to what you know.
A little nature study. A solitary magpie
blue and white
spearing a strand of willow.
One for sorrow. One for Babylon,
Ninevah and Northern France,
for mice and desolation, the burgeoning
barn-owl population
and never a green bough left.”
War
Birds
Western Front
“What thought engendered the spirit of Circe, or gave to a Helen the lust of tragedy? What lit the walls of Troy? Or prepared the woes of an Andromache? By what demon counsel was the fate of Hamlet prepared? And why did the weird sisters plan ruin to the murderous Scot?
Double, double toil and trouble,
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
In a mulch of darkness are bedded the roots of endless sorrows - and of endless joys. Canst thou fix thine eye on the morning? Be glad. And if in the ultimate it blind thee, be glad also! Thou hast lived.”
I Love It
Taliesin
“She stood watching a ritual she had seen many times before, yet which now seemed odd and extremely archaic; as if everything - the hill, the ox, the Mage, the cauldron, the king, the people looking on - everything belonged to a time so far away, so obscurely ancient that it could no longer be comprehended, only felt in the pulse of blood that flowed through her veins.”
Beautiful Prose
Primal Instinct
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
“A CLEAN CAULDRON KEEPS POTIONS FROM BECOMING POISONS and ANTIDOTES ARE ANTI-DON'TS UNLESS APPROVED BY A QUALIFIED HEALER.”
St Mungo S
A Court of Silver Flames
“I am not a child to be fought over.'
Nesta's pulse pounded throughout her body, 'Do you not remember the war? What we encountered? Do you not remember the Cauldron kidnapping you, bringing you into the heart of Hybern's camp?'
'I do,' Elain said coldly. 'And I remember Feyre rescuing me.'
Roaring erupted in Nesta's head.
For a heartbeat, it appeared that Elain might say something to soften the words. But Nesta cut her off, seething at the pity about to be thrown her way. 'Look who decided to grow claws after all,' she crooned. 'Maybe you've become interesting at last, Elain.'
Nesta saw the blow land, like a physical impact, in Elain's face, her posture. No one spoke, though shadows gathered in the corners of the room, like snakes preparing to strike.
Elain's eyes brightened with pain. Something imploded in Nesta's chest at that expression. She opened her mouth, as if it could somehow be undone. But Elain said, 'I went into the Cauldron, too, you know. And it captured me. And yet somehow all you think of is what my trauma did to you.”
Sarah J Maas
Trauma
Bitch
Protective
Hurtful
Nesta Archeron
Nesta
Elain
A Court Of Silver Flames
Elain Archeron
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