Elsewhere (273)
Natalie Solent on magical thinking, then and now:
Nongqawuse was a fifteen year old Xhosa girl who in 1856 had a vision in which three ancestral spirits told her that if the Xhosa people showed their trust by destroying their crops and killing their cattle, then on the appointed day the spirits would raise the dead, bountifully replace all that was destroyed, and sweep the British into the sea. Thousands believed this prophecy and slaughtered their cattle. But the dead slept on and the British remained in place. Nongqawuse explained that this lack of action was due to the amagogotya, the stingy ones, who had kept their cattle back from slaughter. She urged everyone to greater efforts. A new date was set for the prophecy to finally come true. The rate of cattle-killing rose to a climax. Eventually the Xhosa lost patience, and, with remarkable mercy, handed Nongqawuse over to the British. By then famine had reduced the population of British Kaffraria from 105,000 to fewer than 27,000.
Do click for the ‘now’ part.
Konstantin Kisin on the unhappy realities of ‘progressive’ utopia:
These enemies of the [Soviet] state included my great-grandparents who met in a concentration camp for political prisoners. Every morning at their camp, three people would be picked out at random from the general population of the camp and thrown into the icy waters of the lake to freeze and drown in full view of the other prisoners to ‘keep things under control.’ With this background, I am —perhaps understandably— hypersensitive to the emerging far-left in Western politics. I can’t help noticing similarities in the rhetoric about “eradicating inequality,” “smashing the class system,” and a new age of “radical egalitarianism.” And when I do, I shudder, because… it’s a reminder of the unforgiving reality that those who don’t realise how good they have it, or take their lives of plenty for granted, are vulnerable to demagogic ideologies that promise to tear it all down to build a ‘better tomorrow.’
At which point, these budding intellectuals came to mind.
Alexander Zubatov on the importance of cultural cohesion:
The more diverse we become, the harder we must work to achieve trust and unity… We cannot continue functioning as a nation if we do not first start thinking of ourselves as a nation once more. And thinking of ourselves as a nation means thinking of ourselves as one tribe. It does not have to be… a tribe constituted on the basis of ethnicity or race. But… liberal values of tolerance, pluralism, and equality are surely not enough to bond us together. While racial or ethnic tribalism is to be eschewed, cultural nationalism is indispensable. If our primal evolutionary biases are to be overcome, we must do more than integrate. Paradoxical though it may sound, to avoid the extremes of a resurgent chauvinism, we must assume a national identity; we must assimilate.
And Karin McQuillan on life near the border:
Another neighbour arrived home from the hour and a half trip to the nearest supermarket. The ground was muddy, so he carried his five-year-old daughter to the front door of his small house. When he turned around with a heavy bag of groceries in each arm, there was an illegal standing in the doorway, between him and his daughter. The illegal was wearing the man’s clothes, his hat, and was holding his gun. Given the circumstances, the American father ran the guy off with no confrontation. Next day, border patrol called. They’d caught the thief — could he come by to identify his clothes and gun. The answer was sure, but it would be two hours, as he was at a doctor’s appointment. Our neighbour was told, “We’re not allowed to hold him that long. We’ll have to let him go.” And they did.
As usual, feel free to share your own links and snippets, on any subject, in the comments.
This is not post-Soviet literature, this is red meat for the faithful of the Communist kind.
I’m rather expecting the assessment being that the Soviet Union ended, the Russian Federation began, and for that reason, anything more current is going to be “post-Soviet”, regardless of the content . . .
I see that Hal has accelerated his digging.
slather jams
Album title.
Heh.
“Unless one is north of the Wall. Up in Caledonia, an X supper is X served with chips; rather than ordering fish and chips one would ask for a fish supper. It is, of course, perfectly acceptable to order a chip supper.”
And anything without chips is “single”. Order a “single fish” and you’ll probably get two. Sometimes one and a half if they’re big, but usually two.
Now, should I throw a massive rock into the pool of linguistic confusion and casually mention that “crumpet” means something else entirely up here as well?
Yes, I shall.
“Crumpets” are large and flat, like pancakes. They do generally have holes like “proper” crumpets, but it’s not necessary. Your standard pancake is still a “crumpet”. But “pancakes” are drop scones. (Crumbs, Wikipedia’s PC Scottish nationalism-lite* actually comes in handy for once.)
*No, guys, you do not need to translate trade names into bloody Gaelic. Let alone “Scots”.
“Crumpets” are large and flat, like pancakes.
This is exactly why Hadrian had that bloody wall built.
WTF is This?
being an account of an American’s encounter with crumpets
(those of delicate sensibility, should any reside within this fine establishment, might want to avert their gaze)
My first (and thus far only) experience of crumpets was running across a package of a half dozen of them in Trader Joe’s. Being as they had been mentioned upon the pages of various English mysteries I had perused, I thought I might give them a try. Upon getting them home, I found that they resembled English muffins, so I considered toasting them, but there was no such instruction on the package. In fact, there were no preparation instructions beyond ‘heat & serve’ upon said package. Thusly, I decanted three them onto a plate and zapped them in the microwave for perhaps 30 seconds. Meanwhile, I fetched a knife and fork.
Upon completion of the heating portion of the experiment, I extracted the plate, sliced off a small chunk, and got down to business. After a couple of bites, I decided they tasted like pancakes, so I fetched the syrup. They were quite tasty with syrup, so I had the other three that way for breakfast* the next morning.
* breakfast being the morning meal here in philistine California, as opposed to brunch (mid-morning), lunch (in the afternoon), and dinner (or supper, as the two words are interchangeable here) in the evening
I decanted three of them onto a plate and zapped them in the microwave for perhaps 30 seconds.
[ Tries to hide look of dismay and sickening horror. ]
I decanted three of them onto a plate and zapped them in the microwave for perhaps 30 seconds.
[ Tries to hide look of dismay and sickening horror. ]
Oh, dear. Would 90 seconds have been better?
Would 90 seconds have been better?
Microwaves are best used for warming plates, rather than anything you might put on them.
Crumpets.
In my Birmingham childhood these were also called ‘pikelets’ (‘poy-clits).
For the benefit of colonial patrons, I should explain that my native variant of English, known as Brummie, is the standard to which all discerning gentlefolk aspire, as I’m sure our host will enthusiastically affirm.
as I’m sure our host will enthusiastically affirm.
Sorry, I can’t hear you over the violent juddering of the drains.
Sorry, I can’t hear you …
Sheer naked envy, there can be no other explanation.
Sorry, I can’t hear you over the violent juddering of the drains.
The rhine in spine stays minely in the pline.
Hmm, this thread gets curiouser and curiouser. Back in rural Essex, where I was dragged up, we had dinner at lunchtime and tea at dinnertime. I thought supper was something Northerners did. Tea on Saturday’s often involved muffins, which we called that even though we knew they were really crumpets. Tea on Sunday’s was often bacon sandwiches, which we never called butties. The only butty was a sugar butty, which my father was fond of. My parents are both Cockneys (although my mother would never admit it), which might be relevant to some of those things. At school we had dinner, but you might bring it in in a lunchbox.
When I played cricket, though, we had lunch and tea. And at my University residence we had high tea at weekends. It seemed to consist mostly of toast, and was an attempt to hide the fact that kitchen staff left at midday. All very confusing.
All very confusing.
I recently learned that some people think the way to cook a crumpet is to fling it in a microwave. I need a moment to process my grief.
With a normal human microwave, indeed. Mine, however, appears to be an export from Muspelheim, and I have learned to heat things (especially anything resembling bread) in 30-second increments.
The rhine in spine stays minely in the pline.
By Jove, you’ve got it!
The rhine in spine stays minely in the pline.
By Jove, you’ve got it!
Oops. Not quite.
The rhine in spine stys minely in the pline.
—See particularly Jilly Cooper and Class, where one of the social class character examples grows up being called Dive, and then later when he goes to work as a television broadcaster, starts calling himself Dave.
All very confusing.
I recently learned that some people think the way to cook a crumpet is to fling it in a microwave. I need a moment to process my grief.
We used to do them on the grill. I hope this admission hasn’t added to your distress. Oh, and it was butter. Nothing else.
Over at Ace’s one of the cob’s deprecates the practice of topping french toast ( which I believe is referred to a eggy bread in Blighty ) with maple syrup, and instead insists on salt.
This is, of course, an abomination.
He shall be dealt with.
It is only in the last few months I have essayed to prepare a Yorkshire pudding from scratch and was gratified by Joe ridiculously easy it is. The key to success is to preheat the pan and oil really really well before adding the batter.
Heathen.
Next try expplaining salt and sauce…