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BEST POEM / Re: 645
« Last post by Mauricio R B Campos on June 25, 2019, 06:24:20 pm »
This poem is about the bombing of Guernica, a Basque Country town in northern Spain, by Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy at the request of the Spanish Nationalists. Won the medal of honor in Writers Association of Bragança Paulista.
« Last post by Mauricio R B Campos on June 25, 2019, 06:18:37 pm »
The light could not overtake the barrier of the glass reaching the freedom from the external world.

Life masked by a glass freedom could not reach the light from the black barrier.

The fury and hate without limits of the evil perpetrators were heavier than the bombs buzzing.

The rain rushed without limits in the ashes of a world that only breathes in the memory.

The light masked by the fury of the bombs of the evil perpetrators breathed in the hate ashes.

The external world couldn’t reach the heaviest light on the ashes of the fury masked in the memory.

The barrier of the glass freedom heavier than ashes of the evil breathed a world in the memory.

The bombs rain light freedom destroys life in the world. In the memory the ashes breathe.

The lack of liberty. The weight of hate. The bombs rain ashes. The life that doesn’t breathe.

The light. The masked life. The bombs. The rain. The ashes. The world. The barrier. The liberty.

The darkness. The death stamped. The debris. The blood. The mud. The dirty. The wickedness.

Iluntasuna. Heriotza. Suntsitzea. Odola. Lokatzetan. Osasunerako kaltegarria da. Maltzurkeriaz da.

Mauricio R B Campos
« Last post by Mauricio R B Campos on June 25, 2019, 06:16:18 pm »
Arturo de Oliveira, writer of several successful detective novels called his editor, Walter Mariot to learn what he thought of his fourth book:
W: Hello?
A: Hi, it’s Arturo, how’s going?
W: Everything ok. When are you sending me the rest of the manuscript?
A: There’s no rest of manuscript, it finishes right there, in page 478.
W: But how about the end of the story? Don’t you know the reader will want to know what happens with investigator Orlando? How about his arch enemy? Someone has to set an end to the atrocities of the villain, or I’m not right?
A: Stephen King always wanted to write a book without an end, but if he cannot write, I can…
W: Only if it is with another editor, my friend – Walter interrupted, the tone of voice rising. Ah, c’mon, it’s not serious, stop cheating, please – he went on, in a conciliatory tone, as one who knows he’s the victim of a joke.
A: This fourth book will be a gift for my readers, stop with the hero journey.
W: The hero journey sells.
A: But this old trick is broadly known, my dearest. You see, the first volume, Orlando and the Tlön mystery, the investigator is induced to an adventure in a typical hero journey. In the second volume, Orlando and the light-giving eternity, I took to the exhaustion the method of the New York’s Actor’s Studio, two narrators, two truths, one reader stuck up to the last paragraph of the last page to know what the true version is. The third volume, Orlando in the Trinity Little Island, I put in action the classical enigma of the murder in the closed room, a murder, several suspects, all stuck in an island. And now, in the fourth volume I lead the reader to another threshold, a story that flows to an astonishing climax and end up abruptly without beating around the bush and without explanations: as an athlete that decides to quit at the top of his career. That’s what’s been missing in the detective novels: vanguardist boldness and strength!
W: Look, Arturo, we have an agreement and will respect it, since you want it to be so… I will forward it to the proofreading.
A: Don’t worry; it will be the great revolution of the modern Brazilian literature!
W: Ok.


Arturo and Walter only met again three months later, in the book release, in one of the shops of the Curitiba Bookstores. The author took his novel for the first time, enraptured for the cover neatly worked. He thought the volume to be thick like a Bolaño, his luck numbers, 478. He opened it in the last page to see his numbers again, friends: 657. 657? He looked at his editor. He kept the look. Shot him with the look. Walter cleared his throat and whispered in the ear of Arturo that a ghost writer finished the service. The author took the volume and looked for a comfortable armchair, asked the little girl for a coffee and opened the book in page 478.
— What is this, man are you going to read it now? The guests are coming!
He took the coffee cup, sweetened it, stirred it and took a sip of coffee:
— Ask your ghost writer to come autograph it, because I’m curious to know the end of the story, by the way, will Orlando win his arch enemy or not?
Thanks ;)
Correct category
Novels / A book that I'm currently translating to English - Abnormally sane
« Last post by magic-creator on June 04, 2019, 05:15:18 am »
Have in mind that this is not the edited version it's only the first round of rough translation but I wanted to share it with the people.


         A short, stout, little man, wearing heavy glasses, named Leon, was sitting in a dimly lit office. He seemed to enjoy the silence and watched the snow fall. However, he was preoccupied wih a few more complex matters. He was adjusting his glasses while his eyes wandered through the latest notes. He did not like where the situation was leading to, he wanted everything solved once and for all. He pressed the button on the phone and another person emerged by the table.
         A man started talking in a thin, low voice. “It won’t work like this. There are too many possibilities for a contact to be made and for things to go wrong for us. We need to assist.”
         A tall man just nodded his head, which was half lit. “Who should I call?” After brief thinking, a little man responded, “Contact the best people. We will go into action tomorrow. And remember, whatever happens, I want to know if he is capable of crossing the line.”
        A tall, thin man with two different-coloured eyes left the office, and a fatter, shorter one remained sitting and wondering where all of that was leading to.

Alderson villa, 8:13

         Another empty day. Is it a day already? How come... It seems to me like I haven’t slept at all...
         A warm bed rustled under his movements, a pillow moved, a quilt stirred and a pale leg emerged from beneath it...
         It doesn’t make sense any more...
         Thoughts were heavy, empty, but they were still there, in his mind, reaching to his soul. The heart was beating, the body was warm, but his soul ache was so tremendous that he barely felt his existence. I have a headache, again. What a morning... Truth be told, he has had headaches ever more often in the last one month. I might have a tumor... That’ll do... a good excuse for dying.
          The floor was crunchy, cold, uncomfortable at the touch of his feet. Any finger at any given moment could come across a crash, a splinter, which could inflict pain and cause nerves to react. But it didn’t matter to him. Nothing mattered to him. He stood up and spoke to himself, from the depth of his mind. Don’t lose it again. Have breakfast, lunch, music, and wait... It is everything he had in his life, everything he’d got left from his life...
          What followed was an empty, slow walk through a long hallway, everything echoed, even his wintery breath. Cold, freezing, these walls have never been heated. Except for when we were here. Back then everything was warm, tidy, homelike. There was light everywhere, every chandelier, as a sun of its own, heated up the halls of its universe. There was always hubbub, the laughter echoed, years ago, and it was pleasant to live.
          Now, silence echoed. Nobody knew where the ghosts of the past had gone, it was only known that they still owed their joy to this day. If everything stays as it is, there will be nobody left to pay off the debt.
         As if playing ’’hot or cold’’ with himself, he strode the long, dark alleys of his own history. The paintings, photographs, dreariness, a repulsive faded brown wallpaper colour, peeling off from top to bottom, dull baroque-style pattern and his empty steps.
        The first door – opened. There was nothing inside, apart from a French bed with canopy. Tinted windows talked about darkness with their heavy, bloody draperies. The next room – locked. And three more. Why don’t I have the keys to these doors? But that was what amnesia was like, even if you had something, you couldn’t remember where you’d put it. Those keys were waiting for him somewhere in the villa, probably in vain. Whether he was to find them that day or the day after, after all, it didn’t matter.
        Finally, he found the washroom. Tiles – more freezing than the silence of the hallway, but at least they didn’t creak. Sometimes, he wished to stay in that bathroom. I’m not even hungry, he thought. Oh, right, I don’t even want to look at myself. Empty-eyed, he stared at the wall where the mirror had been. He waved his hand dismissively. He had broke all the mirrors in the house the day after that happened, he couldn’t stand to look at himself and not know who he was and what he existed for. Then they took them away. Who did? He didn’t know. How could he know with that goddamn wasteland in his head…
          He looked through the window pane and he could feel his pupils reacting to the whiteness outside. The snow had long covered the areas around the house, making everything look sterile. Everything is so clear… Except my memory.
          He was coming down the stairs slowly. What would happen if I were to fall now? Would anyone even come to look for me, at all? It is all so empty….
          He passed by the radio and he switched it on out of habit. So, it is still not time. Time… He tasted that word in his mouth. I have too much of it, where in fact I don’t have a single second. He had time, or at least that’s what he said to solace himself. Actually, he didn’t have it, because he didn’t know who he was. How was he then to have a vision of who he wanted to be after some time? Because that was how people were supposed to function. Time was that incidental thing that helped humans succeed. The only thing that he could do is stand still. As if in the eternal purgatory. It seemed to him his life would pass in a day. He was hoping that he wouldn’t get up the next morning, but in vain – every morning at five o’ clock, he would open his eyes to a new day and he would give himself a twenty-four-hour-long chance to remember. If only he could remember! All he wanted was to remember who he was. To move away from the emptiness, set the clock in motion, bring back the memory and to move on.
          Nevertheless, he would wake up to the emptiness every day. And every day he would wait for twelve o’clock. Just to hear that melody on the radio. Just for a moment to be yanked by those sounds of the violin, as thin as a rail, but as heavy as the sea. The tones dragged him, like an anchor, day by day, to some memories that he couldn’t make out. Blurry, everything had always been so blurry, but he had known that catchy melody since the first time he heard it. And he heard it the day after. After that. Since then, he had been listening to it and in fact, he would hear it every day. Somebody out there, played his grief and desolation. Somebody out there knew how he felt, knew exactly how to touch his most subtle thoughts. Every day at twelve o’clock. Without exception. Without delay. Without change. That melody wasn’t an announcement of any kind of programme, but to him it seemed like an announcement of his better life. It lasted for three minutes only (he didn’t time it, but he knew it). After that, he would feel fulfilled, stronger, more capable of bearing the rest of a silent day. He was at peace with himself and with his ignorance.
   That was the only thing that would drag him and push him at the same time. Dragged in the past and pushed in the life ahead. He could almost remember numbers, faces and names, but those were always blurry, wiped away like a foggy mirror. He saw them through a yellow stained glass; never knowing who and what he’s seeing. He knew only the melody.
He would attempt to hear it in his own mind as soon he would wake up, but kept failing. Often, he soothed himself: Maybe one day, when I remember the music, I’ll know everything. He would force his empty mind to remember but the result was always the same – gray emptiness, all up until 12 o’clock. That’s when he would lay down on his baroque bed, set his hands below his head, touch his blonde soft hair and started singing. Always precise without mistakes. As long as the music didn’t stop he would never make a mistake.  And of course, he often wondered how he knew that melody.
He had no answers to his questions.
Time passed by and the moment came.
During the time of the melody he would never become silent. He would never even think of that, to just get silent and maybe remember something. Up until now. He became silent and the music stopped.
Room slowly got filled with silence, but not the silence he got used to every day, over and over again. This silence was different: hideous, threatening and dangerous. He was afraid to think, but the human mind is a strange thing – always active and it was active now. All of a sudden he was in a state of panic. It stopped. It stopped. Why? Why did it stop? Somebody out there knows, no, somebody out there doesn’t know that the music stopped. This must be a mistake. The radio must be broken. He got up, composed, and swiftly approached the radio. The fear has risen inside of him – touch it to make sure it’s not broken, and – don’t touch it, go to your room and lock the door. Everything will be fine. Has to be, has to. He slowly put the tip of his finger on the radio button and waited. Did I stop the transmission or did it stop me? The question grew bigger inside his mind and started to haunt him, burn him from the inside. He had to know. After all, if the radio broke, that’s the least of his problems. In that case nobody made the music stop.
He was slowly turning the button around to find another station. Silence. And after the silence, a voice. There you are.
He yanked his hand, ran on the other side of the room and stopped, petrified. There you are. Here I am. Yes, I am here. Somebody knows. Somebody is not nobody, somebody talked to me. Come on, don’t be insane, it’s just the radio. That works. How did the music stop? I don’t know. In that moment the melody started playing again, right from the note he stopped on. But he didn’t sing with it. Should I break it? How will I get up in the morning? Why should I? What reason will I find to breathe? This was my safe resort.
In that moment did he realize he now knew a name. Jonathan. He knew a name, one and only. He felt like he had to take all the decorations from the Christmas tree and he didn’t know where to start. The melody finished.
He quickly wrote the name on the cover of the first book he reached, he didn’t care if it was a family heritage. Jonathan. In that moment he regretted for not leaving at least one mirror in the house. He could now at least see if the name fits his face.
The attic. I have never been there. Maybe the time finally came. There was a reason why he didn’t go up there. He was afraid that nothing will be there. He always thought the attic was like his own mind, empty and that even if he tries to dig deep, he won’t find anything.
But he finally felt light as a feather as he ran, barefooted, over the staircases.
General Discussion / From my book “The Horrors of Cryptocurrency”
« Last post by Bookcoin2028 on June 04, 2019, 12:05:20 am »
Chapter 3

Poof All Gone

Have you ever had a bad day when you wish you weren't even born on this earth?

Well I did because after all that hard work accumulating BTC it was all gone from my Bitcoin Wallet on can't even log in because my old account was compromised by hackers.

To this day I have absolutely no idea how someone got into my BTC wallet, but I investigated and was "phishing" by hacker(s) on actually cloned the website and stole BTC from people. Today is no different they got millions of BTC addresses right at their finger tips. Whenever they see 1000 or more BTC in an address they will find ways to exploit stealing it from people.

I also lost BTC in Pyramid Schemes thinking I will get triple the amount but didn’t get no BTC in 24 hours.I sent BTC to the address and got nothing in return.Please DO NOT send your BTC to people promising in 24-72 hours you will get 10x-100x Bitcoin or ANY alt-coin.

It is a SCAM!

Go here and study all the scams for your safeguard.

Also, DO NOT send your BTC to pay for a “mining fee” in a website telling you they exploit BTC and alt-coins- nothing but a scam.

Now there are “Crypto Celebrities” on Twitter that do the following:

1.Create a coin and hype it up
2.Put it on exchanges to pump up the price
3.Gather a huge following
4.Wait until the ATH to sell
5.Profit millions or billions of dollars
6.Sometimes dump the coin leaving Bag HODLers in the dust with worthless coins

This could be a precursor to an “exit scam” or simply their project was unsuccessful because there were no partnerships. So they “stepped down” from their position and left their project run by itself giving false hope to their followers.

This been going on for years not to mention the fake names on Facebook, Medium and Twitter. There are scammers that are very clever asking people to send them BTC or ETH.

But in reality use a link to refer people and in fact is a Key logger. This happened to me after supposedly Justin Sun, was giving away TRX and got into unofficial TRON website. I accidentally posted my MEW Private Key(My Ether Wallet) and hours later lost over 4,000 TRX.

Please make sure you log in to the official Tronscan Blockchain website. The REAL tronscan website has “HTTPS” with a small padlock icon(gray or green) in the URL. That’s SSL certified which means hackers cannot mess with the website because it’s secured.The fake one is only or without the icon.

That’s unsecured!

Phishers or hackers can clone a website and steal people’s information. Check the website before putting in your Private Key or you will kiss your TRX and TRC- 20 tokens goodbye.
One word of advice: If somebody on social media is acting like a celebrity, posting about receiving free cryptocurrency, and asking to send them BTC, TRX and ETH that is a scam.

And PLEASE DO NOT post your Private Key unless it’s an official website of your cryptocurrency wallet(s) or your Cryptocurrency will vanish away.

Luckily, the hacker didn't steal my other tokens because I stole the Ether he sent to my My Ethereum Wallet(MEW) and didn't bother with it ever again.

I regained it back!

But going back to where I left off in Chapter 2 about an exchange called Askcoin. So I had 50,000 CZAR coin and 1 million of TET coin I was waiting patiently for both to be pumped by the bots on the exchange. (Yes by bots just like on Binance today).

For months, I will exchange my coins for BTC but then I started noticing weird things happening.One time, I login and it was giving me “error messages”. I typed my login info many times until finally I got into the website.

Later it got worse when people on Twitter started posting Askcoin was a scam. It turns out the owner of the website was running bots to draw in more customers(call it the first Bitcoin Tether artificial pump from December 2017)

Also,I bought 1000 BTC on Mt.Gox thinking I’ll become rich so I left my Bitcoin on the exchange. On 2014 it shut down and lost all my BTC. My dreams were shattered.Hopefully I get them back someday!

Please DO NOT leave ALL your cryptocurrency on exchanges I learned the hard way.

Literally TET coin will pump up to $5 per coin it was ridiculous, so I took advantage and capitalized and later it dropped to $0.01.

During that time there were no other exchanges accepting TET and Czar coins just Askcoin which was another “red flag” to me.Months had passed and the bots stopped both coins got dumped very hard. After that Askcoin said they were “bankrupted” and shutdown the website.The total amount of both coins was 2000 BTC all gone in a single day. I believe I once had 240,000 Doge there as well but that’s gone to.

Lesson 3#

Don’t get too greedy or you will see your money grow wings and fly away
General Discussion / Have a Drink and check out my cookbook
« Last post by cookingonline on June 03, 2019, 11:43:07 pm »
Hi I am Chef Dave. I am looking to share with everyone some of the first chapter of my cookbook Noble Savage Cooking, Food and Manners for a Corrupt Civilization.  The first chapter of my Nose to Tail journey is about Drinks and Snacks. Salut!

TRX Address:TCT36myayg6Cv7JdHTo1f47v2SPFpmCWqn

CHAPTER 1: Libations and Cracklins

The Significance of Proper Bartending

In good times people want to drink. In bad times people have to.
How many seconds does it take for the warm blanket of bliss to cover your body after the first sip of a properly crafted cocktail? It’s pure and natural bliss gives you a feeling of comfort and pleasure. It is a sense of being and belonging in your own world. It is the knowing that things are good. Hell, by the time the glass is nothing but a few naked ice cubes, things may very well be great. The first sip of the first drink is just that--a first impression. I would not advise anyone to risk such an important role in the psyche of not only himself but his guests to substandard bartending.
One cannot and should not underestimate the significance of knowing how to properly craft a real cocktail. Even in the world of the professional restaurant it is often an overlooked after thought to providing you an entertaining evening. What has the world come to when the “bartender” can make every blue, purple, green drink and red drink while juggling 4 bottles of Schnapps and setting his nose hair on fire? But you ask for a Side Car and get a look as blank as Kristen Stewart’s personality. I continually strive everyday to be a better person and to help people be upstanding stalwarts of their community. In the same ways that cuisine brings people together, so equally does drink.
Think of a good drink in the same way you would think of authentic Japanese food. Very few ingredients are used. Therefore, each ingredient must be of the highest level. Don’t buy any alcohol that comes in a plastic bottle. You will save yourself a world of headache, literally, by not drinking anything presented to you in such an abomination. The only thing they are putting in there to make “gin” is the ability to heighten your poor judgment.
Buy alcohol from the countries that it is supposed to come from. In the same way that you would never eat Etouffee in New Jersey, you should never buy Cognac from Cleveland.
Since there are so few things that make a fine cocktail, you must be precise at measurements. Say you have 2 ounces of brandy and 2 ounces of Cointreau in the recipe. You get sloppy and lazy by pouring 1 1/2 ounces of brandy and 2 1/2 ounces of Cointreau. You have just changed the taste of the libation by 25%! “I’m sorry Mr. Bridges, but we can’t pay you the money as promised by 25%”. Unacceptable.
Every type of glass has a size and a shape for a reason. My personal build is a bit robust with a slight taller than average height. I am built that way so that I can accommodate my appetite for life. A champagne glass is designed to concentrate the bubbles straight up to tickle your lip. A rocks glass should have a very heavy bottom in order to withstand the muddler and help keep it upright on the bar as you get a little free spirited. Specific glasses have been designed for specific drinks for 150 years. Instead of diluting your valuable time into trying to figure out why, just accept it and fall back on 150 years of research, tradition and accidents.
Ice should be of the large variety. It is a fact that larger cubes melt slower than the smaller ones. The idea is to chill your drink, not water it down. If you want to know the scientific molecular reasoning, send Harold McGee an email. I have seen some online stores where you could purchase ice trays that make larger ice cubes. You could also take a bread loaf pan and just freeze a large block to which you wield a fabulous ice pick. Very manly, very butch, chicks really dig that.
The techniques should not be taken for granted either. If is says “shake”, then shake. If it says “stir”, then stir. Assuming a lackadaisical approach to the techniques of crafting a cocktail will just lead to a very uninspiring result. It would be like butchering the motions of the Tango only to dip the girl in the end and think she is actually still going to desire you. Take each technique seriously. It will show your work in an honest and naked fashion in the end.
Everything that finds itself upon your palate is better fresh. You would never in your life take an asparagus out of the can and put it on your salad plate. If you would, then stop here and please just give my tome of knowledge to someone else. Bottled lemon juice is nasty. I know it says “Real” on the label. But if I squeeze a lemon and leave the juice on the counter, eventually it starts to bubble and fizz. I could leave that “Real” stuff on the counter as an heirloom to my grand children and it would taste and act in the same way as the day I let its filthy personality into my home. Use fresh ingredients and the summer sun will always shine your way.
Do things with Flair. For the love of God, when I say “Flair”, I’m not talking about the juggling bartender with the faux hawk and the shirt so tight I can tell you where he cut himself manscaping. I am talking about style. Take each action and make it with just a touch more drama. Pour the liquor into the glass from a few inches higher than normal. Shake the cocktail up high and over your shoulder as if you were Carmen Miranda at the CoCo Cabana. Drop the in the lemon peel with the flourish of the hands of David Copperfield. Be slightly dramatic. You’re here to have fun, so make it that way and your guests will follow suit.

Lillet Refresher with Salmon Cracklins         
Serves 4 on the way to a concert in the park

There are times when you may want to give the appearance of being slightly more sophisticated than you actually may be. Nothing does that better than ordering something French that nobody has hardly ever heard of. Step up to the bar and let the romanticism of France roll off your tongue, “Lillet Blanc”. Lillet Blanc is a wonderful L’aperitif with hints of orange and honey. This refresher will keep you cool and satiated. Looking all the while, that you are indeed the sum of all your parts.

Lillet Refresher;
1 Bottle Lillet Blanc
1 liter Ginger Ale
1 orange cut into slices for garnish as well as flavor

Use a traditional rocks glass and over fill it with large ice cubes. Fill the glass half way with the Lillet Blanc, it’s your choice to which half of the glass you want to fill. Fill the remaining vacant half of the glass with the Ginger Ale. Squeeze one slice of orange and drop into the drink. Stir the drink one time with your finger. Repeat 3 more times or do all 4 glasses at once like any normal person.

Salmon Cracklins;
Salmon Skin from one side of fresh salmon
Corn Starch for dusting
Coarse Sea Salt
Fennel Pollen

Pre-heat your deep fat fryer to 350 degrees. Cut the skin of the salmon into 1-inch strips. Lightly toss the skin in some cornstarch and shake off any excess cornstarch. Place the skin into the fryer one strip at a time and fry in batches of 10 -12 strips. Fry each batch until the skin is lightly brown and the skin in the fryer has refrained from popping at you any more. Remove the skin from the fryer and place on a paper towel to absorb any of the excess oil. While the skin is still hot sprinkle with the salt and fennel pollen.

****Creoles believe that when you cut a cucumber, you must cut the stem end first, and then rub it against the spot it was just cut from. This is said to take the bitterness or the fever from a cucumber.

Molasses Whiskey Smash with Pork Gratons         
Serves 4 during a day of wagering on horses

One fine evening I was truly being entertained at the bar of the Renaissance Hotel in New Orleans by Chris McMillian, a true master of the craft. Every single cocktail Chris makes is absolute perfection. However, perfection does take time. So if you’re in a rush to escape your immediate mental surroundings, don’t go see Chris. But if you are curious to see just how true bartending is preformed at the highest level, before some 21 year old bottle juggling circus act ruins it for the next generation, find Chris. Order this drink and pay attention as he wields the bar shaker while simultaneously weaving the most beautiful poem on Bourbon you have ever heard.

Molasses Whiskey Smash;
2 Lemons (cut into halves, then cut each half into quarters)
8 sprigs of Fresh Mint
4 ounce Molasses
1 Bottle Fine Kentucky Bourbon such as Makers Mark

Place 3 of the quartered lemon pieces into a Boston Shaker glass with 1 sprig of mint and 1 ounce of molasses. Muddle the ingredients in the glass. Place a few large cubes of ice into the shaker glass and pour in a shot or so of Bourbon. Shake the glass a good 15 times and strain into a rocks glass that is over flowing with ice. Garnish your beverage with a piece of lemon and one sprig of mint.

Pork Gratons;
1lb piece of Pork Belly with the skin still attached
Creole Seasoning

Pre-heat your deep fryer to 225 degrees. Cut the pork belly into 1 1/2 inch cubes. Fry the pork for 15-20 minutes until the pork is browned nicely. Remove the gratons from the fryer and lay on a paper towel and let cool for a good 20 minutes. Raise the heat of your fryer to a blistering 400 degrees. Place the pork back into the fryer and fry until you see the skin blister and get yummy, crunchy crackly. Remove from the fryer onto a paper towel and liberally sprinkle the Creole Seasoning over the pork gratons.
OR, if the great gastronomic deity has laid his hand on your soul and you find yourself living in his land of South Louisiana. Just go to the nearest gas station and buy a bag already cooked for 8 bucks.

****Pork Gratons will stay good for days. I often keep them in a paper bag in my car for days just eating a little here or there whenever I get cut off.

            The Zenith of Man’s Pleasure

“Then comes the zenith of man’s pleasure.
Then comes the julep ­­– the mint julep.
Who has not tasted one has lived in vain.
The honey of Hymettus brought no such solace to the soul;
the nectar of the gods is tame beside it.
It is the very dream of drinks,
the vision of sweet quaffings.

The Bourbon and the mint are lovers.
In the same land they live,
on the same food are they fostered.
The mint dips its infant leaf
into the same stream
that makes the Bourbon what it is.
The corn grows in the level lands
through which small streams meander.
By the brook-side the mint grows.
As the little wavelets pass,
they glide up to kiss the feet of the growing mint,
and the mint bends to salute them.
Gracious and kind it is,
living only for the sake of others.
Like a woman’s heart
it gives its sweetest aroma when bruised.
Among the first to greet the spring, it comes.
Beside the gurgling brooks that make music in the fields,
it lives and thrives.
When the bluegrass begins to shoot its gentle sprays to sun,
mint comes, and its sweetest soul drinks at the crystal brook.
It is virgin then.
But soon it must be married to old Bourbon.
His great heart, his warmth of temperament,
and that affinity which no one understands,
demands the wedding.

How shall it be?

Take from the cold spring some water,
pure as angels are;
mix it with sugar till it seems like oil.
Then take a glass
and crush your mint within it with a spoon
– crush it around the borders of the glass
and leave no place untouched.

Then throw the mint away
– it is a sacrifice.
Fill with **** ice the glass;
pour in the quantity of Bourbon which you want.
It trickles slowly through the ice.
Let it have time to cool,
then pour your sugared water over it.
No spoon is needed;
no stirring allowed
– just let it stand a moment.
Then around the brim place sprigs of mint,
so that the one who drinks may find taste and odor at one draft.

“Then when it is made, sip it slowly.
August suns are shining,
the breath of the south wind is upon you.
It is fragrant, cold and sweet – it is seductive.
No maiden’s kiss is tenderer or more refreshing,
no maiden’s touch could be more passionate.
Sip it and dream – you cannot dream amiss.
Sip it and dream – it is a dream itself.
No other land can give so sweet solace for your cares;
no other liquor soothes you in melancholy days

Sip it and say there is no solace for the soul,
no tonic for the body like old Bourbon whiskey.”

                           Anonymous Journalist
                           Lexington Times
                           19th Century

Hendricks Martini and Fried Pickles            
Serves 4 Southerners in New York or 8 New Yorkers in the South

I really wasn’t a gin drinker until I tried Hendricks. It has a lovely breath of cucumber that makes the gin feel as posh as touching a woman’s smooth leg. While I personally may be not confident enough in my manhood to order a drink that comes in the same vessel that I have seen so many Cosmos and Appletinis. However, don’t let my mental defects distract you from what is surely a celebration of life in liquid.

Hendricks Martini;
1 bottle Hendricks Gin
1 bottle Dry Vermouth
Handful of your favorite green olives

Take a Martini Glass and fill it with ice. Fill your cocktail shaker with ice. Start pouring the Hendricks into the shaker and count to 6. Place the top onto the shaker and shake vigorously 50 solid times. Fell free to do the shaking into the air and over your shoulder for a huge show that your friends will never forget. Make sure the top of the shaker is fastened securely or you will be creating a memory that will be tough to ever overcome. Dump the ice out of your glass and pour a ½-ounce of dry vermouth into your glass. Swirl the Vermouth around the glass and dump it out. Place a few olives into the glass and pour the gin into the glass. Only if you have shaken the gin a vigorous 50 times will the magic layer of ice appear on top of the martini. Repeat 3 more times for your guests and 1 more time for yourself.

Fried Pickles;
Dill pickles sliced in any sort of fashion
2 cups flour
1 Tablespoon Kosher salt
1 egg
1 cup milk

Pre-heat a deep fryer to 350 degrees. Place the flour into bowl and season with the salt. In a separate bowl, marry the egg and the milk until it is one smooth mixture. Take 10 or so slices of pickle and dredge into the flour. Then place the dredged pickles into the egg wash. Remove the pickles from the egg wash and dredge again in the flour. Place the pickles into the fryer and fry until lightly golden. Carefully take the pickles out of the fryer and lay onto a paper towel. Place onto a dish and serve with the martinis. Be very mindful to let the pickles cool a bit unless someone you are serving has previously made your ears burn.

“Never trust a man that wears a bow tie or drinks out of a straw.”       Me

Sazerac with Candied Cracklins               
Serves 4 close friends amongst a little gossip

I cannot begin to explain the gastronomic ledge I have thrust myself onto by attempting to publish a recipe for the Sazerac. It is akin to any passionate discussion on BBQ or Gumbo or the Presidency. No matter what you say, somebody is going to get their panties all tied up in a wad. In the darkness, I have included the “options” below and you can find the light on your own.
One thing is for certain: Do not use Bourbon EVER. That would just be a sure sign of poor breeding.

Sugar Cubes
Peychaud bitters
Angostura bitters
1 bottle Rye Whiskey
1 Bottle of Absinthe or Herbsaint
4 strips of Lemon peel

Fill a rocks glass with ice and set aside. Place the sugar cube with just enough water to moisten it into another rocks glass and crush the sugar. Add 4 dashes of Peychauds, 1 DROP of Angostura and 2 ounces of Rye whiskey into the glass with the crushed sugar.   Place a few cubes of ice into the glass with the Whiskey and stir 4 or 5 times to chill. Remove and discard the ice from the first glass. Pour 1/2 ounce of Absinthe or Herbsaint into the chilled glass, turning to perfume the entire inside of the glass. Relieve the glass of the excess Absinthe or Herbsaint. Strain the whiskey into the perfumed glass. Take a piece of your lemon peel and rub the outer portion of the peel over the rim of the glass. Then twist the peel over the top of the drink allowing the oils of the lemon to mist the face of the Sazerac. Don’t commit the sin of dropping the peel into the drink. Serve.

Candied Cracklins;
Pork rind pellets or 1 commercial bag of fried spicy pork rinds
Creole seasoning
Steens cane syrup

Heat your deep fryer to 360 degrees. Sprinkle some of those magical pork rind pellets into the fryer and fry until all are puffed and crispy. Make sure you stir the pellets well and they are completely puffed. An uncooked or even partially cooked pork rind is a certain recipe for a smile tainted with a chipped tooth. Remove the puffed pork rinds from the fryer onto a paper towel and liberally season the rinds with your favorite Creole seasoning. Place a large skillet on top the stove over medium heat. Pour enough cane syrup into the pan to cover the bottom by 1/2 inch. Bring to a simmer and cook for 4-5 minutes. Remove the pan from the stove and stir in one layer of pork rinds. Coat the rinds with the syrup. Place the rinds on some wax paper or a non-stick pan to cool. Once cool, serve with the Sazeracs.

****Cleaning a pan that used to hold caramel is difficult to clean to say the least. Fill the pan with water and bring it to a boil. The stuck cane syrup pieces will come right off in a snap.
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