Gammock: Word of the Day

Gammock, v. intr. To 'lark about', frolic or romp.

1854 MISS BAKER Northants. Gloss. s.v. 'Our John's always going gammocking about.'
1863 SALA Capt. Dangerous I. viii. 225, I was gammocking in a hayfield with another lass.

Dixie's Land 12.3

Previous    First

[Concluding chapter twelve]

“We’re not going to be safe up here for too long,” Sherman said. “I can feel the heat through my boots and socks.”

“We don’t have to be here long,” Grant told him. “Just long enough to work out a way to cross to the roof of that building there.” He pointed to the building he’d chosen as the likeliest refuge. It was a bit short to be ideal; getting the wounded Canadian across to safety was going to be a problem. But at least up here they could breathe while he thought. So my getting caught breaking in here paid off. If he hadn’t followed Macartey that evening, he’d have never known about the stairs to the roof.

“How far do you reckon we’ll have to jump?” the Irishman Cleburne asked. “I make it about eight feet across, and a good three or four feet down.” Cleburne, Grant had learned, had served in a British infantry regiment, which explained the man’s bearing and his coolness in this crisis.

“I think you’ve about got it,” Grant said. “Maybe not so big a jump across, but definitely a bit of a drop. I’m not sure your friend Stewart will be able to handle it.”

“He’s got a bad leg from a battle wound,” Cleburne said. “But he’s a pretty tough boy. I’m not worried about him. It’s Captain Menard I’m stumped about.”

“We could always try to wait it out,” Sherman said, smiling now. “Hear that?” The bells of New Orleans had begun ringing.

“Do you feel like waiting, Cump?” Grant asked him. “I don’t.”

Calicular: Word of the Day

Calicular, a. [f. L. calicul -us, dim. of calix a cup  + AR] See also CALYCULAR. Resembling a little cup. Obs.

1658 SIR T. BROWN Gard. Cyrus iii. 124 Contemplating the calicular shafts [of the tease] and uncous disposure of their extremities.

[Uncous disposure? Not as rude as I'd hoped, alas. Just means their extremities are disposed of in a curvilinear fashion -MS]

Getting Drafty In Here

When asked for advice, I have been known to recommend outlining novels before sitting down to write them. I have also been known to warn that no outline survives first contact with the writing process.

Lately I have been forced to amend this homily slightly. No first draft, and few second drafts either, survives contact with the editorial process. Or even with self-assessment.

Last fall I was extremely enthusiastic about the pace of my current project (sometimes known, apparently, as a WIP or Work In Progress). As of the autumnal solstice I had written something like 94,000 words, two-thirds of the projected length (the novel is something of a bildungsroman, if I can say so without seeming pretentious) and things seemed to be going well.

Then, before beginning work on the third act, I sat myself down and reread what I'd done thus far. Not a great move.

I wound up scrapping the entire middle third of the book, along with all of the new viewpoint characters I'd introduced. (The characters are still there, but we no longer get inside their heads, at least not in the middle third.) I've just finished a complete rewrite of that second act, and now I am being given to understand, by the editorial committee that is my writing group, that the first part also needs a drastic rewrite, and not just the tweaking I'd anticipated requiring.

So now I'm working on a third draft, and thus far nobody has seen more of the book than the first dozen chapters or so.

Thing is, this oughtn't to bother me. A Tangled Weave (order now, order often, etc. &c.) is a much, much better book following the editorial process than it was beforehand. In fact, I now realize it's something of a miracle that Robert Runte accepted the novel in the first place, given what I actually submitted to him.

I guess I just thought I'd be completing projects much faster, now that I'm writing full-time. At this rate, the current project isn't going to be in shape for sending out until sometime in late 2020. And I've got other things I want to be working on. <cries bitter tears, feels sorry for self>

Dixie's Land 12.2

Previous    First

[continuing chapter twelve]

Stewart thought for a moment that the blow had killed the Federal captain, but Grant’s back rose and fell slightly as he lay in the dust and rubble on the crude wooden floor. That meant he was still breathing. For now, at least.

“Easy, there.” The man who’d spoken to Grant gestured, with Stewart’s Colt, toward Grant’s red-haired friend—he’d taken both pistols from the unconscious Federal captain. There was another revolver in the waist-band of the man’s trousers. “Don’t want to do anything rash now, do we?”

“Depends,” growled Grant’s friend. “Is tearing your head off rash?”

“Mr. Sherman, is it? You should take this as a lesson, you know. Stay out of politics. It’s not your game.”

“And this is not what I’d call politics,” Stewart said. “Who are you and what do you think you’re doing?”

“My name’s Macartey,” the man said. “I own this building. And I believe that what I’m doing is dealing with trespassers in the way my people have always dealt with them.”

“Thank God you showed up,” Brown said, walking briskly to where Macartey stood. “That lunatic was just going to let these men walk away, before I’d finished with my prisoner.”

“Well, I’d say their plans have changed,” Macartey said. “And they’re not the only ones. Boy?”

Velleity: Word of the Day

Velleity, v. Obs. rare—. [ad.med.L velleitat-, velleitas, f. L. velle to will, wish: see ITY.]

1. The fact or quality of merely willing, wishing or desiring, without any effort or advance towards action or realization.

1768 TUCKER Lt. Nat. (1834) I. 10. Velleity can scarce be called a power, for a power which never operates is no power at all.

2. With a. and pl. A mere wish, desire or inclination without accompanying action or effort.
Very common in the 17th c.; now somewhat rare.

[This one's for Karl Schroeder, who actually uses it quite a bit—which is quite meta, in its own way. -MS]

Dixie's Land Chapter Twelve

Previous    First

TWELVE

The sun had set, but there was still a bit of light in the western sky. Enough to see by, at least, and to identify the building into which Thomas’s informants suggested Patton had been taken.

Stewart looked carefully at Cleburne. The man had insisted on coming with him—“to see this through” was how he’d put it—but Stewart wasn’t entirely sure he was comfortable with that. Cleburne had been a great help thus far, true. But he was still Irish. Would Cleburne’s loyalties, when the push came, be to a man he’d known for just a few days? Or would they be to blood and home?

“All’s clear,” Cleburne said, turning to face Stewart. “If we’re going in, now’s the time. Are you sure?”

“Yes.” He wasn’t, not really. But he had no choice. It wasn’t as if you could just walk up to this Macartey fellow and ask for permission to search his warehouse on the off-chance that one of your friends was being held prisoner there by Federal spies. Stewart just hoped that the precautions he’d taken were going to be sufficient. “Let’s go.”

It was his idea, so Stewart took upon himself the task of breaking the lock on the front door. This proved to be easy; perhaps cotton was just too difficult to steal to make solid locks a priority for a cotton warehouse.

Cinnamon Mini Buns

Overall Rating: 79

This product seemingly has everything going for it. So why don’t we want to buy any more of it?

Image from the Institute collection

Appearance

A clever idea. Kellogg’s has picked an easy-to-duplicate shape and done it well. Each piece of cereal is composed of a strand of dough wrapped into a spiral to resemble a tiny, sweet sticky-bun. The colour’s not quite right, though. Something with the word cinnamon in its name should at least look as if it contains some of that spice. These are so pale in colour they almost look albino.

Texture and Taste, Dry

Good, firm resistance. Mouthfeel is crunchy without any sharp edges leading to risk of mandible laceration. This product is the right size and shape for serious snacking, and its corn-oat flour makeup is calculated not to cloy. You could eat a fair amount of this without your teeth sticking together. But would you want to? Something is missing from this concoction, and that something is cinnamon.

Texture and Taste, With Milk

The light but firm crunch holds up well in milk. The corn flour is in perfect balance with the oat so this stuff is not too heavy. But the flavour balance is off. “Cinnamon” is the very last listing on the ingredients list, and while it’s true a little cinnamon goes a long way, it could have gone a little further in this case. This stuff hardly tastes of cinnamon at all, and the sweetness completely overwhelms what spiciness there is. Sugar is all well and fine in its place, but let’s remember this product’s name; if they’d called it something like “Sugar-Loaded Spirals” Sucrophile wouldn’t be complaining. As much.

Conclusion

It’s a perfect adequate bowlful, but in the absence of any flavour to really set it apart, Cinnamon Mini Buns is no different than the rest of the pack. It’s like a Russian figure-skater: it gets top marks for technical expertise, but there’s absolutely no artistic merit in its presentation. If you like cinnamon, stick with Cinnamon Toast Crunch. This rates only two points lower than CTC, but there’s a lot in those two points. [November 1992]

Dixie's Land 11.3

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[Concluding chapter eleven]

"Where's Thomas?" Stewart fought rising panic and the urge to look behind the seats and under the carriage; no point in looking foolish when it was clear the slave was gone. His first thought was that the Federal spies had taken Thomas as well as Patton.

Then he realized the more likely reason for Thomas's disappearance, and was ashamed at his stupidity. "Damn it, he's run. I should never have left him out here alone."

"Don't be so sure," Cleburne said. "If your boy really wanted to run, Stewart, he's had ample opportunity before now."

"You don't know the way they think," Stewart muttered. "Why did I have to be so stupid?"

"Why don't you ask Thomas himself?" Cleburne said, the sly grin apparent in the tone of his voice. "There he is, with those workmen up the street."

Dixie's Land 11.2

Previous    First

[Continuing chapter eleven]

"This is the sort of street I’d hoped to live on some day," Cleburne said. They stood on a sidewalk along a street of large, new houses. Some were brick, some were wood, and all were bigger than anything Stewart had seen, Arran aside.

"Which one's the U.S. legation?" Stewart wasn't in the mood for a lecture on architecture.

"Down at the end of the block," Cleburne said. "Right on the corner."

"I'm inclined to just walk in and demand to see Patton," Stewart said.

"Not a bad idea, if you're prepared to make a scene. Otherwise, you might ask to see Mr. Brown. Or Captain Brown. Do you think he's in the Federal Army, the way O'Driscoll said?"

"If he's a spy and he wants to avoid being hanged, he pretty much has to be a soldier," Stewart said. "I wouldn't guarantee that he's an officer, though. What he's been doing hardly qualifies as gentlemanly behavior."

"Only the Confederacy demands that an officer be a gentleman," Cleburne said with a narrow smile. "You and the British, that is. The United States are probably more interested in what a man can do than they are in how much money a man has or who his friends are."

Words of the Day: A Note to Self

Despite a perhaps laudable intention to choose words for this occasional feature at random, do not attempt to induce randomness by allowing a volume of the compact OED to fall open where it will.

Where it will fall is sadly likely to be upon one's foot. Ouch.

Dixie's Land Chapter Eleven

Previous    First

"All along, I've been telling those idiot Ribbonmen that I didn't want to get involved in their queer politics," Cleburne said, sotto voce. "And here I am mixed up in them anyway, thanks to you."

"It wasn't my idea, I assure you." Stewart pitched his voice equally low. "What do you think? A successful reconnaissance? I count two asleep on the floor in the main room, and the door at back is definitely not bolted."

"Two? I only saw one."

"The other's under a table near the back," Stewart said. "That, or someone left a pair of boots under the table, toes-up."

"In we go, then."

The Jetsons Cereal

Overall Rating: 46

A very half-hearted attempt to exploit what I would have thought a thoroughly un-exploitable TV series. Unremarkable in the extreme.

Image from the Institute collection

Appearance

This one explodes on the launch pad. Once again Ralston Purina (the Cat Chow people!) try to get cute in a medium that really resists complicated cleverness. Not even the simple crescent and star shapes this product attempts come out well. And the package Sucrophile sampled contained several great horking lumps of dessicated sugar-corn syrup-apple mixture in which deformed bits of cereal were embedded like roaches in amber. How’d you like a big lump of that as part of your Balanced Breakfast, kiddies?

Texture and Taste, Dry

In trying to be all things to all people, this product is made of wheat, oat, corn and rice flours. The result is something that might have been light enough to make innocuous snacking material―except the pieces are too small to be easily picked up. There’s little in the way of crunch, and the mouthfeel is like Stein’s Oakland: there’s no there there. It’s gone almost before you realize you’ve bitten down.

Texture and Taste, With Milk

What taste? The ingredients list claims there are real dried apple bits with cinnamon in this product, but you’d have to have a gas chromatograph to detect any. What little flavour there is when milk is added seems to be coming from malt. Since many sweetened cereals contain malt, there’s absolutely no reason to eat this instead of just about any other product. The crunch (what there is of it) holds up reasonably well in milk, but that alone is not enough to recommend this product for anything save possibly an emergency substitute for cat-litter.

Conclusion

I never liked “The Jetsons” as a TV series. The spin-off cereal is exactly like the animation that inspired it: endlessly repetitive, with neither character nor a single original moment to justify your spending any time at all with it. When all you can say about a cereal is that at least it’s sweeter than Kaboom!, then you’ve got problems. Pass the Dino Pebbles, please. [November 1992]

Obligatory Unboxing Pic, Post

Photo by Hib Novotny. Poor focus by the author. All tights and most lefts reserved. Void where prohibited by lore.

A Tangled Weave isn't scheduled to be available for purchase until 1 August, but review copies and ARCs are now being sent out. Along with a handful of copies to the author of the work in question. Such a pleasure to open a fresh box of one's own books; I hope I never grow tired of it.

Incidentally, ATW is available for pre-order now from Five Rivers. Order now! I am given to understand that operators are, in some sense or other, standing by.

Dixie's Land 10.3

Previous    First

[Concluding chapter ten]

"There's two men," the madam told them. Laughter and the clink of glasses sounded discordant to Stewart. They had decided, driving back to the brothel, to keep the news of their grisly discovery to themselves, at least for the time being. It was making for a strange interview, because the madam still referred to Kathleen in the present tense. "The first is just another Irish bastard," she said. "A lout named Jimmy O'Driscoll who pulls taps at the Harp on Gravier near Poydras. He used to be one of her regulars when she worked for me. To be honest, I thought she was still seeing him."

"I've heard of him," Cleburne said. To Stewart he added, "Chap has friends in Corduroy Alley, if you follow me."

"Interesting," Stewart said. "What about the second man? Did he drive out Mr. O'Driscoll?"

"That's the thing surprised me," the woman said. "This other fellow's a looker. But it was O'Driscoll who introduced him to me—this would be about a week or so ago, I guess.” Around the time we first met Marie-Anne, Stewart thought. “They were looking for Kathleen, O'Driscoll said. And I couldn't figure out why, unless O'Driscoll had dropped her, or taken to pimping. Because the Yankee was so good looking, I couldn't see O'Driscoll wanting to put him in the same room as his woman."

Dixie's Land 10.2

Previous    First

[Continuing chapter ten]

The word came in early evening. Grant, thinking that his guess had been incorrect, was getting ready for the depressing walk back to his rooms when a quiet knock on his office door announced the arrival of one of the legation servants.

This was no Irishman; Grant had been cultivating the negro staff for several days now, and it was a gardener who stood in his doorway when Grant opened the door. “It’s happening like you said it would, Cap’n,” the man said with a sly grin. “Wagon’s just pulled up to the back gate, and they putting the boy in the back, wrapped up.”

“Thank you, Isaiah,” he said. “Remember, this is just between you and me.”

“’Course, Cap’n,” Isaiah said. “It was fun. Thanks for askin’ me to help.”

Grant hurried, as quietly as possible, to an office on the third floor. It was, ironically, enough, Major Brown’s office, and it provided a splendid prospect of the rear of the big house. Grant reached the window just in time to see a canvas tarpaulin being stretched over a carpet-wrapped bundle laid in the back of a wagon. The bundle was the right shape and size for a man, but it didn’t move. Surely they haven’t killed him, Grant thought. I couldn’t keep silent if they have. On second thought, he decided, it was more likely they’d drugged Patton. He was much less dangerous to everyone alive than he was dead.

Dixie's Land Chapter Ten

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TEN

“I’m sorry, monsieur, but it couldn’t have been me,” Marie-Anne said. “I was on stage at the time.”

The women seemed to have recovered from their shock, Marie-Anne's at learning that Patton had disappeared, and Pauline's at seeing what had been done to Stewart. He knew it was ridiculous, but he'd felt somehow proud when telling her of being attacked. At least he thought it was pride; what else could account for the flush of pleasure he'd experienced when she'd touched his bruised face and whispered of her fear for him with such sincerity? He'd been so sure, two days ago, that his duty to Colonel Walker would demolish any feelings he had for this woman. Seeing her now made him a world less sure of that.

"You're sure this mystery woman was a—a woman of the town?" Pauline asked.

"The Creole lady I spoke to seemed pretty sure of it," Stewart said. "I just assumed that, living across the street from a brothel, she would know." Cleburne snorted, having failed to completely suppress a laugh.

"I'm not sure why your next thought was to speak to me," Pauline said carefully.

How We Do It: A Look Inside Sucrophile

In response to a cascade of requests (okay, to one request, but from a really nice person), here is the truth (we swear it) about how Sucrophile is prepared, review after review.

We here at the Sucrophile Institute (also known as the Hyperkinesis Institute) are firm believers in a rigorous structure for consistent, scientific making it up as we go along. Therefore, we endeavour to ensure that each test of a product (as we like to call the junk, or kiddyrot, cereals) is performed under conditions that come as close as possible to duplicating the conditions under which all the other tests were conducted. Right down to wearing the same clothes. Without washing. This bathrobe is starting to develop language skills, in fact.

Fortunately, the Institute has a fairly
large collection of recorded animated
programming (image in public domain)

Testing occurs in two phases and takes place in two different rooms. The first phase, the Natural Test, takes place in the sitting room [now the library], sitting (in front of the television). The choice of programming varies* somewhat, so long as it meets the following criteria: a) it must be animated, and punctuated with loud, shrill commercials selling dolls that poop or mermaids that yodel; b) it must be utterly mindless (for which, see a) above).

The second phase, the Lab Test, takes place in front of the computer, with a slight horizontal deviation in order to place the keyboard out of the path of the milk and cereal should it somehow spill. The Lab Test phase is sometimes known as the Do It Again Because You Forgot Whether You Liked It And It’s Three Hours To Posting Time phase. Duplicating testing in this way helps to ensure accuracy of data, much the way that Dr. Robert Gallo ensured the accuracy of his data while discovering HIV†.

Examining new kiddyrot product in the

Institute test facilities.

(Photo by Do-Ming Lum)

In all test phases the same equipment is used. The spoon is a Hakka Number 2 teaspoon, a Finland-made product chosen for its relatively flat, narrow bowl; this facilitates transfer of the product to the mouth without allowing for disruption caused by mustache or beard. The Hakka is prized for its non-specular brushed stainless steel finish. The cereal bowl is made of high-tech Pyrex and is higher-sided than standard cereal bowls. This allows the bouquet of the cereal to circulate as the product oxidizes under the influence of the lactic acid in the milk. Only 2% milk is used, in order that the taste of the product not be compromised by excessive lipids from higher-butterfat dairy products.

The procedure followed is likewise rigorously controlled. Two handsful of the dry cereal are consumed for the Dry portion of each testing phase. Each handful is removed from the box, without the use of any other implement. In this way our testers are able to perform a quick yet incisive assessment of the “handiness” of the product. Two handsful of the cereal provide all the input needed for the expert sucrophile to pass judgement on the product’s dry performance. The first handful is judged on flavour, aroma (if any) and relative sweetness. The second is judged for texture, mouthfeel and resistance to the bit. The second handful also provides a quick reference for the product’s ability to stand up to prolonged snacking―does it cause the teeth to stick together, for example, or is gum laceration a risk?

For the With Milk portion of each test phase, the product is poured into the test bowl to the volume of 250 millilitres (ml). Then 125 ml of 2% milk is added and the combination given one stir with the test spoon, in order to maximize product exposure to the milk. After the stir, a delay of five seconds is imposed, to allow the milk to begin to penetrate the product. Then the product is consumed at a slow, steady pace (while watching the animated programming), in order to provide the best opportunity for the product to show how well it stands up to milk, while maximizing the likelihood the tester will become so absorbed in the onscreen wackiness as to utterly vacate the premises, intellectually speaking. Since 250 ml of product provides more chewing opportunities, the tester usually devotes alternate spoonsful to flavour and texture tastings. In all cases, careful notes are kept on the backs of envelopes, old newspapers, outgoing mail and bills we’re hoping to ignore. These notes are then carefully lost.

The end result of this painstaking procedure is a series of data that we at the Institute feel provides the sort of detailed and careful analysis that sweetened breakfast cereals and their consumers deserve. We thank you for placing your faith in the integrity of the Institute, and if you have a favourite cereal you’d like to see very favourably reviewed, please get in touch. No cheques, please.

[November 1992; revised March 2019]

*Conditions have altered since this was written back in 1992. The Institute dropped its cable television subscription years ago, Broadcast television likewise stopped broadcasting cartoons in the early ‘90s, for the most part (the cartoons still airing on public networks such as TVO and PBS definitely do not count). Fortunately the Institute retains a significant collection of recorded Saturday Morning Cartoons. And the brainless TV ads can still be found on YouTube, if that’s your idea of a good time.

†Arbitrary historical reference. Look it up! Read a book!

La centenaire, it's the order of the day

I started this blog in November of 2018. I had intended to start it last September, but I held off because I was worried I wouldn't have anything to say.

This week I published my one hundredth post to the blog, just over four months in.

I would say that my worries were at best exaggerated. At worst, I might just have a loquaciousness problem I'm going to have to deal with.

Eventually.

Now We Are Sixty-Four: IV

STINKER

Stinker―what I call him―is an ID of my own,

And Stinker is the reason why I’m never all alone.

Trolling through the internet, wading through the slime,

Stinker’s who I am when I am wasting people’s time.

Oh, you may think you’re clever, you’re the smartest of the smart

And folks online may love you and may take you to their heart

And moderators moderate and try to play their part―

But they can’t

Stop

Stinker.

Stinker’s always posting, ‘cos he likes to take the piss

And he never stops to worry what his friends will make of this.

Or if his friends might think he’s not got too much on the ball,

But that’s because he really hasn’t any friends at all.

Oh, you might think you’re clever, with your massive store of facts,

Your style is always pleasant, and your tone never detracts,

And moderators love you and they won’t give you the axe―

But they don’t

Faze

Stinker.

Stinker’s brave as Braveheart when you don’t know who he is;

Stinker’s brave as Tories when the suff’ring isn’t his;

Stinker’s brave as Anarchy. His mood is always fine …

Except when people call him out: it’s then you’ll hear him whine.

Oh, you’re all of you so witty, you’re a clever sort of folk,

Though you would never say it, it might even be you’re woke;

Except it seems to both of us you just can’t take a joke―

When it comes

From

Stinker.

Stinker doesn’t care for facts; it’s only how he feels,

That justifies the content of the ranting that he spiels.

So he will make up anything to counter claims by you,

And double down on anger when you say it isn’t true.

Well, you may say I waste your time, that I’m too much to bear;

And you may think you’re not like me, but I say that’s not fair,

‘Cos all of us have secret selves, a Stinker we all share ...

Yes, Stinker is the worst of us, and Stinker’s always there.

Dixie's Land 9.4

Previous    First

[Concluding chapter nine]

Grant set his shoulders square and approached the door. He dreaded this confrontation, but he’d run out of excuses for delaying it. He knocked, hoping against hope that there’d be no answer and he could go back to trying to settle the situation on his own.

“What is it?” Colonel Van Doncken asked from behind the door, and Grant felt himself droop a little. He opened the door and stepped into the colonel’s office. “We have a serious problem,” he said.

“It can’t be so serious that you need to interrupt my work,” Van Doncken said. “This report has to be on the five o’clock packet to Cairo, Captain Grant, and you’re going to prevent me from meeting that deadline.”

“With all due respect, sir, I think this is a bit more serious than a routine report.” Van Doncken bristled and flushed, but Grant didn’t let him speak. “Major Brown and Captain Connell have kidnapped a Confederate soldier, sir. They’re hiding him here. In the ministry.”

Dixie's Land 9.3

Previous    First

[Continuing chapter nine]

"Ponsonby Street, eh?" Cleburne wrung out the cloth he'd been using; the water, Stewart was pleased to see, showed only a trace of pink now. Cleburne had dropped everything he'd been working on, and shooed several customers from his shop, when Stewart was brought in. While he'd worked cleaning cuts and inspecting bruises, Stewart had told him everything, from his suspicions of being followed through the evening spent with Pauline and Marie-Anne that had indirectly led to Patton's fateful visit to Beacon's. Stewart had thought it prudent, though, to refrain from suggesting why it was that he and Patton might have seemed so interesting to whoever had taken Patton.

If it had occurred to Cleburne to wonder about this, though, Stewart saw no evidence in his expression as he returned with the cloth freshly soaked in cold water. "You seem to have the damnedest luck, boyo," Cleburne said. "What happened to you today definitely doesn't happen to most visitors here. Not unless they're foolish enough to actually go into Ponsonby Street or The Swamp, that is." Then the cool wet of the cloth was on Stewart's forehead again, and the pain of the cut over his eye diminished.

"What are you going to give me for my leg?" he asked. "It feels broken."

"It isn't broken, you sad specimen. It isn't even that badly banged up. So I'm not going to give you anything except maybe a good stiff drink. They hit you right on the bone, thank God."

Beskyfte: Word of the Day

Beskyfte, v. Obs. rare—. [f. BE- 3 + ME. skyfte : see SHIFT.] trans. To thrust off.

1470-85 MALORY Arthur (1817) L 91 She coude not beskyfte hym by no means.

Why are so many of these words obsolete? They all seem perfectly cromulent to me; I am going to try manfully to use more of them, more frequently. I shall not be beskyfted from this goal. -MS

Dixie's Land 9.2

Previous    First

[Continuing chapter nine]

Beacon's was a house on Burgundy Street a few doors river-ward of Hospital Street, in the north-eastern part of the old city. The size and style of the houses suggested that this neighborhood might once have been the home to many of New Orleans's wealthier Creoles. It had definitely suffered in recent years. Stewart stared at the narrow, three-storey buildings, hoping that somehow concentration might illuminate the course of action he should take. He'd spent the half-hour riding here from his hotel trying to develop a plan of approach that wouldn't frighten off a potential source of information, or warn a potential culprit, or place him in any danger in either case. For the first time since leaving Richmond he was out of uniform, wearing the suit his parents had bought for him when he'd gone away to school. It felt odd to be in civilian clothes after so long, but he had learned how much attention the uniform could draw, and it was important now to be as unobtrusive as possible.

His carefully prepared plan vanished in a cloud of embarrassment and distraction when he was introduced to Mrs. Beacon. A tall, stocky woman wearing bright green, she was possibly the ugliest person of either sex Stewart had ever seen. Her hair had been dyed an unlikely shade of red, her cheeks were rouged in a way that would have looked obvious even on stage, and there was a trace of a mustache on her upper lip—the reddened, puffy skin around it suggested that she was forever trying to remove the unwanted hair. Looking at her broad-shouldered form, stuffed into the green dress like a badly made sausage, it was impossible not to see her as a man dressed in woman's clothes—an image further strengthened when she offered him a hand that in size and roughness would do a meat-packer proud.

Destrayt: Word of the Day

Destrayt Obs. also -te, -tte. [a. OF destreit (-ait, -oit), Mod.F. détroit, 'a strait, a narrow place or passage, a defile, a confined place.' :- late pop. L. district-um, from districtus, tight, strict, severe,  pa. pple. of distringêre, to DISTRAIN : cf. DISTRICT] A narrow pass or defile.

1481 CAXTON Godfrey clxv. 244 The day after passed they by a moche sharp & aspre way, & after descended by a destrayt into a playne. c 1500 Melusine lvii, 336 On the morn he passed the destraytte & mounted the mountaynes.

Zwanziger: Word of the Day

Zwanziger, [G., f. zwanzig twenty + er, masc. adj. ending.] An Austrian silver coin, equivalent to twenty kreutzers.

1828 R. CRAIG in Mem. viii. (1862) 151 A passenger pays a zwanzig[er] of 17½ sous of France per hour. 1841 BROWNING Pippa Passes II, I possess a burning pocketful of zwanzigers. 1866 HOWELLS Venet. Life xix Lest the fervid imagination of the gondolier rise to zwanzigers and florins.

Dixie's Land Chapter Nine

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NINE

Stewart awoke to thumping. Pulling himself out of bed, he wiped his eyes with one hand while wrestling aside the mosquito-net with the other. Stop hammering, he thought. I'm coming as fast as I can. He could have said the words aloud, he realized, but that would require more energy than he had just now.

Thomas was on the other side of the door, his eyes wide. "There's trouble, Mr. Charles sir," he said. "Mr. Patton's gone and no-one knows where. He didn't come home last night, and now the general's yelling for you. He's going to be sending someone to fetch you; I came to warn you as soon as I could."

"Wait a minute." This was too much, too fast. "Did you say Patton's gone?"

Subsannate: Word of the Day

Subsannate, v. Obs. [f. late L. subsannat-, pa. ppl. stem of subsannare, fr. sub- SUB- 2I + sanna mocking grimace.] trans. To deride, mock. Hence Subsannation, mockery, derision. Subsannator, a mocker.
1656 BLUNT glossogr, Subsannate, to scorn or mock with bending the Brows, or snuffing up the nose.

Froot Loops Birthday Cake Flavour

Image courtesy of Chris Smith. This box is
not going into the Institute's collection, folks.

Overall Rating: 40
This is why you don't mess with success.

Appearance
The pink! It burns!

Seriously, though: what happened to the happy riot of colour that was the Loops? These monochrome donuts are dyed a colour that's not quite pink, not quite fuchsia, and not likely to impress anyone outside of the Disney Princess crowd.

Then there's the scent. Well, the smell. Birthday Cake Froot Loops smell like despair and the death of hope at a junior high school dance, at least when you first open the box. We suppose it's a good thing, then, that the very strong hint of artificial strawberry on the nose vanishes within a few days. And we suspect this stuff might still be taking up space in the pantry after a few days.

Taste and Texture, Dry
What taste? This product doesn't even taste overwhelmingly sweet out of the box. And there isn't a hint of anything fruit-like to it. Or froot-like, for that matter: the citric-acid blast of what we will now refer to as real Froot Loops is not even a memory here. There's a good light crunch that would justify a bit of mindless snacking while watching some of the more forgettable Hanna-Barbera creations of the mid-1960s (Peter Potamus, I'm looking at you), but for high-quality animation, save yourself for something better.

Taste and Texture, With Milk
Okay, adding milk does unveil a slight hint of vanilla that's not too unpleasant. And the oxidizing that takes place once the bag has been opened reduces the initial, overwhelming, fake-strawberry misery to the point where it's just tolerable. The product holds its crunch reasonably well (a good thing, because it took us longer than it should have to finish our test bowl); at the same time the oat flour is not to horribly in evidence. This is all faint praise, though: while there have certainly been kiddyrot cereals much, much worse than this, it's not really a compliment to say so. And while we at the Institute like birthday cake (we've certainly eaten enough of it), we would not want even a small slice of a cake that tasted like this.

Conclusion
Is the modern kiddyrot marketplace so jaded that even a cereal as classic as Froot Loops has to be mucked around with? This regrettable exercise is (supposedly) going to vanish from the shelves fairly soon. It won't be soon enough.

Dixie's Land 8.4

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[Concluding chapter eight]

Grant was amazed at McConnell’s ability to hold his liquor. The Irishman—his face nearly as red now as his hair—moved easily through the crowded streets of the Irish Channel, without so much as a wobble. If I’d taken that much on board, Grant thought, I’d have foundered an hour ago.

He didn’t have to check to be sure that Sherman was with him; Cump was a good man to have at your back. He did find himself, though, keeping a wary eye for either Macartey or the watch. It would be just like the man to have had me followed.

Grant had expected McConnell to be heading further riverward, but the man confounded him by suddenly shifting in the opposite direction, so that he was headed downtown and away from the river. This was curious. From what D’Arcy McGee had told him, the Irish secret societies didn’t spend much time amongst the Creoles. There were Irish gangs in the French Quarter, but they were what you’d expect in a port city: ruffians who preyed on the sailors and anyone else fool enough to venture into a two-block Hades called Ponsonby Street.

Comade: Word of the Day

Not an especially complicated word, but how can I resist a word the editors of the OED could not find a single definition for?

Comade Obs. Also comad, commade
? comand. (Meaning uncertain)
c 1430 Cookery Bks. 48 Take Gyngere, canelle, & melle wyl þi commade þer-with. Ibid. 56 Dry þin cofyn, & caste þin comade þer-on. Ibid. Þan take hardend cofyns, & pore þin comade þer-on. 14.. Noble Bk. Cookry (Napier 1882) 26 And when the pot boilithe put the comand to the broth.