Can You Die From Gential

friends fish fish, fish markets and fishmongers



Dear friends who read me (do not know if be one in this August boiling or soaking, depending on where you look "). I thought, something that sometimes happens but then I hurt the dendrites of habit, that fish and edible subgenera were a proper subject for a warm summer afternoon (dear people of the southern hemisphere, and you know you are congelándoos, but make or not, think and enjoy next January). Serve splendid photo sturgeon, which have in a tank in Moscow GUM store, as cover.

To me, why should I lie, rather than the fish I like fish, well preparaditos, grilled, fried, baked on skewers ... but this does not mean that I mayest live specimens, in fact, years ago (many, rediez), a girlfriend gave me a tank with goldfish were baptized inmediantemente Zinoviev and Kamenev (things of the young and the "Zeitgeist" of the time). The poor overnight commit suicide by jumping from the tank while his trusted owner (MEND) slept soundly. Since then, only I care about the fish that are ready to be consumed, as I said before.

On the topic, I'll mention two books that have changed my life. The first is a incunable not think you can easily find today. I bought it in Veracruz and taught me many things, such as different names of fish in each site, in addition to many interesting recipes, such as red snapper in the Veracruz and more:




The second I bought it in London, "Borders" (for once was in Waterstone's). This maybe what you can find. It is interesting, examines the history of cod fishing from a historical and sociological view. Account, for example, that "arrantzales" chasing Basques Newfoundland cod reached long before Columbus, but fell silent as dead so that no one stepped on fisheries:



One issue that has always interested me and I do not stop if I have time to visit when traveling, are the fisheries. In other blog entries and I have put photos of fishmongers in Helsinki and in Cape Verde. I'm not going to repeat, which is getting this post pesadota and are about ten photos. For example:



A fish market in Almaty (Kazakhstan). I still dream of the fishmongers in some warm nights. So smiling, so immortalized, so obviously sympathetic, and that they did not buy anything.



A fishmonger in Trouville (Normandy). There, they have everything, designed especially for those coming from Paris weekend (Deauville-Trouville is a traditional site for the Paris vacation) and I will prepare a frigolite box with ice. I was not going to Paris, but from Brussels, but nevertheless sold me a good turbot and langoustines well packaged.



Selling Colchester oysters in the tower London, beside the Thames. Delicious, God help me.




A supernercado in Tokyo. As shown, human contact is not his forte. You can not tell the fishmonger: "Ehhhh, Manu, I pongah that Bisho, to Tie the eye could"




The fish of "Harrods" in London. Although not go to buy anything, once you've seen the kitsch of the monument dedicated to Diana and Dodo the Fayed, do not miss stopping by the "food hall". They are spectacular.





The cod boutique in Madrid. I have never entered, but I've always liked his appearance.




And finally, here is the picture of a fish shop in Brussels. You must imagine what nationality is the owner. I must say that I took the picture a few days of the World Cup, not all year and passed.


and nothing else, I think for now, enough is enough. You'll have a good weekend.




Fisherman Blues. The Waterboys

Court House T Queens Blvd

Ishtar and death and forgetfulness



I


Sumerian legend relates that on the death disappeared from the garden of eternal dawn, the birds did not encourage the world with their songs, the crickets and cicadas were silent, the wild blueberries did not come to fruition and rattles of rattlesnakes monody chanted a brutal blood-curdling in my veins. Had disappeared adventure and interest. The world became gray and opaque forever. Since that day, nor seen again the beautiful Ishtar, the girl that inspired the garden with their songs and laughter, illuminating the shadowy corners with their joy, their dances and their heady scent. Many were worried

the priests of Ur and Chaldea during the centuries that followed this terrible event, praying to Marduk, chief of the gods, trying to offer sacrifices at the top of the Zigurath (with a null result, because there was no way to run or lambs or goats or Babylonian prisoners) (1) and asking him to death again, that does not abandon his people, that the youngster had over 768 years and were all a little sick and tired.


II

The oracle had announced to her parents, Sin, moon god, and Nannar, the moon that Ishtar was to be a nympho carefully. To them, they were pretty frigid, "the prospect horrifies them, so the child being placed in the garden of eternal dawn, surrounded by swans, bright butterflies, jumping ciervecillos of songbirds and other kitsch that had been in that kind of Eden. Not a shadow of human male or centaur, or even an elf. And so it grew Ishtar, happy, until one day he began to feel strange sensations in your body and spirit. He wanted to tell the birds, but even if you did, still with its harmonious trills. He spoke to the deer, but were limited to her with his sad eyes. Cried to heaven. Both cried, that death who was there that day, heard his cries and went to see what happened.

Ishtar, delighted to talk to someone finally asked, Death, what's wrong? I feel I need love, that my body is twisted at night, my soul suffers ... tell me, death, what is it about love? Death, completely blown away by the beauty of the maid, looked with blank eyes and spoke of the meaning of love and death as the culmination (2). Ishtar, fascinated, fell into his arms, fused with her and in his delirium flew together into another dimension.



III Centuries later, Marduk, the chief of all the gods began to pity his elderly subjects that also not allowed to sleep at home all day making grilled with their prayers and incense. Cursing up as road every time they broke the knife going to execute a sheep or a chicken. Enough of such murga! "He said and called the death of his voice: Muerteeeeeee! And was soft! Fifteen centuries have you frolicking with Ishtar's no tomorrow! I will give you something! Come, come back to earth, they need you! And you, Ishtar, too! And seeing how good it gives you this scroll, you name God of love and fertility. Hale, down.




Epilogue that day, two hundred died millions of humans at a stretch. To organize it well, death rode a deluge that left no puppet head (3) Ishtar was devoted to his own, but always said that never happened to anyone as it happened when she was dead (4)

Notes:


(1) What was a nuisance, because he had to feed more and more prisoners and there was no way to kill chickens or chickens.

(2) The death and knew that many centuries later, Georges Bataille would write things like that.

(3) Some authors claim that survived as Noah, but this end is to be confirmed.

(4) De ahí viene el dicho: ¡Lo he pasado de muerte!

Beauty Therapist Cover Letter Examples

Atonement




Expiación, como todos sabéis, queridos amigos que me escucháis (es que yo ya me oigo disertando en mitad de la plaza de mi pueblo), es una gran novela de Ian MacEwan, que es ese señor que aparece en la foto de cobertura, con esa cara de profesor de matemáticas. Despiste, es el mío, y ahora os explico por qué.

Me habían regalado hace años (no voy a decir quien, que luego todo se sabe, las paredes oyen y los ordenatas son una ventana abierta) la versión castellana, de editorial Anagrama. Desgraciadamente, por un error, la puse en la estantería donde están los libros que 1) ya he leído, ó, 2) no pienso leerlos jamás. Hela aquí, tan ricamente archivada:



Pero hete aquí, Cide Hamete Benengeli, que en uno de mis frecuentes viajes a Londres, pasé según costumbre por Waterstone's de Cambridge Circus antes de ir a calmar mi sed en los pubs de Soho. Siempre sigo los consejos de "Waterstone's recommends, etc, etc" y vi que recomendaba una novela llamada "atonement", de MacEwan. ¡Sielos!, me la compré, qué diablos, sin pensar que "atonement" quiere exactamente decir "expiación" en castellano. Es que uno es un ceporro. Total, que la puse en la estantería donde tengo los libros cuya lectura debe ser inmediata (o casi):




Pasaron los dias, pasaron las semanas, como decía Apollinaire en su famoso poema, y ambos ejemplares siguieron cada uno en su cómodo nicho. Si los hubiera mirado de cerca me habría apercibido que eran el mismo libro, como puede verse:





En fin, abrevio, al fin me he leído el libro en su versión original y me ha impresionado un montón. (prefiero las versiones originales si conozco la lengua en cuestión, o sea, en inglés y francés). Os lo recomiendo si no lo habéis leído. Han hecho una film, which also have seen and which I consider an insult to Mac Ewan's novel. I'm not going to have "spoilers" as they say in the Wiki, but all the great dramatic tension, anxiety, a mad crescendo of the first part of the book becomes an unfunny cartoon. The drama of British troops in their retreat to Dunkirk, full of terrible times, tragic, that make you almost to tears by the second part, becomes in the movie, almost, almost like a holiday in Benidorm a few drunken English hooligans. In fact, horrible. The only thing that saves the film is the speech that marks the end Vanessa Redgrave.