Not totally happy with my gluten-free vegan clafoutis recipe of six years ago, here's a new one, that's both lighter and creamier. Perfect with acid but juicy fruit like the wild variety of mirabelle plums I stumbled upon during a walk just before they had time to rot on the ground.
Ingredients
Serves 4:
- 500 g pitted mirabelle plums
- 350 ml almond milk - 1 tbsp agave syrup - 1 tsp vanilla powder - 1 drop essential oil of bitter almond (optional) - 50 g rice flour - 3 tbsp ground flaxseed - 1 tbsp almond powder
Instructions
Grease a baking dish (or mould) and line the bottom with halved mirabelle plums.
Stir agave syrup into almond milk with vanilla and bitter almond essence.
Mix dry ingredients: flour, flaxseed and almond powder, then pour in liquid mixture, whisking to a smooth batter.
Cover plums with this batter and bake for 40 minutes at 200°C.
NOTE: You may use vanilla extract or a vanilla pod instead. If so, boil milk with the vanilla pod and stir in agave syrup and almond essence once cooled. And of course, you may use any variety of plums, but not also all sorts of fruit such as cherries, redcurrant, peaches, apricots, etc. Most should blend well with the subtle almond flavour.
Fireworks usually have the ability to put time on hold and rekindle the sense
of wonderment we all had as children. Not so long ago, there was something
magical about those colourful starbursts tearing through the sky.
Not anymore. Something has just shifted. Both within and around me.
The noise and thick smoke felt like a targeted attack. I had to retreat inside
to keep from suffocating. Even watching from my window, I couldn't wait for it
to end quickly.
Where I would picture the unseen crowd marvelling at the pyrotechnics
behind the trees, I could only see a deception. An artifice as the name in
French suggests.
Let me remind you that these rockets are made from ordinary improved gunpowder
— the same kind used to kill people in masses, and originally imported from
China to Europe by Marco Polo. They can therefore be regarded as explosives
and may pose serious hazards.
It's not just the actual accidental risks of flying debris and fire, but
mostly the harmful fumes inhaled by spectators — the fallout from which
severely damages ecosystems.
Who cares? Everyone knows it's cars, cigarettes and cow farts that are
destroying the planet. Not nitrates, chlorates, perchlorates, sulphur and
carcinogenic heavy metals such as titanium, barium and strontium — traces of
which were found in nearby waterways after firework displays on Bastille Day.
Not to mention those entertainment bombs are just tens of thousands of euros
(hundreds of thousands in large cities) going up in toxic smoke.
But shhh… Fireworks mean party time. Questioning that is a surefire way to
pass for a killjoy. So let's pass!
What if these annual celebration rituals had a totally different purpose?
And what if the energy of all our Ohs, Ahs and Wows was actually captured,
redirected and used?
There’s even a name for it: loosh.
What about this strong feeling of being instrumentalised by something our mind
can hardly conceive of?
What if what we call joy was, in fact, no more than some elaborate collective
hypnosis?
Have you ever experienced such shraps of reality that make you wonder: "Do my feelings originate from me… or from what I'm expected to feel?"
Should such realisation ever dawn on you, some day, you will certainly
understand why I did not applaud this year. And shall not ever again.
For the sake of carbon footprint concerns, I'm staying in the land of Uncle
Charley (my late great-uncle), swapping my Colt and cowgirl hat for a baseball
bat and cap, and off I hit the plate, ready to attempt my home run. A daunting challenge, I admit, but that is precisely what is suggested by
the 7 of Diamonds this month — on par with the diamond-shaped field and seven
defenders (in addition to the pitcher and catcher) of the opposing team. This
card invites us to take a step back and look beyond appearances. Sometimes,
what may be considered an issue is actually a blessing in disguise. What if it
were an opportunity to make a quantum leap?
The Aces of Base
Well-established in the American landscape for nearly two centuries, baseball is more than just a sport: it is an institution deeply rooted in the culture and history of the country. It is even the Americans' favourite pastime, a tradition passed down from generation to generation. Although, since the 1960s, (American) football has largely taken the lead in the running for the symbolic title of national sport.
For my part, I must admit that my experience lies solely in reading Stephen King's
The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon, where a kid lost in the woods copes with all the terrors that come her way by listening to baseball games on her Walkman (the ancestor of MP3 players). Or that iconic scene from the Twilight movie with Muse's "Supermassive Blackhole" playing in the background, where the vampires play baseball in the midst of a storm.
Another peal of thunder began.
Esme stopped then; apparently, we'd reached the edge of
the field. It looked as if they had formed teams. Edward was far out in left
field, Carlisle stood between the first and second bases, and Alice held the
ball, positioned on the spot that must be the pitcher's mound.
Emmett was swinging an aluminum bat; it whistled almost
untraceably through the air. I waited for him to approach home plate, but then I realized, as he took his
stance, that he was already there — farther from the pitcher's mound than I
would have thought possible. Jasper stood several feet behind him, catching for the other team. Of
course, none of them had gloves. All right," Esme called in a clear voice, which I knew even Edward would
hear, as far out as he was. "Batter up." Alice stood straight, deceptively motionless. Her style seemed to be stealth
rather than an intimidating windup. She held the ball in both hands at her
waist, and then, like the strike of a cobra, her right hand flicked out and
the ball smacked into Jasper's hand. "Was that a strike?" I whispered to Esme. "If they don't hit it, it's a strike," she told me.
Twilight, Stephenie Meyer (2005)
So I did some research to grasp of the basics, which are way more complicated than what Americans call soccer (football in Europe). Do football rules elude you? Wait till I introduce you to baseball rules!
The Four-Corner Game
Two teams of nine players compete against each other. One team attacks (sending one of its players to bat), while the other defends (throwing the ball and trying to eliminate the batters).
The pitcher (defender) throws a ball. The batter (attacker) tries to intercept it by hitting it with a bat.
If he succeeds, he runs to the first base, then the next ones, hoping to return to his starting point — called home plate — to score a point. Meanwhile, the defending team tries to retrieve the ball and get him out by throwing it to a base ahead of him or touching him with it.
The batters take turns one by one, in a fixed order. But as soon as three batters in a row are out, it is the defenders' turn to attack. They switch roles.
Each player keeps their position: the pitcher stays pitcher, the catcher stays catcher. But everyone takes turns batting when their team is on offence.
Baseball is ninety percent mental and the other half is physical.
Yogi Berra, former professional baseball catcher
The battle between the pitcher and the batter is a key moment in every game, where strategy, skill and psychology combine. The design of the mound on which the pitcher stands is also crucial in this one-on-one situation, influencing the game and providing viewers with great thrills.
The pitcher is the cornerstone of any top-level baseball team. Their ability to surprise and eliminate opposing batters is what may lead their team to victory. Pitchers need to assess each batter and choose which pitches to use based on their opponent's strengths and weaknesses.
The Tick-Tock Tactic
A game is usually composed of nine innings, each consisting of two phases: one where a team is batting and one where it is fielding. If the scores are tied at the end (only the number of points or runs scored is counted, not the number of innings won), extra innings are played until one team takes the lead.
Baseball has no game clock. Innings define the pace, following a logical sequence of repeated cycles. Each team plays, waits, then plays again. Over and over again. There is no 'official' pace of play, just innings to be played. Occasionally, some games may seem to last forever, exceeding 4 hours in duration. Meanwhile cricket games – the British bat-and-ball sport baseball originated from – may extend over several consecutive days in a liturgy of suspended time.
But all this comes at a cost. Ultimate tempo masters, pitchers are subjected to extreme physical strain affecting their arms, shoulders to such extent it may take them several days to recover after a single game. Players may grow exhausted, but the loop goes on.
Foul Role Play
Up along the clouds where the eagles roam, Joe cracked that ball to
whine and moan. His buddies all laugh as they trot on in: Joe
DiMaggio's done it again."
The field is called ‘the diamond’, but it is just a 2D projection of the Matrix cube, viewed from a certain angle and run around, one pillar (base) at a time, counter-clockwise. Even when you hit a home run, you're back to square one, the home plate. You may feel like you're making progress, whereas you're merely completing another lap around your cage.
And all the while, the bat keeps swinging and the field keeps wearing you out. The bat is wielded as an instrument of power, a striking force, and a symbol of decision. But on closer inspection, it was primarily designed to strike within the framework, not to break away from it. It is reminiscent of the stick used to break piñatas open and release the treats. And in traditional puppet shows, it is always the same ‘villain’ who gets beaten with a truncheon.
With each turn, roles are switched: one day you pitch, the next you strike. Always on the same matrix field. Same odd field. Same old scenarios. Panem et circenses. Bread and games. Another variant of the chessboard squares. The Matrix continues to alter, recycle, and recombine, but it never creates. It requires our input to do so.
To paraphrase now-defunct French rock band Téléphone, I'd say that we play our lives just like we play baseball. We win and lose, always hoping to score just one more round before the loop resets. Sometimes, you hold the grip then have to throw the bat away after one hit. Sometimes, you lose your grip and it might even cost you an arm and a leg. Oops!
Bats of Burden
Revolutions happen when baseball bats and golf clubs change hands. The exact
dates and litres of blood spilled are matters for historians to argue about.
Anonymous
In the sporting world, same as in the world of the Demiurge, there is this basic idea of hitting that keeps coming back: we hit the ball, we hit the road, we hit records. We beat the band, we beat the odds, we beat time... in excess.
We're also very much on the receiving end of these violent phrases – especially in the French language. Violence – with all the suffering and loosh it creates – appears to be a key part of this predatory world. Even the party is going full swing, as if joy, too, had to pass through the rhythmic prongs of a well-oiled system. And when it gets too obvious, the cards are reshuffled. But the game remains the same.
The fact is, language knows, even if we no longer listen to it. We are bombarded with the same old stuff, we are led down the same old paths, and meanwhile, we carry the burden... where it hurts.
For there is always something to endure. A burden, a rule, a cycle. Some ground to gain, some base to reach. Again. And again.
And when you think you've scored a point... the cycle begins again.
Taking at face value. Taking for granted. Both idiomatic expressions pretty well capture the human paradox that sustains the alternative current of cognitive dissonance.
We want it all, but when we get it for free, we don't want it because free means cheap and has no value.
Whether it's manufactured goods, services, information, entertainment, support, or even time and attention, if it's free and offered without any strings attached, we just shamelessly take it as a given without even saying thanks. Unconsciously, we are led to assume that if something is free, it's because it is unmarketable and therefore of lesser value. It's only a small step from there to suspiciously questioning the motives behind such generosity, and many people readily take that step. And rightly so, since nothing comes for free in this world.
Worse still: not only do some feel entitled to get it all for free, but they also have the nerve to complain, whereas they would be less demanding if they were paying for a low-quality service. Their foolproof argument is: “Nobody is forcing you to do this for free” or “We didn’t ask for it”.
Virtue signalers at their finest. As French screenwriter Michel Audiard would put it... you know the line. And if you don't, it'll cost you 100 quid for a valuable answer!
Ultimately, free stuff is a bit unsettling for it acts as a mirror. It reflects the ease of the taker and the effort of the giver.
In this saturation of everything — for there's also an overabundance of deprivation, poverty, violence, abuse and ‘Evil’, due to the interplay of polarities this matrix world relies on — and in this culture of minimal effort, we have lost the ability to tell the difference between a conscious approach and automatic regurgitation. This is the basis of the art of noise: making authenticity inaudible.
This world reverses everything: it values the superficial, discards authenticity, and questions the motives behind kindness.
Iso V. Sinclair
What is rare is more expensive, and therefore more valuable. But what if something is both rare AND free? It's mind-boggling because we've been conditioned to believe that everything has a cost and that every gift means we owe something in return.
A good friend of mine (you know who you are) recently confided he felt hesitant to share a video I had just released, wanting to make his online presence rare to keep his audience engaged. And he's right: constant posting kills engagement. Too much presence means less impact.
Perhaps we should ask ourselves whether attention itself has become the new currency. And consequently, the end value is more about the audience than the service or information provided... for free.
This extends to availability at large. There are those who are never available, yet take offence when they are no longer invited. And there are the loyal companions whose presence is as self-evident as if set in stone... until the day they are no longer there. And that's when everything falls apart. They're being blamed for having changed. They probably have. Or perhaps they weren't really looked at properly.
Just because you're available doesn't mean you're less important.
Ultimately, it's not so much the gratuitousness that bothers us... but the fact that some people give without asking for anything in return other than being heard and listened to. Truly. As a token of awareness. Not as something owed, but as a chance.
In English, ‘free’ has another meaning besides gratuity. It also stands for freedom. However, that which is free does not fit into any system; it eludes the logic of bartering, debt, accountability... and therefore control.
Unconditional giving does not produce loosh — a form of energy generated by our emotions and harvested by the matrix. It serves no agenda. It is liberating.
Ultimately, this may be the reason why it is met with such distrust.
FR
