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.
This year, the redcurrant bushes were early. Unlike last year, when the weather was so awful that birds ate all the berries before I could get out to pick them. So now I have loads of redcurrants I will have to freeze or eat fresh before they go bad. Since I don't like jam (and sugar in general) and can't find any other suitable recipes to tone down the acidity of redcurrant, I decided to create my own. After my redcurrant crumble, here is a variation of my vegan cheesecake which proved a real delight for both the eyes and mouth.
Ingredients
Serves 8:
Crust
- 88 g almonds - 36 g raisins - 74 g pitted dates
Filling
- 225 g cashews - 400 g redcurrants - 60 g coconut oil - 1 pinch salt - 2 tbsp agave syrup
Topping
- 60 g white chocolate - spare berries
Instructions
Soak dates in hot water for about 10 minutes to soften them up. Drain and process with remaining crust ingredients to a lumpy texture and press onto the bottom of a 18-centimetre diameter spring-form pan. Chill in the freezer while you're making the filling.
Mix all the ingredients for the topping, adding redcurrant progressively while processing to a thick smooth dough. Spread over base, tapping the mould to remove any trapped air bubbles, and then smoothen top with a spatula. Freeze for 1 or 2 more hours, then remove from mould.
Grate chocolate and spread on top of the cake.
Add a few berries on top to decorate and store in the fridge with a lid on top.
NOTE: If you are to use frozen redcurrants, remember to defrost them overnight and keep the juice aside to moisten the dough if necessary. You may also use raspberries, strawberries, blueberries, or blackberries instead of redcurrants. However, you will need to adjust the quantity according to how turns out. If it's not smooth enough, add a little water (or juice) to make the dough creamier. Sprinkle with dark chocolate as it gives the right flavour to accompany blackberries, blueberries or strawberries.
There are certain figures who inspire us profoundly — artists, philosophers, everyday warriors — who give us reason to believe that adversity may be overcome without losing momentum. That one may be ill yet radiant. Worn out yet standing tall.
And when they pass away prematurely, people talk about their ‘courage til the very end’, their ‘life force’ and a love so great it ultimately transcends the individual.
But too much courtesy turns grief into an energy transaction. We smile our tears away and gratefully embrace the pain. We say it is “the price of happiness.” As if it were normal. As if such radiant happiness, enjoyed for decades, could only exist at the cost of some inevitable sacrifice.
And no one ever asks, “Who actually collects the payment?”
We often believe that happiness is free. Or that we are entitled to it. Or that it must be earned through effort, patience and gratitude. But in reality, happiness is fleeting and impermanent. And most importantly, it comes at a price. And often, that price is paid later. Paid dearly. In sorrow. In loss. In regret. In consent.
This is the story of an artist I used to follow in my younger years, whom I will not name. Out of respect, but also because what matters is not WHO but WHAT. Besides, I don't want my approach to be misconstrued, or even construed at all. There is nothing to construe. Just a raw observation. The rest, the construing, is a matter of personal filter that belongs to the eye of the beholder.
This artist was exceptionally kind and considerate, which is quite rare in showbiz. He enjoyed a fairy-tale romance with his wife. The kind of love at first sight that one would only imagine possible in sentimental books or movies. Certainly not in an environment such as his.
And they lived happily ever after and had two children…
For decades, he fought the disease with dignity and optimism. Hope and conviction until the very end. A man who stood tall and believed himself to be invincible. Big Pharma's miracle cure did not work. And this came as a shock to many. And a massive harvest of loosh for the Matrix, for whenever the righteous are victims of injustice, it shatters the false sense of security that our beliefs give us to cope with the uncopable.
What followed was a tidal wave of unconditional love, gratitude, and band-aid clichés: “He's still here with us... He's sending us a sign... He's not really gone.”
But the worst part was reading his widow's statement (a truly admirable woman), explaining how she always had a feeling that it was the price she was prepared to pay for the kind of love they shared. “I miss him truly madly deeply” she says. “ But that’s ok as grief is the price you pay for love.”
Grief is the price you pay for love!
A quote that could be embroidered on a pillow, or etched at the bottom of an urn. But what this quote does not say is who sets the price. And who benefits from the transaction.
And then there are the tales. Those we hear as children. Those that paint such sweet promise as "they lived happily ever after and had many children."
It's cute. It's comforting. But one thing we can't see is the programmed expectation this kind of cliché entails. A mapped-out quest within a framework. And implicitly, a tacit contract that never questions the validity of the script. For everyone has heard it. Because it's part of the story.
And even before the story really begins, another cliché says it all (but hardly anyone pays attention since it's so clichéd): "Until death do us part."
Already, it's a giveaway of what the outcome will be: a planned separation. And when it does happen, we say: "It's normal. It was written."
Of course, we all have a programmed end. But what we are never told is that, in between the promise and the end, a harvest is taking place. And the harvester is not a person. Not even a god nor a system. It's a structure. A matrix. That feeds off the loosh generated by these stories we are being invited to play out and grieve while being grateful that “it could be worse”.
What if it could be better — much better? Would it be heresy? But for whom? And for what?
He plays the harmonica... but he also plays the trigger.
Cheyenne, Once Upon a Time in the West
Lost in the Caribbean, in pursuit of some phantom ship, the heroine is Calamity Eyael. Narrowly escaping the clutches of Captain Barbossa, she finds herself propelled (by the Doc's DeLorean) into her great uncle Charley's native Kansas1, on the trail of the Git, the Mad and the Ugly. She can already hear the bullets hissing on Main Street. Better take cover behind the bar, looks like someone's about to bite the dust! Hardly a surprise with that bloody Six of Diamonds heralding unexpected events and change for this month, and calling for caution when socialising. It's therefore best not to upset any of the trigger-happy thugs out there. Especially since the local sheriff strikes me as quite a coward.
The Wild Side of the West
I don't mean to kill the mood, but let me remind you that a cowboy is just a cow herder who tends cattle on ranches in North America. Right now, it sounds a bit less glamourous! According to the online Bible2, the historic American cowboy of the late 19th century arose from the vaquero, popular in New Mexico in the 16th and 17th century, but differs in that the latter is not a farm worker. In the 19th century, livestock ranches in the West would supply the whole country. Since there was no railway, cowboys were thus in charge of herding cattle across the southern Great Plains. The seasonal cycle of moving livestock from pasture to pasture, which ended up in the 1890's, certainly gave a distorted image of the free, lonesome nomadic cowboy, which is mostly a far cry from reality.
Quite unlike the myth conveyed by literature, comic strips and the silver screen, cowboys were no heroic marksmen who would keep their guns at the ready to defend the weak and the oppressed from the bloodthirsty Redskins.
First of all, the greatest threat to cow herders was neither Indians nor cattle rustlers, but the cattle themselves. At night, the slightest howl of a coyote or rumble in the sky over the Great Plains might scare the herd into an uncontrollable deadly stampede. Locating the runaway livestock would then sometimes take them over a week.
Crossing rivers was another major challenge, involving the risk of drowning for both people and animals. While at other times, the peril would come from the lack of water. Let alone, rabid skunk bites and wolf attacks.
Once I was shot by John Wayne. Yeah, it was towards the end. That one scene's bought me a thousand drinks, Set me up and I'll tell it for you, friend Here's to the cowboys, riders in the whirlwind, Tonight the western stars are shining bright again.
Ultimately, the worst danger wasn't so much the untamed wilderness, but the call of the sirens and demons of ‘civilisation’. The settler towns depicted in western movies actually had a very bad reputation. A journalist visiting Kansas City3, in the 1870's, writes that "after dark, nowhere on civilised earth are such displays of unbridled, shameless debauchery as those found in the dancehalls of border towns".
These are the infamous places, also known as 'Sodoms of the West', where, in a matter of days, lonesome cowboys give in to the short-lived pleasures of urban convenience, gambling away their hard-earned money on poker, prostitutes — and mostly alcohol.
Actually, it's always the same old story. With just a change of scenery. We're going round in circles, but the blind call it 'progress'. Round and round we go until our bodies break.
Clashes at O.K. Car Park
There is no denying that our Western cities are increasingly looking like the Farwest of yesteryear. But not the one portrayed in Lucky Luke cartoons, spaghetti westerns or the Hollywood myth embodied by John Wayne, Gary Cooper, James Stewart and the likes. It's more like a low-cost version of the Cities of Lost Children, often with an immigrant background, apparently uncontrolled but perfectly controllable by the matrix, which feeds mainly on chaos and keeps replaying the same scripts over and over again: urban rodeos, scooter riding ambushes, and score-settling on cracked asphalt.
The wind blows in Arizona, A state in America where Harry hung around. Loony gun-crazed cowboy, Fond of weapons, horses and bingeing, With Smith & Wesson, Colt, Derringer, Winchester
& Remington on his tail, Lonesome and proud, he wanders the lowlands, Riding his horse mate.
The iconic boots are discarded in favour of mofo Nike trainers; junk food restaurants standing for traditional saloons — but the script remains unchanged: edgy, stabby egos, quick to dispense the rough injustice of blind retaliation, are being forced to operate in pitch darkness due to a severe brainpower failure, fumbling their way around in the dim light of the spark plugs of the cars they burn when they're happy (or unhappy), plus a couple of stray bullets as punctuation marks.
It might even sound funny if it were a cartoon from Charlie Hebdo.4. Except it isn't. But the offspring of the demiurgic Adam can get used to a lot. Too many scattered pieces, not enough consciousness to pull them all together. What's the point, anyway? 'Life' is much too short to ever expect to complete the puzzle on time. That's why the matrix favours shorter simulation times and and more frequent recycling, even if it means saturating the souls. In other words, dying young reduces the risk of sudden realisations.
The modern-day urban cowboy only rides his collective ego.
In a lot of places in the United States and certainly even more places around the world, the image of the cowboy has become, for some people, a negative one. The word 'cowboy' implies a strong, stubborn individual whose individualism depends on pulling down other people's individualism.
Viggo Mortensen
He's not lonesome: he travels in packs of preyed-on predators. He poses as loud and unruly, but he's actually a coward of the worst kind — a quiesling unconsciously serving the system, with more control buttons than the dashboard of an airliner.
Except there are so many squares missing on his chessboard, it looks more like a old PacMan (or Minesweeper) on uppers than a game of chess.
I'm a cowboy, On a steel horse I ride. I'm wanted dead or alive.
Wanted dead or alive? Who cares! Not even a raider of the lost identity. Just an extra on the set, who thinks he's the star of the movie — the one on a loop.
Spoiler alert: as long as we believe that chaos is outside, we'll stay in the film. And it's rarely ever us who write the final scene.
Wild Wild West
Who remembers the famous 1960's cult series featuring James West and Artemus Gordon, two secret agents operating in the American West circa 1869-77? Featuring Will Smith, it was resurrected, at the end of the 1990's and modernised into an explosive (and somewhat chaotic) remake, which turned the old-fashioned western into a laboratory for retro-futuristic experimentation. The West became a backdrop for all kinds of technological fantasies and preposterous conspiracies — as if fiction had sensed that this Farwest had never been real, but had already been simulated.
What if that actually was the real 'conspiracy' of the Wild Wild West? A territory already out of reach, populated by myths, overacting cowboys, unlikely machines, and vigilantes with flawless brushing. In short, a mental theatre, ideal for testing narratives of power, control and coded heroism.
Forty seven dead beats Living in a back street.
North, east, west, south, All in the same house,
Sitting in a back room, Waiting for the big boom.
I'm in a bedroom, Waiting for my baby.
She's so mean but I don't care.
I love her eyes and her wild, wild hair.
Dance to the beat that we love best,
Heading for the nineties,
Living in the wild, wild west.
Perhaps the West has never existed other than as a backdrop — a backdrop that the matrix can recycle at will. Even today, it is still being projected onto our cities, our screens and our fantaisies of independence.
Same spiral. Same cast. Different scene. No real change on the western front of the demiurgic cube.
As French actor and screenwriter Jean Yanne might have said, had he survived the TikTok era: "We're all cowboys… except we've had our saddles nicked and we're shooting blanks."
Endnotes
^ It's all true: my great-uncle, born at the end of the 1890's, was really called Charley and did come from Kansas.
^ Philippe Jacquin, Vers l’ouest : un nouveau monde (Westwards: A New World).
^ Charlie Hebdo is a French satirical weekly magazine, featuring cartoons, reports, polemics, and jokes.
^ A cross-referenced cinematographic hint at John Schlesinger's Midnight Cowboy (1969) featuring Jon Voight, and Jean Yanne's Quarter to Two B.C. (1982) featuring Coluche.
Cookie: Formerly, a small baked sweet treat you were pleased to accept. Nowadays, a small hot data file you should vehemently refuse.
Luc Fayard
The world's easiest and quickest recipe for vegan cookies (both gluten and sugar-free) using just two basic ingredients and an infinite variety of flavours and textures to suit all tastes and cravings.
Ingredients
Makes a dozen cookies:
- 2 bananas
- 120 g buckwheat flakes - 60 g chocolate chips - 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon - 1/2 teaspoon vanilla powder - 1
pinch salt
Instructions
Mash bananas and mix with other ingredients.
Divide dough into small heaps ( approx. 1 tablespoon) on a baking tray lined with parchment paper (or a silicone mat), pressing gently with the back of a spoon.
Bake for 12 -15 minutes at 180°C until the cookies are golden brown.
NOTE: You may replace buckwheat with oats; chocolate chips with sultanas; and vanilla with 2 capfuls of rum. Experiment with almonds, walnuts, hazelnuts, etc. and various flavours, and don't hesitate to share your results with us.
FR
