It is well known by the name spekulatius. This crisp cookies came from the neighboring Holland area. The name can be derived for the Latin word “speculator” (overseer), as the role of a bishop was formerly defined. This cookie also is an honor to a bishop, St. Nicholas of Myra that spekulatius is said to have been created. The many variations of spekulatius have one thing in common, plenty of spices.

It is said that paella origins came from the Moorish who invaded Spain. They would cook on open fires to make this delicious dish. Then serve to their family for a hearty meal. The word paella is derived from Latin word "patella which was a flat plate used for religious offerings. There are many variety of paella depending where one lives.

For those who have been to Bali are most likely to be familiar with these fragrant flowers placed in woven coconut leaves “canang” platter seen as daily offerings to the spirit gods. Each time I come to Bali it is this particular fragrance that I like that of the champaca kantil (Michelia alba) flowers and the scent of shredded green pandanus leaves.

This no-knead bread recipe is perfect for beginner bakers or anyone who wants a delicious home made loaf without the hassle of kneading. With minimal effort and planning, you can enjoy a fresh, crusty bread that is perfect for sandwiches, toast or simply enjoying with a drizzle of olive oil. 3 cups ball-purpose flour 1 1/2 teaspoons salt 1/4 teaspoon active dry yeast…

Roast chicken is my all time favorite way to cook a whole bird. I hope you will try this delicious roast chicken in your kitchen. An easy dish to prepare and your family will enjoy your masterpiece. Included also, information on how to roast a perfect chicken. When the next time you have visiting friends, you will be capable of impressing them.

The story begins in pre-war England, in the idyllic town of Bath, nestled in the county of Somerset. Known for its ancient Roman-built baths, the town still wears its history proudly—cobbled streets winding past Georgian facades, the River Avon gliding quietly through its heart. Bath was a place where time lingered, and so did dreams. It was here that our young pilot-to-be was born.

Long before the barn was built and the white dome rose behind it, the old maple tree stood alone on the hill, a sentinel of seasons and secrets. Locals called it Mother Flame. In autumn, its leaves burned with a brilliance that seemed almost supernatural. Amber, crimson, and gold flickered like firelight against the dusk. Generations passed beneath its branches.

Since a young child she consider her world a large playground. An adventure at heart, free spirit with plenty of imagination. Her next stop was Switzerland where she studied at a private English boarding school together with her eldest sister. Here she made many friends. Graduated from school she decided to enter Sorbonne university where she studied French language. She stayed in Paris after she finished at Sorbonne.

Photos taken over the years using film and slides through digital. All Rights Reserved, no one else may use the work without the copyright owner's.

Camera in hand, I stepped into the forest just beyond Clear Lake, where the trees stood like ancient sentinels cloaked in early autumn’s hush. The trail was damp with morning mist, and the air carried the scent of cedar, wet earth, and something older—something that felt like memory. Each step was deliberate, ceremonial. I wasn’t just hiking; I was entering a sanctuary.

Dexter our beloved Labrador age 11 crossed over the RainbowBridge on September 11, 2010. He spent one year in a foster care because no one want to adopt him. The reason, he was rambunctious for a family or anyone who is looking for a dog. We were looking to replace our other Labrador, we met Dexter and we thought he was perfect for our family.

Seaweed farming along the coastal village of Kutuh South Bali Traditional seaweed farming can still be found in some areas in Bali, Nusa Penida, Lembongan and in Kutuh village in the South. Major usage of this type of Carrageenan tropical seaweed (Eucheuma Cottoni) is widely utilized in the food industry such as agar agar. Thatched bamboo huts where sea farmers work, lined up along the beautiful white sandy beach, one of Bali’s “secret” beaches.

In the dim hallway of my apartment, lit only by the flicker of a bathroom light, I encountered a spiritual trial disguised as a mundane irritation. A neighbor’s repeated failure to flush the toilet. A tin of stale cough drops consumed without permission. A confrontation met not with understanding, but with anger and silence. A sanctuary of tranquility of one's own survival.

We returned to the mansion one last time, drawn by a need to understand. This time, we ventured deeper into the ruins, past the collapsed foyer and into what remained of the drawing room. There, beneath a pile of charred wood and shattered glass, we found it. It was a leather-bound journal. It was brittle with age. Its pages were yellowed and curling.

A Halloween Tale by Moonlight Introduction I wrote this story many years ago. I re-written with more chilling story perfect for Halloween. Some places are forgotten for a reason. Some memories refuse to die. And some spirits… never stop dancing. This story is best told when the wind howls and the moon hangs low. So gather close, light a candle, and listen carefully.

Nothing says superstition quite like Halloween night. Here are tales to share with your friends around a crackling camp fire after trick or treat. Don't forget the apple cider it will keep you warm throughout the night. When bobbing for apples, it is believed that the first person to bite an apple would be the first to marry. If you ring a bell on Halloween, it will scare evil spirits away.

My parents owned a bungalow in the mountain where I am going to spend my long weekend. I packed my bag put them in the car. An hour drive from the city into misty mountain cool refreshing air which I prefer than living in the city. My childhood play ground always give me happy memories. Arrived late afternoon, the caretaker who has been with the family for along time have made the bungalow comfortable and livable for me.

Mystery woman holding a bouquet on a foggy morning. Looking at me with an unwelcome stare. Fear, that I should have, I felt peace unafraid for this mysterious woman with hollow sad eyes. She emerges only in fog cloaked in mist, clutching a bouquet of wilted memory-flowers. Her eyes are hollow, not from malice, but from mourning too long unspoken. Her stare is not a warning, but a mirror.

As October wanes and the garden glows with the last embers of autumn, the pumpkin patch becomes a stage for ancient rituals and playful hauntings. Beneath their netted skins and stringy flesh, these gourds carry stories older than jack-o’-lanterns—tales of turnip lanterns flickering in Irish fog, of seeds roasted like offerings to the season’s spirits. In this post, we dig into the soil and the folklore, growing pumpkins not just for pies or carving, but for the myths they carry and the memories they preserve.

Paris is full of stories of ghosts and urban legends. Believe it or not, these tales have a hard life and go through the centuries because they always find someone to swallow them. Jean-Bruno Renard, sociologist specializing in urban legends, explains this fascination with an irrepressible desire to discover hidden stories. Some, like the agency Mysteries of Paris, surf the wave and seduce tourists by organizing guided tours of these places full of mystery.

A week ago, I set out for my appointment with the kind of slow, deliberate pace that suggests nothing could possibly go wrong. The morning was quiet, the road familiar—until it wasn’t. Just as I approached a sharp bend, a brown squirrel launched itself into the street like a tiny daredevil on a mission. I saw it too late. Thud.

It was a gray London afternoon, the kind where the sky hangs low and the Underground, (subway) hums like a tired heartbeat beneath the city. I boarded the train, four stops from home, and found myself one of the lucky few with a seat. The carriage was packed—elbows tucked, eyes glazed, everyone wrapped in their own invisible bubble. At the next stop, the doors hissed open and in stepped a young woman, visibly pregnant, her belly a gentle curve of life beneath her coat.

Rome, Italy 20th September 2025 My dearest Sansa, At long last, my dream has unfurled—I’m here in Rome, the eternal city, where every cobblestone seems to hum with history and every sunset feels like a love letter written in gold. Today, I wandered through winding alleys and stumbled upon a tiny cafe tucked between ivy-covered walls. I sipped espresso so rich it felt like velvet, and nibbled on cannoli that could make angels weep.

Late August through October is my hectic time in the garden. Harvesting every other day before frost arrive. From the garden, juicy tomatoes, carrot, pumpkins, digging the potatoes, kale, mustard, chard, etc. The orchard, apples, pears, plums, strawberries, raspberries and last month blueberries. So far this year has been excellent, over abundance of everything. That is good for my hard work.

The broken pine needle branch, adorned with a pine cone, finds its resting place upon the cool marble slab. Each needle, a testament to the tree's endurance, lies scattered like forgotten whispers. The small pine cones, miniature guardians of secrets, encircle the branch—a natural offering to the observer. Against the backdrop of weathered brick, the branch stands as a silent protagonist.