Thursday, April 30, 2020

Make Fitness Fun for the Whole Family

Children who participate in exercise can develop a variety of physical, mental and social skills in fun, playful ways. Children and teenagers need 60 minutes of moderate to vigorous physical activity every day, or most days. This might seem like a lot of time, but it adds up!

Parents can model healthy habits by finding fun ways to be active in their daily routines and making activity a household priority.

Put Action in Your Lifestyle
Regular physical activity is just as important to a healthy lifestyle as smart eating. Apply the same principles of variety, balance, and moderation to both your food choices and your physical activities.

Variety. Enjoy many different activities to move different muscles, such as power walking for your heart and leg muscles, gardening for arm muscles and sit-ups for abdominal muscles.
Balance. Because different activities have different benefits, balance your physical activity pattern. For overall fitness, choose activities that build cardiovascular endurance, muscular strength, bone strength, balance and flexibility.
Moderation. Move enough to keep fit without overdoing it. At least 30 minutes (60 minutes for children and teens) of moderate physical activity most, and preferably all, days of the week will do.
Here are 10 ways parents and caregivers can encourage active play:

Balance sedentary play (such as reading together) with an activity that requires movement such as tag, jumping rope or hopscotch.
When and if children attend a child care center, choose one that makes safe, active play a priority.
Set aside time each day for active play together, perhaps tossing a ball, having a dance party or taking a walk after a family meal.
Designate an inside and an outside area that's safe, where your child can freely jump, roll and tumble.
When possible, join a playgroup.
Encourage children to try a new physical activity.
Give children toys that encourage physical activity such as balls, kites, hula hoops, Frisbees and jump ropes.
Limit TV time and keep the TV out of your child's bedroom.
Plant a garden. Kids love to water plants, and they'll get excited weeks later when they see their flowers bloom or vegetables grow.
Instead of catching a movie or watching TV, pick an activity that requires moving together like taking a walk.
Don't forget to fuel your activity!
Once you get your family moving, remember to fuel up for activities or sports. Drink plenty of water before, during and after activities. Children need to drink at least six 8-ounce cups of water per day. Add another eight fluid ounces for every half hour of strenuous activity. For longer activities or when children don't drink enough water, diluted 100-percent fruit juice or sports drinks can increase their fluid intake.

For a snack before or after physical activities, serve crackers and cheese, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, trail mix, containers of cut-up fruit and sliced vegetables with a low-fat dip.


Tags Fitness Exercise Family Activities For Kids

Wednesday, April 29, 2020

“Egg”cellent Food Safety Tips

“Egg”cellent Food Safety Tips

This time of year is particularly popular for dyeing and decorating hard-boiled eggs. Food safety is important to remember when handling eggs to prevent unwanted foodborne illness. The United States Food and Drug Administration estimates 79,000 Americans get sick every year from Salmonella found in eggs. How can consumers avoid food poisoning? “Treat eggs just like meat and other poultry. Wash hands before and after touching, watch how long eggs sit at room temperature, and use a food thermometer to know when it’s safe to eat,” University of Illinois Extension Nutrition & Wellness Educator, Lisa Peterson explains. Read ten tips to help protect against foodborne illness.

Wash Hands Often.  Just like working with other types of meat, it is essential to wash hands with hot soapy water when handling eggs. Avoid getting bacteria from the eggs on other foods by washing surfaces, utensils, and cooking equipment the eggs have touched.
Do Not Wash Store Bought Eggs. When purchasing eggs from the grocery store, there is no need to wash them before use.
Check the Eggs for Chips or Cracks. Think of the outer shell and membrane of an egg as a barrier to prevent bacteria from getting into the egg. If an egg is cracked when buying, throw it out. Eggs that are chipped are exposed to more air, allowing bacteria to grow faster.
Eggs Should Be Stored in their Original Container. Store-bought eggs should be kept in their original carton and can be kept 4-5 weeks after purchase. Eggs are cleaned and sanitized before packaging. The EXCEPTION to this rule is when hard boiling eggs; do not put eggs back in the original container as this may increase the risk of Salmonella. Think of putting the cooked chicken back in the package raw chicken came in-Yuck! Store eggs in the coldest part of the refrigerator and not in the warmest area, the door.
2 Hour Rule. Eggs should not be out of refrigerator temperature (41°F or below) for more than two hours, even when hard-boiled. If eggs are used for hiding or decoration and left at room temperature longer than two hours, it is best to throw them away after use. One idea is to have a dozen eggs for decorating and another dozen for eating.  
No Runny Yolk. When cooking eggs, make sure the white of the egg is completely set and firm, and the yolk has thickened. With scrambled eggs, no liquid egg should be left when cooking. Egg dishes such as quiches or casseroles should reach an internal temperature of 160°F before eating.
Store Hard-Boiled Eggs (shelled or peeled) in the Refrigerator for One Week. The United States Department of Agriculture recommends keeping hard-boiled eggs for one week.  Once eggs are hard-boiled, label a clean container with the day they were boiled or toss date as a reminder.
Eggs with blood spots or cloudy whites are safe to eat. If an egg has a blood spot on it, it’s from the breaking of a blood vessel in the yolk during ovulation but does not mean the egg isn’t safe to eat. The cloudier the egg white, the fresher the egg.
Keep Eggs Cold When Transporting.  Pack eggs in an insulated cooler and with ice or freezer gel packs to keep the eggs cold. Avoid storing eggs in the warm trunk of a car, but rather in or below the passenger seat.
Know the Symptoms of Salmonella. The foodborne illness, Salmonella, typically occurs 12-72 hours after ingestion. In other words, you could eat food contaminated with Salmonella on Sunday and become sick that next Wednesday. Symptoms include fever, abdominal cramps, diarrhea, and vomiting lasting between 4 and 7 days. Those at a higher risk for severe cases, which can lead to hospitalization, are young children, older adults, pregnant women, and weakened immune systems due to additional illnesses such as cancer, HIV/AIDS, or diabetes. 

Tuesday, April 28, 2020

Straw Bale Gardens

Gardening in a straw bale.  That's right, a straw bale.  It is an immediate, relatively inexpensive, 100% compostable, raised bed.  I feel like I'm telling you about a magic gardening pill that will help you grow garden fresh produce in as little as 10 minutes a week.  (Call now!) According to others...it's true.

Choose a full sun location for your bales, cover the area with several layers of newspaper or cardboard to keep weeds or grass in check in the area.  You will place the bales on their side so the bailing twine is on the side, facing out.  Orient the bales in a way that the plants will get the maximum amount of sun.  Plants that will be large when they are mature should be planted on the north side to prevent them from shading out the smaller plants.  Once the bales are wet they will be very difficult to readjust because of their weight.

There is an initial conditioning process that takes about 12 days before you can start planting.  The conditioning process involves the following steps:

Day 1-3 Water the bale to saturation
Day 4-6 Sprinkle 1/2 c. Urea (46 - 0 - 0) on the top of each bale and water the fertilizer in, careful not to wash the fertilizer away.  The fertilizer should start to work its way into the bale from the stream of water.  It may not completely disappear but it should not remain entirely on the top of the bale.
Day 7-9 Reduce the fertilizer to 1/4 c. Urea and water the fertilizer in
Day 10-11 Stop fertilizing, keep the bale moist

The fertilizer and water start the decomposition process inside the bale.  As with a compost pile, the bale will begin to heat up once the decomposition has started.  Check the bale after Day 11 and as long as it is cool to the touch you are ready to start planting.  You can either use transplants or seeds in the bale.  If you are planting transplants, put planting holes into the bale with a trowel or garden knife, add a small amount of compost or potting soil to fill in around the root ball.  If you are using seeds, spread a layer of potting soil or compost over the top of the bale and plant as you would a typical garden.

You can water the bales by hand or use a soaker hose, with or without a timer. Depending on how much time you have to spend in the garden, the soaker hose on a timer might be the best option.  Although more time consuming, watering by hand allows you the opportunity to scout for pests, diseases or nutrient deficiencies.

There will be a greater need for fertilization since there is not any soil in the system and the bales don't have nutrients like garden soil would.  You can use compost tea or liquid fish emulsion once every other week while the plants are seedlings.  Increase fertilization to once per week when the plants get larger.

Straw bales are a great option if you have poor soil, have had disease or nematode problems in the past or aren't able to rotate crops as usually recommended due to limited gardening space.  Each bale is used for only one season.  At the end of the season, the bales can be broken up and used as mulch or added to your compost pile.

There are two bales on display at the Piatt County Extension Office (210 S. Market Street, Monticello).  One is placed directly on the walk with a thin layer of plastic beneath it to help retain some water and the other is in a garden cart.  Why a garden cart?  What a great opportunity to create a mobile garden unit (a.k.a MGU).  Be on the lookout for it around Monticello!

Here we go, trying out something new and telling you about it before we know what the result will be. It's risky but we're remaining optimistic. Others have succeeded so we hope to join that list of successes. If not, it gets labeled as a learning experience and we move on.  We'll be sure to report back.  If you decide to try it at home, let us know how it goes for you!  Email traum@illinois.edu or post updates on our Facebook page - UI Extension Hort & Master Gardeners - DeWitt, Macon & Piatt Counties

Resources for more information on Straw Bale Gardening
Straw Bale Gardening Fact Sheet from West Virginia University
Straw Bale Gardening Fact Sheet from Washington State University

Straw Bale Garden by Joel Karsten

Monday, April 27, 2020

Frugal or Smart Gardening?

Frugal or Smart Gardening?

Have you wondered the aisles of your local garden center and had that same rush of adrenaline you get while looking through seed catalogs in the winter? Walking through a greenhouse in the spring is like going to the grocery store hungry – bring a list!

If you are new to the vegetable gardening scene you may spend more money than necessary unless you do a little research or ask your fellow gardeners before hitting the greenhouse. What should you plant as a transplant and what should you plant as seeds? Seeds are significantly cheaper than transplants but what will provide you with the most success in your garden?

Cool-season crops are tolerant of colder temperature however the seeds will germinate more quickly in warm soils (80°F). While some warm-season crops can be seeded directly, you will have a jump start on your harvest if you either start the seeds indoors 6-8 weeks before the average last frost or buy transplants.

Direct Seed
Radishes
Leaf lettuces
Spinach
Carrots
Beets
Turnips
Beans
Corn
Squash
Cucumber
Melon

Plant as transplants
Peppers
Tomatoes
Eggplants
Cabbage*
Broccoli*
Cauliflower*

*can be direct seeded in the summer to produce a fall crop

Although it is tempting to have an instant garden, some plants prefer to be planted directly where they will grow for the season. For example squash, cucumber, melons & corn are extremely intolerant of transplanting. If they are planted from transplants it should be done within the first two weeks after they have germinated.

In addition to happier plants, direct seeding can also be more cost-effective. You can buy an entire seed packet of leafy greens that will yield numerous salads or you can buy one cell pack of transplants for the same cost that will yield a much smaller harvest and cost more.

Besides saving time, energy, and money, you also get the satisfaction of seeing those little seeds emerge from the soil adding nice dose anticipation to your gardening experience!

Sunday, April 26, 2020

Matcha Madness: Health Benefits & Recipes

Posted by Emily Steele Caitlin MellendorfGreen tea late with foam flower in a white mug
March 12, 2020
I’m a big tea drinker – chai, green jasmine, oolong – you name it, I probably have a secret stash of loose leaf squirreled away. And just in time for St. Patrick’s Day and all things green, I’ve recently succumbed to matcha madness.

While matcha is traditionally used in Japanese tea ceremonies, this powdered tea has been making its way onto coffee shop menus as green tea lattes and into baked goods for color and flavor. Check out our Matcha Yogurt Bowl and a Green Tea Matcha Latte recipes below! 

Matcha is dried tea leaves that have been finely ground into a bright green powder. Instead of steeping, like bagged or loose-leaf tea, matcha powder is mixed with water making the tea more flavorful, with smooth grassy undertones.
About Tea

In 2018, Americans drank more than 3.8 billion gallons of tea. After water, tea is the most widely consumed beverage around the world. Tea is an infusion of the leaves picked from the Camellia sinensis plant. How those leaves are processed determines if it’s a white, green, or black tea. Herbal “teas” tisanes - include chamomile, yerba mate, mint and rooibos.

Health Benefits
Tea leaves have zero calories and are packed with a variety of flavonoids, also well known as antioxidants. Of all teas, green tea has the most antioxidants, which protect your cells against damage. Teas also have caffeine, but coffee is still king in the stimulant arena. An 8 oz. cup of green tea has 9-63 mgs of caffeine, while coffee has 72-130 mgs. 

There is a lot of research on the health benefits of tea for preventing cancers, diabetes, and obesity and improving cognitive function. Just a few examples include enhancing fat oxidation during exercise and reducing stress and anxiety, There is no hard and fast rule of how much of which tea will give you the most benefits, but a review of tea research confirms that consistently drinking tea is good for your health. 

Ways to use matcha
Matcha tea is a great ingredient for letting your imagination run wild. A simple place to start is by adding it to a breakfast smoothie or to a vinaigrette salad dressing. Its bright green color makes it a natural alternative to food dye and you can use it to add color to oatmeal, pancakes and cookies. I’ve even found a matcha hummus recipe if you’re feeling brave!

Matcha comes in different grades, with varying price ranges.

Ceremonial: Highest quality, used for tea ceremonies.
Premium: Daily drinking.
Culinary: Least expensive, used for baking, desserts, etc.
You can find matcha online, in health food stores and grocery stores in the tea sections. It traditionally comes in air-tight tins or pouches, but single-serving packets have also recently hit the shelves. Store matcha and other teas in a dry, dark cabinet.

 

Matcha Yogurt Bowl
Print recipe

This green, white and orange yogurt bowl is the perfect breakfast tribute to the Irish flag for St. Patrick's Day. It can even work as a healthy dessert! If you're not a fan of coconut, substitute almond slivers. Any yogurt will work, but for more protein, try Greek yogurt, and read the label to avoid added sugars. Make it for yourself or share with a friend!

1 cup plain or vanilla yogurt
1 tsp matcha powder
1 orange or mandarin, peeled, deseeded and sliced
1/3 cup unsweetened shredded coconut
Wash hands.
Add yogurt to a bowl and stir in matcha powder. Mix thoroughly.
Top with orange slices and coconut and serve immediately.
Nutritional information: Serves 1. Per serving (calculated with low-fat vanilla yogurt and 1 medium orange): 450 calories, 21g total fat (18g saturated fat), 170mg sodium, 56g carbohydrate, 7g fiber, 17g protein.

 

Matcha Latte
Print recipe   Video

A lot of green tea lattes at coffee chains are high in sugar and calories. To get the most health benefits, use this basic starter recipe to make your own creamy, single-serving latte at home. Start with a small amount of sweetener and use whatever milk you like – dairy, almond, coconut, etc. You can use a regular whisk or electric milk frother to mix. Feel free to add additional flavors like vanilla, chocolate or chai. Pour over ice to enjoy cold.

1½ tsp matcha powder
2 Tbs hot water, boiled and left to cool for a few minutes
1-2 tsp honey, maple syrup, other dissolvable sweeteners
¾ cup hot milk
Wash hands.
Sift the matcha into a cup.
Add the hot water and whisk until there are no lumps.
Add honey.
Add milk. For a foamier latte, froth the milk with a whisk or electric frother.
Nutritional information: Serves 1. Per serving (calculated with 1 tsp honey and reduced-fat, 2% milk): 450 calories, 21g total fat (18g saturated fat), 170mg sodium, 56g carbohydrate, 7g fiber, 17g protein

Saturday, April 25, 2020

Getting Outdoors for Campfire Cooking

Posted by Caitlin MellendorfCast iron pot hanging over campfire
December 11, 2019
Thanks to 4-H Memorial Camp in Monticello for hosting Illinois Extension and Monticello Elementary School for a day of education about pioneer lifestyle, including choosing items for a covered wagon journey, playing games, cooking and preserving foods, and learning about pelts and animals.

The food portion of the day included a talk about how to cook when electricity and modern equipment were not available, such as campfire cooking. While this lesson was short and simple for the elementary students, let’s get a little more in-depth here.

What Temperature Does a Campfire Reach?
Looking at flame color can help determine fire temperature. White flames are very hot. Red or orange flames are cooler heat. Blue flames have a temperature in between white and red-orange flames.

While there are techniques to cook directly on coals, most campfire cooking cooks food with the heat coming off the flames. That heat can reach around 600°F (320°C).

Regulate Campfire Cooking Temperatures
Moving your cooking equipment further away lowers the heat reaching the food. "Further away" could mean raising the cooking equipment upward, away from the flame. It could also mean moving the food off the flame and using indirect heat, which will be cooler.

Moving everything closer to the flames increases the cooking temperature. Adding a small amount of extra firewood helps to slowly increase the heat. Avoid adding too much firewood all at once, which can raise the temperature too much. Remember, the goal is a campfire for cooking, not a bonfire.

Keeping a Fire Going
Read the Campfires article from the National Park Service for tips on starting and regulating fires. Also check out the References list at the end of this post for more helpful information, such as types of wood that work well in campfires.

Helpful Equipment
Outdoor cooking is its own section of the outdoor equipment world. With all equipment, learn how to use it in order to be safe.

A basic cooking surface could be aluminum foil. (Though, be careful your campfire is not hotter than 1200°F, where aluminum starts to melt. Remember, no bonfires!) Cast iron, including skillets and dutch ovens, is a popular cooking surface with its even cooking ability. Grill grates and tripods hold up skillets and pans above the heat.

For safety, remember equipment like tongs and hot pads, and use probe thermometers to check food temperatures. Keep water nearby to put out fires that get too big.

A Few Outdoor Cooking Tips
Avoid cooking on a newly started fire. Let the firewood heat until some has broken down into coals. This can provide a more regulated heat.
Prepare all your ingredients before starting cooking. While the fire is heating and stabilizing, this is a great time to chop. Of course, practice food safety skills throughout the cooking process.
Provide a barrier between your food and the flames, such as foil or a skillet. Food is more likely to burn, than cook into something you want to eat, when exposed to direct flames.
For cooking surfaces with lids, such as dutch ovens, consider covering the lid with coals to add heat on top.
Recipes
Check out books from your local library, read recipes that come with your outdoor cooking equipment, and search online for recipe ideas, including Backcountry Campfire Recipes from Iowa State University.

 

Have patience with building the fire and cooking over it. Outdoor cooking is part science and part art. It takes practice.

 

References:

Burke B. Kitchn. What Are the Rules of Cooking Over a Fire Pit? 2017.
Haines B. GudGear. How Hot is a Campfire? [Chef’s Guide to Campfire Cooking]. 2019.
Jackson J. Outside. How to Cook Over a Fire. 2018.
National Park Service. Cooking in Camp. 2019.
Outdoor Life. 3 Easy Ways to Cook over an Open Fire. 2019.
Splawn M. Kitchn. 5 Rookie Mistakes to Avoid When Cooking over an Open Fire. 2016.
UCO Gear. How to Cook Over a Camp Fire. N/D.
Today's post was written by Caitlin Mellendorf.  Caitlin Mellendorf, MS, RD, is a registered dietitian and Nutrition & Wellness Educator serving DeWitt, Macon, and Piatt Counties.  She teaches nutrition- and food-based lessons around heart health, food safety, diabetes, and others.  In all classes, she encourages trying new foods, gaining confidence in healthy eating, and getting back into our kitchens.

Friday, April 24, 2020

Worm Composting is a DIY Project For All Ages


Fruit and vegetable scraps for composting





DIY projects are a great way to welcome Spring. Have you ever considered Worm Composting or Vermicomposting? One pound of worms- about 500 worms- can eat between one-half and one pound of food waste per day and can double in population in a month if they have sufficient food, water, and shelter. Vermipost is mostly worm waste referred to as “castings” and compared to ordinary soil contains 5 to 11 times more plant-available nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium. It is a mild organic fertilizer that is safe for your plants.

“Worm composting is a great way for you to recycle fruit and vegetable waste from your kitchen,” said Doug Gucker, University of Illinois Extension Local Foods and Small Farms Educator,. “Another great thing about this type of composting is that it can be done year-round.”

The best worms for vermicomposting are: red worms, brandling worms, and European nightcrawlers. These earthworms are surface dwellers which means they will live in the upper layers of rich, organic matter in piles of decaying litter. They do not burrow like some common earthworms found in backyards. Vermicomposting worms can also survive in temperatures ranging from 40⁰ to 90⁰ F but prefer between 55⁰ and 77⁰ F.

Small pieces of fruits and vegetables- including peels-, ground eggshells, coffee grounds, tea bags, and small amounts of moistened plain cereal, bread and pasta are ideal foods for worms. Foods to avoid include meat, poultry, dairy products, oils and strongly flavored foods such as garlic and onions. In the beginning, feeding will be by trial and error.

The key is to understand the amount of food that the worms can consume in a week, and not overfeed them. Scraps that are placed in the bin should be buried in the worm bedding. This will help to reduce odor and keep from attracting insects. Varying the location of the food will also help avoid pockets of excess waste. Even though worms eat approximately half their body weight in food each day, it is easy to overwhelm them and cause problems for you.


This spring has provided ample opportunity for DIY projects so here’s one more to add to the list.

 
Worm Composting!
For many, this might be unthinkable, but in reality, worm composting or vermicomposting is a great way to fulfill your mission to reduce, reuse, recycle. Vermicompost is mostly worm excrement which is also referred to as “castings.”  Worm castings actually contain 5 to 11 times more plant-available nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium which is comparable to commercial potting soil. And, it can be done throughout the year.

Yes, you read that correctly.

Worm composting can be done indoors with some readily available items:

two 10-gallon storage totes

shredded black/white newspaper, shredded leaves, shredded computer paper, shredded cardboard or sawdust for bedding

a drill

a spray bottle

food scraps

Learn how to build your worm bin!

So, after I’ve built the worm bin, what’s next?

It's time to buy some wiggly tenants- red worms (Lumbricus rubellus), brandling worms (Eisenia fetida), and European nightcrawlers (Eisenia hortensis) are the best choices for vermicomposting and can be purchased online. These earthworms are surface dwellers which means they will live in the upper layers of rich, organic matter in piles of decaying litter. They do not burrow like the common earthworm found in backyards. Vermicomposting worms can also survive in temperatures ranging from 40⁰ to 90⁰ F but prefer between 55⁰ and 77⁰ F. It is also best to keep them in lidded bins in garages, closets, or basements. That way the interior of their home remains relatively dark.

And, now for the most important question-or at least your worms will think so- what should I feed them?

Feeding your wiggly friends kitchen scraps is ideal because let’s face it, we cook year-round, so scraps are plentiful. Small pieces of fruits and vegetables(including peels), ground eggshells, coffee grounds, tea bags(with the staple removed), and small amounts of moistened plain cereal, bread and pasta will keep your worms happy.

However, these are no-no's: meat, poultry, fish, dairy products, oils, and strongly flavored foods such as garlic and onions.  Hey, even worms are choosy!

In the beginning, feeding will be a lot of trial and error to see just exactly how much these friends are going to consume in a week. Whatever scraps are added should be buried in the worm bedding to keep from attracting insects and producing foul odors. Varying the location where the food is buried will also be helpful to eliminate pockets of excess waste. Too much food can overwhelm your worms and they won’t have time to digest everything, so the scraps will start to smell and attract insects. Worms do not appreciate uninvited guests! Some insects and worms do not play nice.

Besides, your wiggly friends are already working hard since they can eat ½ their body weight in food EACH day!

Let’s think about that for a minute. One pound of worms (about 500 worms) can eat between ½ and 1 pound of waste per day and can double in population in a month if they have sufficient food, water, and shelter.

No doubt about it, those are some efficient wiggly eaters.

To learn more about vermicomposting make sure to read Oregon State University Extension’s “Composting with Worms"  and take the first step in making your own vermicompost.

Thursday, April 23, 2020

Why stress causes people to overeat - Harvard Health

Why stress causes people to overeat - Harvard Health
There is much truth behind the phrase "stress eating." Stress, the hormones it unleashes, and the effects of high-fat, sugary "comfort foods" push people toward overeating. Researchers have linked weight gain to stress, and according to an American Psychological Association survey, about one-fourth of Americans rate their stress level as 8 or more on a 10-point scale.

In the short term, stress can shut down appetite. The nervous system sends messages to the adrenal glands atop the kidneys to pump out the hormone epinephrine (also known as adrenaline). Epinephrine helps trigger the body's fight-or-flight response, a revved-up physiological state that temporarily puts eating on hold.

But if stress persists, it's a different story. The adrenal glands release another hormone called cortisol, and cortisol increases appetite and may also ramp up motivation in general, including the motivation to eat. Once a stressful episode is over, cortisol levels should fall, but if the stress doesn't go away — or if a person's stress response gets stuck in the "on" position — cortisol may stay elevated.

Stress eating, hormones and hunger
Stress also seems to affect food preferences. Numerous studies — granted, many of them in animals — have shown that physical or emotional distress increases the intake of food high in fat, sugar, or both. High cortisol levels, in combination with high insulin levels, may be responsible. Other research suggests that ghrelin, a "hunger hormone," may have a role.

Once ingested, fat- and sugar-filled foods seem to have a feedback effect that dampens stress related responses and emotions. These foods really are "comfort" foods in that they seem to counteract stress — and this may contribute to people's stress-induced craving for those foods.

Of course, overeating isn't the only stress-related behavior that can add pounds. Stressed people also lose sleep, exercise less, and drink more alcohol, all of which can contribute to excess weight.

Why do people stress eat?
Some research suggests a gender difference in stress-coping behavior, with women being more likely to turn to food and men to alcohol or smoking. And a Finnish study that included over 5,000 men and women showed that obesity was associated with stress-related eating in women but not in men.

Harvard researchers have reported that stress from work and other sorts of problems correlates with weight gain, but only in those who were overweight at the beginning of the study period. One theory is that overweight people have elevated insulin levels, and stress-related weight gain is more likely to occur in the presence of high insulin.

How much cortisol people produce in response to stress may also factor into the stress–weight gain equation. In 2007, British researchers designed an ingenious study that showed that people who responded to stress with high cortisol levels in an experimental setting were more likely to snack in response to daily hassles in their regular lives than low-cortisol responders.

How to relieve stress without overeating
When stress affects someone's appetite and waistline, the individual can forestall further weight gain by ridding the refrigerator and cupboards of high-fat, sugary foods. Keeping those "comfort foods" handy is just inviting trouble.

Here are some other suggestions for countering stress:

Meditation. Countless studies show that meditation reduces stress, although much of the research has focused on high blood pressure and heart disease. Meditation may also help people become more mindful of food choices. With practice, a person may be able to pay better attention to the impulse to grab a fat- and sugar-loaded comfort food and inhibit the impulse.

Exercise. While cortisol levels vary depending on the intensity and duration of exercise, overall exercise can blunt some of the negative effects of stress. Some activities, such as yoga and tai chi, have elements of both exercise and meditation.

Social support. Friends, family, and other sources of social support seem to have a buffering effect on the stress that people experience. For example, research suggests that people working in stressful situations, like hospital emergency departments, have better mental health if they have adequate social support. But even people who live and work in situations where the stakes aren't as high need help from time to time from friends and family.

Wednesday, April 22, 2020

Earth Day 2020

41 Ideas for spring art projects kindergarten earth day #art

A lot of us are still indoors and following our Governors orders to #stayhome. We can still celebrate Earth Day from inside. 
If you're able to go outside and play or just stroll around your block, there's always something you can do to make the Earth a better place!  

Tuesday, April 21, 2020

THE LANDLADY ROALD DAHL

THE LANDLADY
ROALD DAHL
Billy Weaver had traveled down from
London on the slow afternoon train, with a
change at Swindon on the way, and by the
the time he got to Bath it was about nine
o’clock in the evening and the moon was
coming up out of a clear starry sky over
the houses opposite the station entrance.
But the air was deadly cold and the wind
was like a flat blade of ice on his cheeks.
 “Excuse me,” he said, “but is there a
fairly cheap hotel not too far away from
here?”
 “Try The Bell and Dragon,” the porter
answered, pointing down the road. “They
might take you in. It’s about a quarter of a
mile along on the other side.”
 Billy thanked him and picked up his
suitcase and set out to walk the quarter-mile to The Bell and Dragon. He had
never been to Bath before. He didn’t know
anyone who lived there. But Mr
Greenslade at the Head Office in London
had told him it was a splendid city. “Find
your own lodgings,” he had said, “and
then go along and report to the Branch
Manager as soon as you’ve got yourself
settled.”
 Billy was seventeen years old. He was
wearing a new navy-blue overcoat, a new
brown trilby hat, and a new brown suit,
and he was feeling fine. He walked briskly
down the street. He was trying to do
everything briskly these days. Briskness,
he had decided, was the one common
characteristic of all successful
businessmen. The big shots up at Head
Office were absolutely fantastically brisk
all the time. They were amazing.
 There were no shops on this wide street
 that he was walking along, only a line of
tall houses on each side, all them
identical. They had porches and pillars
and four or five steps going up to their
front doors and it was obvious that once
upon a time they had been very swanky
residences. But now, even in the
darkness, he could see that the paint was
peeling from the woodwork on their doors
and windows, and that the handsome
white façades were cracked and blotchy from
neglect.
 Suddenly, in a downstairs window that was
brilliantly illuminated by a street-lamp not six
yards away, Billy caught sight of a printed
notice propped up against the glass in one of
the upper panes. It said BED AND
BREAKFAST. There was a vase of yellow
chrysanthemums, tall and beautiful, standing
just underneath the notice.
He stopped walking. He moved a bit closer.
 Green curtains (some sort of velvety
material) were hanging down on either side of
the window. The chrysanthemums looked
wonderful beside them. He went right up and
peered through the glass into the room, and
the first thing he saw was a bright fire burning
in the hearth. On the carpet in front of the fire,
a pretty little dachshund was curled up asleep
with its nose tucked into its belly.
 The room itself, so far as he could see in
the half-darkness, was filled with pleasant
furniture. There was a baby-grand piano and
a big sofa and several plump armchairs, and
in one corner he spotted a large parrot in a
cage. Animals were usually a good sign in a
place like this, Billy told himself; and all in all,
it looked to him as though it would be a pretty
decent house to stay in. Certainly, it would be
more comfortable than The Bell and Dragon.
On the other hand, a pub would be more
congenial than a boarding-house. There
would be beer and darts in the evenings, and
lots of people to talk to, and it would probably
be a good bit cheaper, too. He had stayed a
couple of nights in a pub once before and he
had liked it. He had never stayed in any
boarding-houses, and, to be perfectly honest,
he was a tiny bit frightened of them. The
name itself conjured up images of watery
cabbage, rapacious landladies, and a
powerful smell of kippers in the living-room.
 After dithering about like this in the cold for
two or three minutes, Billy decided that he
would walk on and take a look at The Bell
and Dragon before making up his mind. He
turned to go. And now a queer thing
happened to him. He was in the act of
stepping back and turning away from the 
the window when all at once his eye was
caught and held in the most peculiar
the manner by the small notice that was there.
BED AND BREAKFAST, it said. BED AND
BREAKFAST, BED, AND BREAKFAST,
BED AND BREAKFAST. Each word was
like a large black eye staring at him
through the glass, holding him, compelling
him, forcing him to stay where he was and
not to walk away from that house, and the
next thing he knew, he was actually
moving across from the window to the
the front door of the house, climbing the steps
that led up to it and reaching for the bell.
 He pressed the bell. Far away in a back
the room he heard it ringing, and then at once
– it must have been at once because of he
hadn’t even had time to take his finger
from the bell-button – the door swung
open and a woman was standing there.
 Normally you ring the bell and you have
at least a half-minute’s wait before the
door opens. But this dame was like a
jack-in-the-box. He pressed the bell – and
out she popped! It made him jump.
 She was about forty-five or fifty years
old, and the moment she saw him, she
gave him a warm welcoming smile.
 “Please come in,” she said pleasantly.
She stepped aside, holding the door wide
open, and Billy found himself
automatically starting forward into the
house. The compulsion or, more
accurately, the desire to follow after her
into that house was extraordinarily strong.
 “I saw the notice in the window,” he said,
holding himself back.
 “Yes, I know.”
 “I was wondering about a room.”
 “It's all ready for you, my dear,” she said.
She had a round pink face and very gentle
140 blue eyes.
 “I was on my way to The Bell and
Dragon,” Billy told her. “But the notice in
your window just happened to catch my
eye.”
 “My dear boy,” she said, “why don't you
come in out of the cold?”
 “How much do you charge?”
 “Five and sixpence a night, including
breakfast.”
 It was fantastically cheap. It was less than
half of what he had been willing to pay.
 “If that is too much,” she added, “then
perhaps I can reduce it just a tiny bit. Do you
desire an egg for breakfast? Eggs are
expensive at the moment. It would be
sixpence less without the egg.”
 “Five and sixpence are fine,” he answered. “I
should like very much to stay here.”
 “I knew you would. Do come in.”
 She seemed terribly nice. She looked
exactly like the mother of one’s best schoolfriend welcoming one into the house to stay
for the Christmas holidays. Billy took off his
hat and stepped over the threshold.
 “Just hang in there,” she said, “and let me
help you with your coat.”
 There were no other hats or coats in the
hall. There were no umbrellas, no walkingsticks – nothing.
 “We have it all to ourselves,” she said,
smiling at him over her shoulder as she led
the way upstairs.
 “You see, it isn’t very often I have the
the pleasure of taking a visitor into my little nest.”
 The old girl is slightly dotty, Billy told
himself. But at five and sixpence a night, who
gives a damn about that? – “I should've
thought you’d be simply swamped with
applicants,” he said politely.
“Oh, I am, my dear, I am, of course, I am.
But the trouble is that I'm inclined to be just a
teeny weeny bit choosy and particular – if you
see what I mean.”
 “Ah, yes.”
 “But I’m always ready. Everything is always
ready day and night in this house just on the
off-chance that an acceptable young
gentleman will come along. And it is such a
pleasure, my dear, such a very great
pleasure when now and again I open the
door and I see someone standing there who
is just exactly right.” She was half-way up the
stairs and she paused with one hand on the
stair-rail, turning her head and smiling down
at him with pale lips. “Like you,” she added,
and her blue eyes traveled slowly all the way
down the length of Billy's body, to his feet,
and then up again.
 On the first-floor landing, she said to him,
“This floor is mine.”
 They climbed up a second flight. “And this
one is all yours,” she said. “Here’s your room. 
I do hope you’ll like it.” She took him into a
small but charming front bedroom,
switching on the light as she went in.
 “The morning sun comes right in the
window, Mr. Perkins. It is Mr. Perkins, isn’t
it?”
 “No,” he said. “It’s Weaver.”
 “Mr. Weaver. How nice. I’ve put a water bottle between the sheets to air them out,
Mr. Weaver. It’s such a comfort to have a
hot water bottle in a strange bed with
clean sheets, don’t you agree?
And you may light the gas fire at any time
if you feel chilly.”
 “Thank you,” Billy said. “Thank you ever
so much.” He noticed that the bedspread
had been taken off the bed, and that the
bedclothes had been neatly turned back
on one side, all ready for someone to get
in.
 “I’m so glad you appeared,” she said,
looking earnestly into his face. “I was
beginning to get worried.”
 “That’s all right,” Billy answered brightly.
“You mustn’t worry about me.” He put his
suitcase on the chair and started to open
it.
 “And what about supper, my dear? Did
you manage to get anything to eat before
you came here?”
 “I’m not a bit hungry, thank you,” he
said. “I think I’ll just go to bed as soon as
possible because tomorrow I’ve got to get
up rather early and report to the office.”
 “Very well, then. I’ll leave you now so
that you can unpack. But before you go to
bed, would you be kind enough to pop into
the sitting-room on the ground floor and
sign the book? Everyone has to do that
because it’s the law of the land, and we
don’t want to go breaking any laws at this
stage in the proceedings, do we?” She
gave him a little wave of the hand and
went quickly out of the room and closed
the door.
 Now, the fact that his landlady appeared
to be slightly off her rocker didn’t worry
Billy in the least. After all, she was not
only harmless – there was no question
about that – but she was also quite
obviously a kind and generous soul. He
guessed that she had probably lost a son
in the war, or something like that, and had
never got over it.
 So a few minutes later, after unpacking his
suitcase and washing his hands, he trotted
downstairs to the ground floor and entered
 the living-room. His landlady wasn’t there, but
the fire was glowing in the hearth and the
the little dachshund was still sleeping in front of it.
The room was wonderfully warm and cozy.
I’m a lucky fellow, he thought, rubbing his
hands. This is a bit of all right.
 He found the guest-book lying open on the
piano, so he took out his pen and wrote down
his name and address. There were only two
other entries above him on the page, and, as
one always does with guest-books, he started
to read them. One was a Christopher
Mulholland from Cardiff. The other was
Gregory W. Temple from Bristol. That’s
funny, he thought suddenly. Christopher
Mulholland. It rings a bell. Now, where on
earth had he heard that rather unusual name
before?
 Was he a boy at school? No. Was it one of
his sister’s numerous young men, perhaps, or
a friend of his father’s? No, no, it wasn’t any
of those. He glanced down again at the book.
Christopher Mulholland, 231 Cathedral Road,
Cardiff. Gregory W. Temple, 27 Sycamore
Drive, Bristol. As a matter of fact, now he
came to think of it, he wasn’t at all sure that
the second name didn’t have almost as much
of a familiar ring about it as the first.
 “Gregory Temple?” he said aloud,
searching his memory. “Christopher
Mulholland? …”
 “Such charming boys,” a voice behind him
answered, and he turned and saw his
landlady sailing into the room with a large
silver tea-tray in her hands. She was holding
it well out in front of her, and rather high up,
as though the tray were a pair of reins on a
frisky horse.
 “They sound somehow familiar,” he said.
 “They do? How interesting.”
“I’m almost positive I’ve heard those names
before somewhere. Isn’t that queer? Maybe it
was in the newspapers. They weren’t famous
in any way, were they? I mean famous
cricketers or footballers or something like
that?”
 “Famous,” she said, setting the tea-tray
down on the low table in front of the sofa. “Oh 
no, I don’t think they were famous. But
they were extraordinarily handsome, both
of them, I can promise you that. They
were tall and young and handsome, my
dear, just exactly like you.”
Once more, Billy glanced down at the
book.
 “Look here,” he said, noticing the dates.
“This last entry is over two years old.”
 “It is?”
 “Yes, indeed. And Christopher
Mulholland’s is nearly a year before that –
more than three years ago.”
 “Dear me,” she said, shaking her head
and heaving a dainty little sigh. “I would
never have thought it. How time does fly
away from us all, doesn’t it, Mr. Wilkins?”
 “It’s Weaver,” Billy said. “W-e-a-v-e-r.”
 “Oh, of course, it is!” she cried, sitting
down on the sofa. “How silly of me. I do
apologize. In one ear and out the other,
that’s me, Mr. Weaver.”
 “You know something?” Billy said.
‘Something that’s really quite
extraordinary about all this?”
 “No, dear, I don’t.”
 “Well, you see – both of these names,
Mulholland and Temple, I not only seem to
remember each one of them separately,
so to speak, but somehow or other, in
some peculiar way, they both appear to be
sort of connected together as well. As
though they were both famous for the
the same sort of thing, if you see what I mean
– like … like Dempsey and Tunney, for
example, or Churchill and Roosevelt.”
 “How amusing,” she said. “But come
over here now, dear, and sit down beside
me on the sofa and I’ll give you a nice cup
of tea and a ginger biscuit before you go
to bed.”
 “You really shouldn’t bother,” Billy said.
“I didn’t mean you to do anything like that.”
He stood by the piano, watching her as
she fussed about with the cups and
saucers. He noticed that she had small,
white, quickly moving hands, and red
finger-nails.
 “I’m almost positive it was in the
newspapers I saw them,” Billy said. “I’ll
think of it in a second. I’m sure I will.”
 There is nothing more tantalizing than a
thing like this which lingers just outside the
borders of one’s memory. He hated to give
up.
 “Now wait a minute,” he said. “Wait just a
minute. Mulholland ... Christopher Mulholland
... wasn’t that the name of the Eton schoolboy
who was on a walking tour through the West
Country, and then all of a sudden ...”
 “Milk?” she said. “And sugar?”
 “Yes, please. And then all of a sudden ...”
 “Eton schoolboy?” she said. “Oh no, my
dear, that can’t possibly be right because my
Mr. Mulholland was certainly not an Eton
schoolboy when he came to me. He was a
Cambridge undergraduate. Come over here
now and sit next to me and warm yourself in
front of this lovely fire. Come on. Your tea’s
all ready for you.” She patted the empty place
beside her on the sofa, and she sat there
smiling at Billy and waiting for him to come
over. He crossed the room slowly, and sat
down on the edge of the sofa. She placed his
teacup on the table in front of him.
 “There we are,” she said. “How nice and
cozy this is, isn’t it?”
 Billy started sipping his tea. She did the
same. For half a minute or so, neither of them
spoke. But Billy knew that she was looking at
him. Her body was half-turned towards him,
and he could feel her eyes resting on his
face, watching him over the rim of her teacup.
Now and again, he caught a whiff of a
peculiar smell that seemed to emanate
directly from her person. It was not in the
least unpleasant, and it reminded him – well,
he wasn’t quite sure what it reminded him of.
Pickled walnuts? New leather? Or was it the
corridors of a hospital?
 “Mr. Mulholland was a great one for his tea,”
she said at length. “Never in my life have I
seen anyone drink as much tea as dear,
sweet Mr. Mulholland.”
 “I suppose he left fairly recently,” Billy said.
He was still puzzling his head about the two
names.
He was positive now that he had seen them
in the newspapers – in the headlines.
 “Left?” she said, arching her brows. “But my
dear boy, he never left. He’s still here. Mr
Temple is also here. They’re on the third
floor, both of them together.”
 Billy set down his cup slowly on the table
and stared at his landlady. She smiled back
at him, and then she put out one of her white hands and patted him comfortingly on the
knee. “How old are you, my dear?” she
asked.
 “Seventeen.”
 “Seventeen!” she cried. “Oh, it’s the
perfect age! Mr. Mulholland was also
seventeen. But I think he was a trifle
shorter than you are, in fact, I’m sure he
was, and his teeth weren’t quite so white.
You have the most beautiful teeth, Mr
Weaver, did you know that?”
 “They’re not as good as they look,” Billy
said.
 “They’ve got simply masses of fillings in
them at the back.”
 “Mr. Temple, of course, was a little
older,” she said, ignoring his remark. “He
was actually twenty-eight. And yet I never
would have guessed it if he hadn’t told
me, never in my whole life. There wasn’t a
blemish on his body.”
 “A what?” Billy said.
 “His skin was just like a baby’s.”
 There was a pause. Billy picked up his
teacup and took another sip of his tea,
then he set it down again gently in its
saucer. He waited for her to say
something else, but she seemed to have
lapsed into another of her silences. He sat
there staring straight ahead of him into the
far corner of the room, biting his lower lip.
 “That parrot,” he said at last. “You know
something? It had me completely fooled
when I first saw it through the window
from the street. I could have sworn it was
alive.”
 “Alas, no longer.”
 “It’s most terribly clever the way it’s been
done,” he said. “It doesn’t look in the least
bit dead. Who did it?”
 “I did.”
 “You did?”
 “Of course,” she said. “And have you
met my little Basil as well?” She nodded
towards the dachshund curled up so
comfortably in front of the fire. Billy looked
at it. And suddenly, he realized that this
animal had all the time been just as silent
and motionless as the parrot. He put out a
hand and touched it gently on the top of its
back. The back was hard and cold, and
when he pushed the hair to one side with
his fingers, he could see the skin
underneath, greyish-black and dry and
perfectly preserved.
 “Good gracious me,” he said. “How
absolutely fascinating.” He turned away from
the dog and stared with deep admiration at
the little woman beside him on the sofa. “It
must be most awfully difficult to do a thing
like that.”
 “Not in the least,” she said. “I stuff all my
little pets myself when they pass away. Will
you have another cup of tea?”
 “No, thank you,” Billy said. The tea tasted
faintly of bitter almonds, and he didn’t much
 care for it.
 “You did sign the book, didn’t you?”
 “Oh, yes.”
 “That’s good. Because later on, if I happen
to forget what you were called, then I can
always come down here and look it up. I still
do that almost every day with Mr Mulholland
and Mr . . .Mr...”
 “Temple,” Billy said. “Gregory Temple.
Excuse my asking, but haven’t there been
any other guests here except them in the last
two or three years?”
 Holding her teacup high in one hand,
inclining her head slightly to the left, she
looked up at him out of the corners of her
eyes and gave him another gentle little smile.
 “No, my dear,” she said. ‘Only you.'

© Roald Dahl
Reprinted by kind permission of David
Higham Associates
‘The Landlady’ first appeared in ‘Kiss Kiss’ 

Monday, April 20, 2020

Roald Dahl's SKIN

Skin
That year – 1946 – winter was a long time going. Although it was April, a freezing wind blew
through the streets of the city, and overhead the snow clouds moved across the sky.
The old man who was called Drioli shuffled painfully along the sidewalk of the rue de Rivoli. He
was cold and miserable, huddled up like a hedgehog in a filthy black coat, only his eyes and the top of
his head visible above the turned-up collar.
The door of a café opened and the faint whiff of roasting chicken brought a pain of yearning to the
top of his stomach. He moved on glancing without any interest at the things in the shop windows –
perfume, silk ties and shirts, diamonds, porcelain, antique furniture, finely bound books. Then a
picture gallery. He had always liked picture galleries. This one had a single canvas on display in the
window. He stopped to look at it. He turned to go on. He checked, looked back; and now, suddenly,
there came to him a slight uneasiness, a movement of the memory, a distant recollection of something,
somewhere, he had seen before. He looked again. It was a landscape, a clump of trees leaning madly
over to one side as if blown by a tremendous wind, the sky swirling and twisting all around. Attached
to the frame there was a little plaque, and on this it said: CHAÏM SOUTINE (1894–1943).
Drioli stared at the picture, wondering vaguely what there was about it that seemed familiar. Crazy
painting, he thought. Very strange and crazy – but I like it … Chaïm Soutine … Soutine … ‘By God!’
he cried suddenly. ‘My little Kalmuck, that’s who it is! My little Kalmuck with a picture in the finest
shop in Paris! Just imagine that!’
The old man pressed his face closer to the window. He could remember the boy – yes, quite
clearly he could remember him. But when? The rest of it was not so easy to recollect. It was so long
ago. How long? Twenty – no, more like thirty years, wasn’t it? Wait a minute. Yes – it was the year
before the war, the first war, 1913. That was it. And this Soutine, this ugly little Kalmuck, a sullen
brooding boy whom he had liked – almost loved – for no reason at all that he could think of except
that he could paint.
And how he could paint! It was coming back more clearly now – the street, the line of refuse cans
along the length of it, the rotten smell, the brown cats walking delicately over the refuse, and then the
women, moist fat women sitting on the doorsteps with their feet upon the cobblestones of the street.
Which street? Where was it the boy had lived?
The Cité Falguière, that was it! The old man nodded his head several times, pleased to have
remembered the name. Then there was the studio with the single chair in it, and the filthy red couch
that the boy had used for sleeping; the drunken parties, the cheap white wine, the furious quarrels, and
always, always the bitter sullen face of the boy brooding over his work.
It was odd, Drioli thought, how easily it all came back to him now, how each single small
remembered fact seemed instantly to remind him of another.
There was that nonsense with the tattoo, for instance. Now, that was a mad thing if ever there was
one. How had it started? Ah, yes – he had got rich one day, that was it, and he had bought lots of
wine. He could see himself now as he entered the studio with the parcel of bottles under his arm – the
boy sitting before the easel, and his (Drioli’s) own wife standing in the centre of the room, posing for
her picture.
‘Tonight we shall celebrate,’ he said. ‘We shall have a little celebration, us three.’
‘What is it that we celebrate?’ the boy asked, without looking up. ‘Is it that you have decided to
divorce your wife so she can marry me?’
‘No,’ Drioli said. ‘We celebrate because today I have made a great sum of money with my work.’
‘And I have made nothing. We can celebrate that also.’
‘If you like.’ Drioli was standing by the table unwrapping the parcel. He felt tired and he wanted to
get at the wine. Nine clients in one day was all very nice, but it could play hell with a man’s eyes. He
had never done as many as nine before. Nine boozy soldiers – and the remarkable thing was that no
fewer than seven of them had been able to pay in cash. This had made him extremely rich. But the
work was terrible on the eyes. Drioli’s eyes were half closed from fatigue, the whites streaked with
little connecting lines of red; and about an inch behind each eyeball there was a small concentration
of pain. But it was evening now and he was wealthy as a pig, and in the parcel there were three
bottles – one for his wife, one for his friend, and one for him. He had found the corkscrew and was
drawing the corks from the bottles, each making a small plop as it came out.
The boy put down his brush. ‘Oh, Christ,’ he said. ‘How can one work with all this going on?’
The girl came across the room to look at the painting. Drioli came over also, holding a bottle in
one hand, a glass in the other.
‘No,’ the boy shouted, blazing up suddenly. ‘Please – no!’ He snatched the canvas from the easel
and stood it against the wall. But Drioli had seen it.
‘I like it.’
‘It’s terrible.’
‘It’s marvellous. Like all the others that you do, it’s marvellous. I love them all.’
‘The trouble is,’ the boy said, scowling, ‘that in themselves they are not nourishing. I cannot eat
them.’
‘But still they are marvellous.’ Drioli handed him a tumblerful of the pale-yellow wine. ‘Drink it,’
he said. ‘It will make you happy.’
Never, he thought, had he known a more unhappy person, or one with a gloomier face. He had
spotted him in a café some seven months before, drinking alone, and because he had looked like a
Russian or some sort of an Asiatic, Drioli had sat down at his table and talked.
‘You are a Russian?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where from?’
‘Minsk.’
Drioli had jumped up and embraced him, crying that he too had been born in that city.
‘It wasn’t actually Minsk,’ the boy had said. ‘But quite near.’
‘Where?’
‘Smilovichi, about twelve miles away.’
‘Smilovichi!’ Drioli had shouted, embracing him again. ‘I walked there several times when I was a
boy.’ Then he had sat down again, staring affectionately at the other’s face. ‘You know,’ he had said,
‘you don’t look like a western Russian. You’re like a Tartar, or a Kalmuck. You look exactly like a
Kalmuck.’
Now, standing in the studio, Drioli looked again at the boy as he took the glass of wine and tipped
it down his throat in one swallow. Yes, he did have a face like a Kalmuck – very broad and highcheeked, with a wide coarse nose. This broadness of the cheeks was accentuated by the ears which
stood out sharply from the head. And then he had the narrow eyes, the black hair, the thick sullen
mouth of a Kalmuck, but the hands – the hands were always a surprise, so small and white like a
lady’s, with tiny thin fingers.
‘Give me some more,’ the boy said. ‘If we are to celebrate then let us do it properly.’
Drioli distributed the wine and sat himself on a chair. The boy sat on the old couch with Drioli’s
wife. The three bottles were placed on the floor between them.
‘Tonight we shall drink as much as we possibly can,’ Drioli said. ‘I am exceptionally rich. I think
perhaps I should go out now and buy some more bottles. How many shall I get?’
‘Six more,’ the boy said. ‘Two for each.’
‘Good. I shall go now and fetch them.’
‘And I will help you.’
In the nearest café Drioli bought six bottles of white wine, and then carried them back to the studio.
They placed them on the floor in two rows, and Drioli fetched the corkscrew and pulled the corks, all
six of them; then they sat down again and continued to drink.
‘It is only the very wealthy,’ Drioli said, ‘who can afford to celebrate in this manner.’
‘That is true,’ the boy said. ‘Isn’t that true, Josie?’
‘Of course.’
‘How do you feel, Josie?’
‘Fine.’
‘Will you leave Drioli and marry me?’
‘No.’
‘Beautiful wine,’ Drioli said. ‘It is a privilege to drink it.’
Slowly, methodically, they set about getting themselves drunk. The process was routine, but all the
same there was a certain ceremony to be observed, and a gravity to be maintained, and a great number
of things to be said, then said again – and the wine must be praised, and the slowness was important
too, so that there would be time to savour the three delicious stages of transition, especially (for
Drioli) the one when he began to float and his feet did not really belong to him. That was the best
period of them all – when he could look down at his feet and they were so far away that he would
wonder what crazy person they might belong to and why they were lying around on the floor like that,
in the distance.
After a while, he got up to switch on the light. He was surprised to see that the feet came with him
when he did this, especially because he couldn’t feel them touching the ground. It gave him a pleasant
sensation of walking on air. Then he began wandering around the room, peeking slyly at the canvases
stacked against the walls.
‘Listen,’ he said at length. ‘I have an idea.’ He came across and stood before the couch, swaying
gently. ‘Listen, my little Kalmuck.’
‘What?’
‘I have a tremendous idea. Are you listening?’
‘I’m listening to Josie.’
‘Listen to me, please. You are my friend – my ugly little Kalmuck from Minsk – and to me you are
such an artist that I would like to have a picture, a lovely picture –’
‘Have them all. Take all you can find, but do not interrupt me when I am talking with your wife.’
‘No, no. Now listen. I mean a picture that I can have with me always … for ever … wherever I go
… whatever happens … but always with me … a picture by you.’ He reached forward and shook the
boy’s knee. ‘Now listen to me, please.’
‘Listen to him,’ the girl said.
‘It is this. I want you to paint a picture on my skin, on my back. Then I want you to tattoo over what
you have painted so that it will be there always.’
‘You have crazy ideas.’
‘I will teach you how to use the tattoo. It is easy. A child could do it.’
‘I am not a child.’
‘Please …’
‘You are quite mad. What is it you want?’ The painter looked up into the slow, dark, wine-bright
eyes of the other man. ‘What in heaven’s name is it you want?’
‘You could do it easily! You could! You could!’
‘You mean with the tattoo?’
‘Yes, with the tattoo! I will teach you in two minutes!’
‘Impossible!’
‘Are you saying I do not know what I am talking about?’
No, the boy could not possibly be saying that because if anyone knew about the tattoo it was he –
Drioli. Had he not, only last month, covered a man’s whole belly with the most wonderful and
delicate design composed entirely of flowers? What about the client who had had so much hair upon
his chest that he had done him a picture of a grizzly bear so designed that the hair on the chest became
the furry coat of the bear? Could he not draw the likeness of a lady and position it with such subtlety
upon a man’s arm that when the muscle of the arm was flexed the lady came to life and performed
some astonishing contortions?
‘All I am saying,’ the boy told him, ‘is that you are drunk and this is a drunken idea.’
‘We could have Josie for a model. A study of Josie upon my back. Am I not entitled to a picture of
my wife upon my back?’
‘Of Josie?’
‘Yes.’ Drioli knew he only had to mention his wife and the boy’s thick brown lips would loosen
and begin to quiver.
‘No,’ the girl said.
‘Darling Josie, please. Take this bottle and finish it, then you will feel more generous. It is an
enormous idea. Never in my life have I had such an idea before.’
‘What idea?’
‘That he should make a picture of you upon my back. Am I not entitled to that?’
‘A picture of me?’
‘A nude study,’ the boy said. ‘It is an agreeable idea.’
‘Not nude,’ the girl said.
‘It is an enormous idea,’ Drioli said.
‘It’s a damn crazy idea,’ the girl said.
‘It is in any event an idea,’ the boy said. ‘It is an idea that calls for a celebration.’
They emptied another bottle among them. Then the boy said, ‘It is no good. I could not possibly
manage the tattoo. Instead, I will paint this picture on your back and you will have it with you so long
as you do not take a bath and wash it off. If you never take a bath again in your life then you will have
it always, as long as you live.’
‘No,’ Drioli said.
‘Yes – and on the day that you decide to take a bath I will know that you do not any longer value
my picture. It will be a test of your admiration for my art.’
‘I do not like the idea,’ the girl said. ‘His admiration for your art is so great that he would be
unclean for many years. Let us have the tattoo. But not nude.’
‘Then just the head,’ Drioli said.
‘I could not manage it.’
‘It is immensely simple. I will undertake to teach you in two minutes. You will see. I shall go now
and fetch the instruments. The needles and the inks. I have inks of many different colours – as many
different colours as you have paints, and far more beautiful …’
‘It is impossible.’
‘I have many inks. Have I not many different colours of inks, Josie?’
‘Yes.’
‘You will see,’ Drioli said. ‘I will go now and fetch them.’ He got up from his chair and walked
unsteadily, but with determination, out of the room.
In half an hour Drioli was back. ‘I have brought everything,’ he cried, waving a brown suitcase.
‘All the necessities of the tattooist are here in this bag.’
He placed the bag on the table, opened it, and laid out the electric needles and the small bottles of
coloured inks. He plugged in the electric needle, then he took the instrument in his hand and pressed a
switch. It made a buzzing sound and the quarter inch of needle that projected from the end of it began
to vibrate swiftly up and down. He threw off his jacket and rolled up his sleeve. ‘Now look. Watch
me and I will show you how easy it is. I will make a design on my arm, here.’
His forearm was already covered with blue markings, but he selected a small clear patch of skin
upon which to demonstrate.
‘First, I choose my ink – let us use ordinary blue – and I dip the point of the needle in the ink … so
… and I hold the needle up straight and I run it lightly over the surface of the skin … like this … and
with the little motor and the electricity, the needle jumps up and down and punctures the skin and the
ink goes in and there you are. See how easy it is … see how I draw a picture of a greyhound here
upon my arm …’
The boy was intrigued. ‘Now let me practise a little – on your arm.’
With the buzzing needle he began to draw blue lines upon Drioli’s arm. ‘It is simple,’ he said. ‘It is
like drawing with pen and ink. There is no difference except that it is slower.’
‘There is nothing to it. Are you ready? Shall we begin?’
‘At once.’
‘The model!’ cried Drioli. ‘Come on, Josie!’ He was in a bustle of enthusiasm now, tottering
around the room arranging everything, like a child preparing for some exciting game. ‘Where will you
have her? Where shall she stand?’
‘Let her be standing there, by my dressing-table. Let her be brushing her hair. I will paint her with
her hair down over her shoulders and her brushing it.’
‘Tremendous. You are a genius.’
Reluctantly, the girl walked over and stood by the dressing table, carrying her glass of wine with
her.
Drioli pulled off his shirt and stepped out of his trousers. He retained only his underpants and his
socks and shoes, and he stood there swaying gently from side to side, his small body firm, whiteskinned, almost hairless. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘I am the canvas. Where will you place your canvas?’
‘As always, upon the easel.’
‘Don’t be crazy. I am the canvas.’
‘Then place yourself upon the easel. That is where you belong.’
‘How can I?’
‘Are you the canvas or are you not the canvas?’
‘I am the canvas. Already I begin to feel like a canvas.’
‘Then place yourself upon the easel. There should be no difficulty.’
‘Truly, it is not possible.’
‘Then sit on the chair. Sit back to front, then you can lean your drunken head against the back of it.
Hurry now, for I am about to commence.’
‘I am ready. I am waiting.’
‘First,’ the boy said, ‘I shall make an ordinary painting. Then, if it pleases me, I shall tattoo over
it.’ With a wide brush he began to paint upon the naked skin of the man’s back.
‘Ayee! Ayee!’ Drioli screamed. ‘A monstrous centipede is marching down my spine!’
‘Be still now! Be still!’ The boy worked rapidly, applying the paint only in a thin blue wash so that
it would not afterwards interfere with the process of tattooing. His concentration, as soon as he began
to paint, was so great that it appeared somehow to supersede his drunkenness. He applied the brush
strokes with quick jabs of the arm, holding the wrist stiff, and in less than half an hour it was finished.
‘All right. That’s all,’ he said to the girl, who immediately returned to the couch, lay down, and fell
asleep.
Drioli remained awake. He watched the boy take up the needle and dip it in the ink; then he felt the
sharp tickling sting as it touched the skin of his back. The pain, which was unpleasant but never
extreme, kept him from going to sleep. By following the track of the needle and by watching the
different colours of ink that the boy was using, Drioli amused himself trying to visualize what was
going on behind him. The boy worked with an astonishing intensity. He appeared to have become
completely absorbed in the little machine and in the unusual effects it was able to produce.
Far into the small hours of the morning the machine buzzed and the boy worked. Drioli could
remember that when the artist finally stepped back and said, ‘It is finished,’ there was daylight
outside and the sound of people walking in the street.
‘I want to see it,’ Drioli said. The boy held up a mirror, at an angle, and Drioli craned his neck to
look.
‘Good God!’ he cried. It was a startling sight. The whole of his back, from the top of the shoulders
to the base of the spine, was a blaze of colour – gold and green and blue and black and scarlet. The
tattoo was applied so heavily it looked almost like an impasto. The boy had followed as closely as
possible the original brush strokes, filling them in solid, and it was marvellous the way he had made
use of the spine and the protrusion of the shoulder blades so that they became part of the composition.
What is more, he had somehow managed to achieve – even with this slow process – a certain
spontaneity. The portrait was quite alive; it contained much of that twisted, tortured quality so
characteristic of Soutine’s other work. It was not a good likeness. It was a mood rather than a
likeness, the model’s face vague and tipsy, the background swirling around her head in a mass of
dark-green curling strokes.
‘It’s tremendous!’
‘I rather like it myself.’ The boy stood back, examining it critically. ‘You know,’ he added, ‘I think
it’s good enough for me to sign.’ And taking up the buzzer again, he inscribed his name in red ink on
the right-hand side, over the place where Drioli’s kidney was.
The old man who was called Drioli was standing in a sort of trance, staring at the painting in the
window of the picture-dealer’s shop. It had been so long ago, all that – almost as though it had
happened in another life.
And the boy? What had become of him? He could remember now that after returning from the war –
the first war – he had missed him and had questioned Josie.
‘Where is my little Kalmuck?’
‘He is gone,’ she had answered. ‘I do not know where, but I heard it said that a dealer had taken
him up and sent him away to Céret to make more paintings.’
‘Perhaps he will return.’
‘Perhaps he will. Who knows?’
That was the last time they had mentioned him. Shortly afterwards they had moved to Le Havre
where there were more sailors and business was better. The old man smiled as he remembered Le
Havre. Those were the pleasant years, the years between the wars, with the small shop near the docks
and the comfortable rooms and always enough work, with every day three, four, five sailors coming
and wanting pictures on their arms. Those were truly the pleasant years.
Then had come the second war, and Josie being killed, and the Germans arriving, and that was the
finish of his business. No one had wanted pictures on their arms any more after that. And by that time
he was too old for any other kind of work. In desperation he had made his way back to Paris, hoping
vaguely that things would be easier in the big city. But they were not.
And now, after the war was over, he possessed neither the means nor the energy to start up his
small business again. It wasn’t very easy for an old man to know what to do, especially when one did
not like to beg. Yet how else could he keep alive?
Well, he thought, still staring at the picture. So that is my little Kalmuck. And how quickly the sight
of one small object such as this can stir the memory. Up to a few moments ago he had even forgotten
that he had a tattoo on his back. It had been ages since he had thought about it. He put his face closer
to the window and looked into the gallery. On the walls he could see many other pictures and all
seemed to be the work of the same artist. There were a great number of people strolling around.
Obviously it was a special exhibition.
On a sudden impulse, Drioli turned, pushed open the door of the gallery and went in.
It was a long room with thick wine-coloured carpet, and by God how beautiful and warm it was!
There were all these people strolling about looking at the pictures, well-washed dignified people,
each of whom held a catalogue in the hand. Drioli stood just inside the door, nervously glancing
around, wondering whether he dared go forward and mingle with this crowd. But before he had had
time to gather his courage, he heard a voice beside him saying, ‘What is it you want?’
The speaker wore a black morning coat. He was plump and short and had a very white face. It was
a flabby face with so much flesh upon it that the cheeks hung down on either side of the mouth in two
fleshy collops, spanielwise. He came up close to Drioli and said again, ‘What is it you want?’
Drioli stood still.
‘If you please,’ the man was saying, ‘take yourself out of my gallery.’
‘Am I not permitted to look at the pictures?’
‘I have asked you to leave.’
Drioli stood his ground. He felt suddenly overwhelmingly outraged.
‘Let us not have trouble,’ the man was saying. ‘Come on now, this way.’ He put a fat white paw on
Drioli’s arm and began to push him firmly to the door.
That did it. ‘Take your goddam hands off me!’ Drioli shouted. His voice rang clear down the long
gallery and all the heads jerked around as one – all the startled faces stared down the length of the
room at the person who had made this noise. A flunkey came running over to help, and the two men
tried to hustle Drioli through the door. The people stood still, watching the struggle. Their faces
expressed only a mild interest, and seemed to be saying, ‘It’s all right. There’s no danger to us. It’s
being taken care of.’
‘I, too!’ Drioli was shouting. ‘I, too, have a picture by this painter! He was my friend and I have a
picture which he gave me!’
‘He’s mad.’
‘A lunatic. A raving lunatic.’
‘Someone should call the police.’
With a rapid twist of the body Drioli suddenly jumped clear of the two men, and before anyone
could stop him he was running down the gallery shouting, ‘I’ll show you! I’ll show you! I’ll show
you!’ He flung off his overcoat, then his jacket and shirt, and he turned so that his naked back was
towards the people.
‘There!’ he cried, breathing quickly. ‘You see? There it is!’
There was a sudden absolute silence in the room, each person arrested in what he was doing,
standing motionless in a kind of shocked, uneasy bewilderment. They were staring at the tattooed
picture. It was still there, the colours as bright as ever, but the old man’s back was thinner now, the
shoulder blades protruded more sharply, and the effect, though not great, was to give the picture a
curiously wrinkled, squashed appearance.
Somebody said, ‘My God, but it is!’
Then came the excitement and the noise of voices as the people surged forward to crowd around
the old man.
‘It is unmistakable!’
‘His early manner, yes?’
‘It is fantastic, fantastic!’
‘And look, it is signed!’
‘Bend your shoulders forward, my friend, so that the picture stretches out flat.’
‘Old one, when was this done?’
‘In 1913,’ Drioli said, without turning around. ‘In the autumn of 1913.’
‘Who taught Soutine to tattoo?’
‘I taught him.’
‘And the woman?’
‘She was my wife.’
The gallery owner was pushing through the crowd towards Drioli. He was calm now, deadly
serious, making a smile with his mouth. ‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘I will buy it.’ Drioli could see the loose
fat upon the face vibrating as he moved his jaw. ‘I said I will buy it, Monsieur.’
‘How can you buy it?’ Drioli asked softly.
‘I will give two hundred thousand francs for it.’ The dealer’s eyes were small and dark, the wings
of his broad nose-base were beginning to quiver.
‘Don’t do it!’ someone murmured in the crowd. ‘It is worth twenty times as much.’
Drioli opened his mouth to speak. No words came, so he shut it; then he opened it again and said
slowly, ‘But how can I sell it?’ He lifted his hands, let them drop loosely to his sides. ‘Monsieur,
how can I possibly sell it?’ All the sadness in the world was in his voice.
‘Yes!’ they were saying in the crowd. ‘How can he sell it? It is part of himself!’
‘Listen,’ the dealer said, coming up close. ‘I will help you, I will make you rich. Together we shall
make some private arrangement over this picture, no?’
Drioli watched him with slow, apprehensive eyes. ‘But how can you buy it, Monsieur? What will
you do with it when you have bought it? Where will you keep it? Where will you keep it tonight? And
where tomorrow?’
‘Ah, where will I keep it? Yes, where will I keep it? Now, where will I keep it? Well, now …’
The dealer stroked the bridge of his nose with a fat white finger. ‘It would seem,’ he said, ‘that if I
take the picture, I take you also. That is a disadvantage.’ He paused and stroked his nose again. ‘The
picture itself is of no value until you are dead. How old are you, my friend?’
‘Sixty-one.’
‘But you are perhaps not very robust, no?’ The dealer lowered the hand from his nose and looked
Drioli up and down, slowly, like a farmer appraising an old horse.
‘I do not like this,’ Drioli said, edging away. ‘Quite honestly, Monsieur, I do not like it.’ He edged
straight into the arms of a tall man who put out his hands and caught him gently by the shoulders.
Drioli glanced around and apologized. The man smiled down at him, patting one of the old fellow’s
naked shoulders reassuringly with a hand encased in a canary-coloured glove.
‘Listen, my friend,’ the stranger said, still smiling. ‘Do you like to swim and to bask yourself in the
sun?’
Drioli looked up at him, rather startled.
‘Do you like fine food and red wine from the great chateaux of Bordeaux?’ The man was still
smiling, showing strong white teeth with a flash of gold among them. He spoke in a soft coaxing
manner, one gloved hand still resting on Drioli’s shoulder. ‘Do you like such things?’
‘Well – yes,’ Drioli answered, still greatly perplexed. ‘Of course.’
‘And the company of beautiful women?’
‘Why not?’
‘And a cupboard full of suits and shirts made to your own personal measurements? It would seem
that you are a little lacking for clothes.’
Drioli watched this suave man, waiting for the rest of the proposition.
‘Have you ever had a shoe constructed especially for your own foot?’
‘No.’
‘You would like that?’
‘Well …’
‘And a man who will shave you in the mornings and trim your hair?’
Drioli simply stood and gaped.
‘And a plump attractive girl to manicure the nails of your fingers?’
Someone in the crowd giggled.
‘And a bell beside your bed to summon your maid to bring your breakfast in the morning? Would
you like these things, my friend? Do they appeal to you?’
Drioli stood still and looked at him.
‘You see, I am the owner of the Hotel Bristol in Cannes. I now invite you to come down there and
live as my guest for the rest of your life in luxury and comfort.’ The man paused, allowing his listener
time to savour this cheerful prospect.
‘Your only duty – shall I call it your pleasure – will be to spend your time on my beach in bathing
trunks, walking among my guests, sunning yourself, swimming, drinking cocktails. You would like
that?’
There was no answer.
‘Don’t you see – all the guests will thus be able to observe this fascinating picture by Soutine. You
will become famous, and men will say, “Look, there is the fellow with ten million francs upon his
back.” You like this idea, Monsieur? It pleases you?’
Drioli looked up at the tall man in the canary gloves, still wondering whether this was some sort of
a joke. ‘It is a comical idea,’ he said slowly. ‘But do you really mean it?’
‘Of course I mean it.’
‘Wait,’ the dealer interrupted. ‘See here, old one. Here is the answer to our problem. I will buy the
picture, and I will arrange with a surgeon to remove the skin from your back, and then you will be
able to go off on your own and enjoy the great sum of money I shall give you for it.’
‘With no skin on my back?’
‘No, no, please! You misunderstand. This surgeon will put a new piece of skin in the place of the
old one. It is simple.’
‘Could he do that?’
‘There is nothing to it.’
‘Impossible!’ said the man with the canary gloves. ‘He’s too old for such a major skin-grafting
operation. It would kill him. It would kill you, my friend.’
‘It would kill me?’
‘Naturally. You would never survive. Only the picture would come through.’
‘In the name of God!’ Drioli cried. He looked around aghast at the faces of the people watching
him, and in the silence that followed, another man’s voice, speaking quietly from the back of the
group, could be heard saying, ‘Perhaps, if one were to offer this old man enough money, he might
consent to kill himself on the spot. Who knows?’ A few people sniggered. The dealer moved his feet
uneasily on the carpet.
Then the hand in the canary glove was tapping Drioli again upon the shoulder. ‘Come on,’ the man
was saying, smiling his broad white smile. ‘You and I will go and have a good dinner and we can talk
about it some more while we eat. How’s that? Are you hungry?’
Drioli watched him, frowning. He didn’t like the man’s long flexible neck, or the way he craned it
forward at you when he spoke, like a snake.
‘Roast duck and Chambertin,’ the man was saying. He put a rich succulent accent on the words,
splashing them out with his tongue. ‘And perhaps a soufflé aux marrons, light and frothy.’
Drioli’s eyes turned up towards the ceiling, his lips became loose and wet. One could see the poor
old fellow beginning literally to drool at the mouth.
‘How do you like your duck?’ the man went on. ‘Do you like it very brown and crisp outside, or
shall it be …’
‘I am coming,’ Drioli said quickly. Already he had picked up his shirt and was pulling it frantically
over his head. ‘Wait for me, Monsieur. I am coming.’ And within a minute he had disappeared out of
the gallery with his new patron.
It wasn’t more than a few weeks later that a picture by Soutine, of a woman’s head, painted in an
unusual manner, nicely framed and heavily varnished, turned up for sale in Buenos Aires. That – and
the fact that there is no hotel in Cannes called Bristol – causes one to wonder a little, and to pray for
the old man’s health, and to hope fervently that wherever he may be at this moment, there is a plump
attractive girl to manicure the nails of his fingers, and a maid to bring him his breakfast in bed in the
mornings.