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DRUMMER IN THE WOODS. Twenty-One Wonderful Stories About Grouse Shooting

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Burton L Spiller

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“When our body decides to get into the action before our brain consents, we must ask who calls the shots. Are we still in control of ourselves, or are we still trustworthy? We have to summon ourselves, question what might be wrong, and challenge the soul-searching subcurrent of our inner self. (“The infinite Wisdom of Meditation“)”

BodyBrainInner SelfTrustworthyInfinite WisdomIn ControlSoulsearchingTo Summon OneselfWho Calls The Shots
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“By all means be submissive in the bedroom (if you are that way inclined), but don't be submissive to life. Being life's bitch is no fun at all. Life may play up in many ways, but it's up to you to take control, take charge and show life who's really calling the shots.”

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“I don’t know at which point I crossed the line. Maybe it was the first hit that first night, or maybe it was after the first year of regular use. In one sense, it didn’t matter; once I stepped over the line, the rest was history. They were in control from that point on, not me. I may have initially done drugs to feel good, to fit in, to escape the pressures of daily life, to party hard, to feel cool, and to make scandalous memories, but now I was doing them because I had become dependent on them.”

DependentIn ControlFirst Hit
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“She straightened her shoulders. "Sisy, are the ducks ready?" "All plucked and cleaned." Roxannah sautéed more onions and garlic with turmeric, adding roughly chopped walnuts to the sizzling butter before transferring them into a large mortar. Halpa gently removed the pestle from her hand. "I'll do this. You see to the duck." She cut the ducks into large pieces, trying to plan her next steps as she worked. The usual recipe required the duck to cook in water. Boiling made the meat tender. But it also meant that most of its flavor leached into the sauce, leaving the flesh of the fowl tasteless and stringy. She could roast the duck. But that would leave the sauce bland. Besides, roasted meat was never as fall-off-the-bone soft as boiled. It seemed stupid to try something new tonight of all nights. God, give me wisdom! Give me counsel so I know how to proceed. She waited for a moment, head bent low, trying to discern what to do. She felt a release, a sense of rightness about going forward with her risky plan. Nodding to herself, she added a dollop more butter to the same pan where she had fried the garlic and onions, which still held their lingering aroma. Sprinkling the duck with salt, she set it carefully into the sizzling pan. Halpa held the mortar under her nose. "Is this the consistency you want?" "Perfect." She fetched the jar of pomegranate molasses she had brought from home and added a heaping tablespoon to Halpa's paste, seasoning it with salt and a dash of turmeric, cinnamon, and cardamom. In the pan, she flipped the pieces of duck. Their skin had turned the color of bright copper, gleaming with melted butter. By now, the whole kitchen staff had gathered around to watch her. Even the Immortal craned his neck for a better view. She ignored them, keeping her attention on the duck. When both sides had fried evenly, she removed some of the excess fat, remembering Amestris's crack about the king's sleepless night. Pomegranate juice and a rich, gelatinous broth made from chicken bones would enrich the duck's flavor. She hoped the fried skin would seal in enough of the juices that simmering the fowl in liquid would not rob its flavor. Finally, she spooned in the paste from Halpa's mortar. Covering the pan, she lifted it over the fire to reduce the heat. It would simmer gently and, hopefully, be ready just in time for dinner.”

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“The year was 1996, and the date was July 5. It was a Friday night and I had just turned 21 two days prior, which, by the way, was a miracle unto itself. Due to the violent life I was living, this was a milestone and something worth celebrating. But on this beautiful summer evening, I was not in a celebratory mood. Rather, I was in a predatory mood and that was what I was doing: lying and waiting for my prey to arrive.”

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“It was not the money that was my main motive; it was the challenge and the thrill where I got my kicks. Armed robbery to me was like a sport. To take on an armored vehicle with two armed security guards—it was like an athlete attending the Olympic Games.”

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