SOme of the experiences that I had when I was dirt poor were so nice, so fine and so magical. Today, when I am doing much better than those days… well there’s a missing “magic” that I am no longer feeling.
Perhaps it’s just nostalgia. But it exists, and I have heard and watched other older men talk about the same thing.
The only thing that I can say at this moment is… well, embrace what you have right now. It’s valuable. You just don’t see it as such at this moment in time.
Oh. *sigh*
Today…
Expensive Girl
“Why is your price so high, young lady?”
A sultan heard that there was a slave girl in the market whose price was higher than that of a hundred other slaves.
He ordered that this slave be brought to him so he could see what made her so exceptional.
She stood before him with a dignity he had never seen in any slave.
He asked her: “Why is your price so high, young lady?”
She replied: “Because I am distinguished by my intelligence.”
Intrigued, he said: “I will ask you a question. If you answer correctly, I will set you free. Otherwise, I will have you killed.”
“What is the most beautiful garment, the most pleasant fragrance, the most delicious food, the softest bed, and the most beautiful country?”
The slave girl turned toward the people and said: “Prepare my things and my horse, for I will be leaving this palace as a free woman.”
“The most beautiful garment is the shirt of a poor man who owns only one, for it suits him both in winter and summer.”
“The most pleasant fragrance is that of a mother, even if she is merely a fire-stoker in a public bath.”
“The most delicious food is the one eaten when hungry, for even stale bread tastes delicious to someone who is starving.”
“The softest bed is the one on which you sleep in peace. If you are unjust, even a bed of gold will feel full of thorns.”
She walked toward the door, and the Sultan called after her: “You have not answered my last question…”
She turned and said: “The most beautiful country is the one that is free and not ruled by ignorant people.”
She had answered correctly, and thus she earned her freedom.
Yes, she was right: the most beautiful country is the one that is not governed by ignorant people.
146.9K views
Look Who’s Righteous Now
Written in response to: “Let a small act of kindness unintentionally trigger chaos or destruction.“
Daniel Rogers
An old priest carrying a large pitcher tripped and almost dropped it. Several younger priests stood around him, gasping, but did nothing to help. Now, this is clearly a righteous opportunity, if I’ve ever seen one. I pushed through the crowd of worthless priests and attempted to grab the pitcher. Shockingly, the old priest pulled it away. The unhelpful priests gasped again, as a drop of water tumbled over the edge and fell to the ground.
Pandemonium erupted!
Priests fell to the ground in frantic prayer. The old priest stood paralyzed with fear. Some priests ran like bees had just entered their robes, waving their arms and behaving as if the sky were falling.
Okay, I know I’m not from this planet, but this is overkill? Right? I mean, it’s just a drop of water.
“What have you done!” the old priest yelled. He remained completely still, like the pitcher would blow up if he dared move an inch.
“I’m just trying to help.”
“You made me spill the Sacred Water from the Ladder God’s well!”
The wailing prayers intensified.
“Okay, guys, that’s enough. I can’t think over your whining.”
One of the wailing priests stopped wailing long enough to chew me out. “We must pray fervently for forgiveness for dropping the holy water, or the Ladder God will punish us.”
I don’t know about the Ladder God, but I’m about to punish them if they don’t quit their obnoxious racket. I shook my head at the pathetic scene, “Seriously, guys, there’s nothing to get all excited about.”
That did it. They stopped wailing, looking at me like I had just kicked over a baby stroller.
“Blasphemy,” one whispered. Too timid to come right out and say it.
Soon, the other priests joined in with defiant whispers of “blasphemy.” I’m not proud of what I did next, but seeing several men on their knees whispering “blasphemy” made me laugh. I just couldn’t take them seriously.
“Now he laughs at the Ladder God,” a priest whispered.
“You’re going to have to stop this whispering thing,” I said. “And let me know how I can help fix this.”
The old priest took charge and let me have it. “You can’t fix losing holy water! You must atone for the loss by sacrificing what you value most! It’s the only way we can avoid punishment.”
My first thought was of Alora. He ain’t getting her. She’s the best android co-pilot I’ve ever had. Actually, she’s the only android co-pilot I’ve ever had, but that’s beside the point. Then there’s my ship, but that’s not going to happen either. What could I sacrifice?
“Do you have any suggestions?” I asked.
“It’s obvious. Resign from the Pick-a-Sacrifice tournament. There is nothing more valuable than sacrificing yourself to the Ladder God.”
When this tournament started, I wanted nothing more than to lose. And now that Alora talked me into winning, I have to give up?
“What kind of atonement can I get for a close second?”
The old priest said nothing.
How can I let that young twit win when I’ve come so close? And if I don’t win, how will I obtain the dylanium needed for my powerless ship? The only source we found is at the top of the Ladder God’s ladder. But I can’t allow them to be punished for my mistake.
“I’ll do it.” My shoulders drooped. I’ve lost. I just condemned us to rot on this primitive planet.
The old priest led me to the Ladder God’s well and helped me through the ritual. It involved an odd dance, going clockwise around the well, with flailing arms and moving my knees like in the old Charleston dance. Then I had to dance counterclockwise around the well, moving like a wild ape. Finally, ending with a chant, “I give what I value,” three times with a deep voice, followed by an additional three times with a shrill voice.
Some said my shrill voice sounded more like a little girl screaming, but no matter how it sounded, the result ended my chance to win the tournament.
At sunset, the priests escorted me and the twit to stand before Bob the Shaman. He pounded his staff on the ground, signaling the beginning of the last ceremony before the great sacrifice. In a short while, Bob would announce this year’s winner. Of course, I ruined the anticipation, since everyone knew I resigned.
“Drew Williams and Tag have proven they are the most righteous by overcoming judgment, relying on faith, and demonstrating kindness and selflessness. These traits make a righteous man. Unfortunately, the great Ladder God only accepts one sacrifice a year.”
Throughout this entire tournament, I still can’t see the idea of sacrificing oneself as a good thing, but the locals can’t get enough of it. They’re just sorry they can only do it once a year.
“Kindness and selflessness are woven together like a braided rope. Without selflessness, kindness could be used to obtain favor and gain recognition. And while I’m on that note, I want to thank Tag for weeding my garden, polishing my silverware, dusting my bookshelves, including a few that didn’t belong to me, and sweeping my bedroom even though I was clearly napping at the time. I’m indebted to you, and you are obviously a really awesome person.”
The priest cheered and hooted. Tag bowed and acted all humble, but he had such a big head, you couldn’t have fit it through the temple gates if you tried. I’ve never seen a more prideful person.
Bob raised his staff to silence the crowd. “However, Drew did something I’ve never seen. He selflessly sacrificed his greatest desire to help an old priest avoid punishment by resigning from the tournament.”
The priests mumbled with hushed tones.
“He demonstrated true kindness and selflessness, and since the rules clearly state that no one can resign from the tournament, I declare that Drew is the winner of the Pick-a-Sacrifice tournament.”
The priests went nuts: whistling, cheering, hooting, and bowing to anyone or anything. I saw one bow to a tree, looking very embarrassed, but still having a good time.
It took a minute to sink in. I’m going to climb the ladder and find out what’s really up there. I don’t believe in Ladder Gods, but that ladder sure looks a lot like a ship’s ladder.
One way or another, I’m going to find out, but I really hope it’s not a Ladder God. That would really suck.
I vanquished the thought from my mind because right now, it’s time to party! I just won the tournament! Look who’s righteous now!
Lobo – Me And You And A Dog Named Boo • TopPop
Creamy Tomato Soup with Heavy Cream
There’s something truly comforting about a warm bowl of tomato soup on a chilly day. If you’ve grown tired of the canned stuff and want something that tastes homemade without too much fuss, this creamy tomato soup recipe is just what you need.
It’s perfect for those evenings when you want a cozy dinner but don’t feel like spending hours in the kitchen. With just a handful of simple ingredients and about 30 minutes of your time, you can make a soup that’s rich, smooth, and way better than anything that comes from a can.
Why You’ll Love This Tomato Soup
- Quick preparation – This soup comes together in just 30-45 minutes, making it perfect for busy weeknights when you want something warm and comforting.
- Simple ingredients – With just 7 basic ingredients that you might already have in your pantry and fridge, this soup is easy to shop for and make.
- Rich and creamy texture – The combination of heavy cream and parmesan cheese creates a silky smooth soup that’s much better than anything you’ll find in a can.
- Perfect comfort food – Whether you’re feeling under the weather or just need something cozy on a cold day, this soup hits all the right spots with its warm, creamy goodness.
Which Kind of Tomatoes Should I Use?
While fresh tomatoes are great, canned whole peeled tomatoes are actually the best choice for making tomato soup, especially when they’re not in season.
San Marzano tomatoes are often considered the gold standard for soup-making, but any good quality whole peeled tomatoes will work well.
Regular whole peeled tomatoes tend to be sweeter and more consistent than diced or crushed varieties, and they break down better during cooking.
If you’re checking labels at the store, look for tomatoes with minimal added ingredients – ideally just tomatoes, salt, and maybe basil or citric acid.
Just avoid tomato puree or sauce for this recipe, as they’ve already been processed and won’t give you the same fresh-tasting result.
Options for Ingredient Substitution
Heavy whipping cream can be replaced with full-fat coconut milk for a dairy-free alternative that maintains the soup’s creamy texture. Use the same amount and ensure you’re using the thick, creamy part of the coconut milk. For a lighter option, cashew cream (made by blending soaked cashews with water) works well and adds nutritional benefits.
Chicken stock can be substituted with vegetable stock to make the soup vegetarian while maintaining the savory base flavor. The conversion is 1:1, and no other adjustments are needed.
Parmesan cheese can be replaced with nutritional yeast for a vegan option that provides a similar umami and cheesy flavor. Use about 3/4 cup of nutritional yeast since its flavor is more concentrated.
For those who eat dairy but want to reduce fat, try pecorino romano, using half the amount as it has a stronger flavor.
Watch Out for These Mistakes While Cooking
The biggest challenge when making creamy tomato soup is preventing the cream from curdling – always reduce the heat to low and slowly stir in the cream at the end of cooking, never letting the soup boil after adding it.
A common mistake is blending the soup while it’s too hot, which can create a mess and even cause burns, so let it cool slightly and blend in batches, never filling your blender more than halfway.
To avoid a grainy texture, make sure to properly soften your garlic by sautéing it until fragrant before adding the tomatoes, and always add the parmesan cheese gradually while stirring constantly.
For the smoothest possible soup, strain it through a fine-mesh sieve after blending – this extra step removes any tough tomato bits or seeds that might have survived the blending process.
How to Know When the Tomato Soup is Done
You’ll know your tomato soup is ready when it’s heated through completely and has a smooth, consistent texture throughout – this typically takes about 20-25 minutes of simmering after adding all ingredients.
A good test is to dip a metal spoon into the soup and run your finger across the back – if it leaves a clear path that doesn’t immediately fill in with liquid, your soup has reached the right consistency.
The color should be a rich reddish-orange, and when you stir it, the cream should be fully incorporated with no streaks of white remaining.
If you’re unsure, take a small taste (after letting it cool a bit!) – the flavors should be well-blended and the garlic should taste soft and mellow, not sharp or raw.
What to Serve With Tomato Soup?
The most comforting way to enjoy this creamy tomato soup is with a golden-brown grilled cheese sandwich made on good crusty bread.
If you’re in the mood for something lighter, a simple side salad with mixed greens and a light vinaigrette dressing helps balance out the richness of the soup.
Toppings That Go Well With The Soup
- Hot sauce or red pepper flakes
- Croutons
- Fresh basil or chives
- Parmesan cheese
- Pesto
- Sour cream or Greek yogurt
A sprinkling of croutons provides a satisfying crunch, while fresh herbs like basil or chives bring a nice freshness.
Grated parmesan offers savory depth, and a swirl of pesto or a dollop of sour cream adds creaminess and vibrant flavor.
For a bit of spice, hot sauce or red pepper flakes make an excellent choice.
Storage Instructions
- Fridge and Reheating: This tomato soup keeps really well in the fridge for 3-4 days when stored in an airtight container. Just give it a good stir when reheating since the cream might separate a bit – warm it slowly over medium heat on the stovetop or in 30-second intervals in the microwave.
- Freezing: If you want to freeze it, I’d recommend leaving out the cream and cheese, freezing just the base for up to 3 months, then adding the dairy ingredients fresh when you reheat it.
- Making ahead: For meal prep, you can make the base soup ahead and add the cream and cheese just before serving.
| Preparation Time | 10-15 minutes |
| Cooking Time | 20-30 minutes |
| Total Time | 30-45 minutes |
| Level of Difficulty | Easy |
| Servings | 6-8 |
Estimated Nutrition Facts
Estimated nutrition for the whole recipe (without optional ingredients):
- Calories: 2200-2400
- Protein: 60-70 g
- Fat: 180-200 g
- Carbohydrates: 20-30 g
Ingredients
- 1 tsp salt
- 1 qt chicken stock
- 2 heaping tbsp minced garlic
- 2 cans whole peeled tomatoes (28 oz each, San Marzano preferred for best flavor)
- 1 tsp ground black pepper (freshly ground for best flavor)
- 1 cup grated Parmesan cheese
- 1 cup heavy cream (for richness and creamy texture)
Step 1: Prepare the Tomato Base
Start by pureeing the tomatoes in a blender or food processor until smooth.
This forms the base for your soup.
Once the tomatoes are well-pureed, pour them into a large pot.
Step 2: Combine Ingredients and Bring to a Boil
Add broth and garlic to the pot with the pureed tomatoes.
Place the pot over medium heat and bring the mixture to a boil.
Once it reaches boiling point, reduce the heat and let it simmer for 2-3 minutes.
Taste the mixture and if it is bitter or sour, add 1/4-1/2 teaspoon baking soda to neutralize the flavor.
Step 3: Temper the Cream and Add to the Soup
Stir 1/4 cup of hot soup into the heavy cream to temper it, preventing it from curdling when added to the hot soup.
Slowly add the tempered cream and grated Parmesan cheese to the pot.
Stir well and bring the soup back to a very slight boil, then reduce the heat and simmer for about 15 minutes.
Step 4: Puree the Soup Again
To achieve a smooth and creamy texture, puree the soup again using an immersion blender.
Blend until the soup reaches the desired consistency.
Step 5: Serve and Enjoy
Once the soup is smooth, serve it hot.
Optionally, garnish with shredded Parmesan cheese, grilled cheese sandwich croutons, and fresh basil for extra flavor and presentation.
Enjoy your delicious creamy tomato soup!
How would Andy Griffith have handled John Rambo if he came through Mayberry?
The scene…
Deputy Barney Fife has just had a ‘run in’ with, in Barney’s words, “…some kind of drifter.” Wanting to avoid trouble, John accompanies the bumbling, fidgety ‘lawman’ back to the Mayberry Sherrif’s office. Otis is still sleeping off last night’s drunk. He’s snoring softly in a nearby cell…
John Rambo, “Officer, I’m just trying to find myself…”
Barney, “What do you mean, ‘find yourself’? You’re sitting right there…”
Sheriff Andy Taylor, hearing Fife’s higher pitched voice getting more annoyed, enters the room…
Andy, “Now Barney, why don’t you let this here young man finish what he’s a sayin’?”
John, “Thank you… Sherriff? I was telling your deputy, I’m just passing through. I found out my friend… the other last guy in our unit, just died. I felt kind of lost with what makes sense in my life.”
Andy, “Barney! This man’s a veteran! Why’d you go and bother a war hero?”
John, “I’m no hero…”
Barney (whiny voiced), “…but Ange, he couldn’t give a good account of himself…”
Andy, “… and I’d bet you didn’t really give him a chance to.” Turning back to Rambo, “Have you had anything to eat yet today?”
John, “I just drank a little water from that spring near where your deputy picked me up.”
Andy, “Barney? You go right over to the Bluebird and get Juanita to order up breakfast for this here young man. On us.”
Barney, “Ange… he’s a possible vagrant…”
Andy (firmly), “Now, Deputy Fife.” As Barney leaves, still whining under his breath about not being listened to, Andy continues, “Do you think you’d like to stay a spell here in our little town? I mean, we’re no Mount Pilot, but we can always welcome veterans that fought for our country…”
John can hardly get a quiet word in edgewise, as the friendly Sheriff continues about Opie, Aunt Bee, Floyd, Gubber, Gomer being a marine, the jobs available in town, that cute girl about John’s age working at Foley’s grocery…
Sheriff Taylor would have done right by a troubled veteran, as we all should…
(I got to say, this was a fun one. I watched those Andy Griffith Show black and white reruns in the mid 1960s and the Rambo movies much later. The actors voices clearly bounced around in my brain as I wrote the above. That’s my favorite way to write…)
Col 27-Book 448 – Martha and the Unlocked Drawer (A Tale of Secrets, Surrender, and the Key to Belonging)
Ah, dear reader—prepare your heart. Today’s story does not begin with a quack, a snort, or even a kazoo blast.
It begins with a click.
The soft, deliberate snick of a lock yielding—not to force, but to faith.
So settle in. Breathe deep. And step gently into Martha and the Unlocked Drawer.
The Third Attempt
It happened on a Thursday—golden, still, humming with the lazy buzz of bees and the distant snore-squeak of Porkchop mid-nap.
Catnip stood before Martha’s old oak desk—again.
Paw wrapped around a bent spoon and a length of twine, brow furrowed in concentration, tail twitching like a metronome set to anxiety.
The lock on her top drawer had bested him twice before.
Today, he was determined.
He pried. Twisted. Wiggled.
The spoon slipped.
He muttered—“Stupid latch. Stupid key. Stupid… everything.”
—“Everything!” echoed Ditto, who’d been napping in the windowsill.
Then—soft footsteps.
Martha appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, flour dusting her apron, eyes not sharp—but soft.
Catnip froze. Prepared for reprimand. For banishment. For the quiet disappointment that always followed his schemes.
But Martha didn’t sigh.
Didn’t scold.
She simply walked over, knelt beside him—not above—and held out her hand.
In her palm:
A small, tarnished brass key.
Worn smooth by years of touch.
“It’s been yours,” she said, voice like warm honey, “since Day One. I just waited for you to ask.”
The Drawer’s Secret
Catnip stared.
His paw hovered—not taking, not refusing.
Like the key was fire, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be burned… or warmed.
Martha didn’t push.
She just opened the drawer herself.
Inside:
No ledgers. No valuables. No proof of deeds or debts.
Just:
- A collar, stitched by hand—deep navy wool, trimmed in golden thread that caught the light like a promise.
- A folded note, written in Martha’s careful script:“For the cat who doesn’t need a home—but chose one anyway.”
Catnip’s breath hitched.
He reached—not for the collar.
For the note.
He unfolded it. Read it. Read it again.
Then—he did something no one had ever seen him do.
He looked at Martha.
Really looked.
And whispered:
“Why?”
She smiled—not a grin, but a release.
“Because belonging isn’t something you earn, Catnip. It’s something you accept. And I’ve been holding space for you to do just that.”
The Night of the Pillow Offering
That night, moonlight pooling on the floor like spilled milk, Catnip crept into the farmhouse.
He didn’t steal.
He didn’t scheme.
He simply placed the collar—folded neatly, golden thread gleaming—on Martha’s pillow.
A return.
A question.
A test.
At dawn, he found it still there.
But now, beside it—
A single sprig of lavender from her garden.
Tied with red thread.
He picked up the collar.
Held it.
Then—slow, deliberate—he slipped it over his head.
It hung loose at first.
He adjusted it himself—paws fumbling, ears back—until the buckle rested just so against his fur.
Askew. Imperfect. His.
The First Adjustment
At breakfast, Martha saw him.
Her breath caught—just once.
She didn’t comment. Didn’t fuss.
But when he reached for the milk bowl and his paw trembled—just slightly—she moved.
Not to take the bowl.
But to steady his collar, her fingers brushing the golden thread, smoothing the wool against his neck.
Catnip flinched—habit—but didn’t pull away.
He held still.
And then—
A sound no one had ever heard from him:
A purr.
Soft. New. Like the first breath after a long dive.
“There,” Martha murmured. “Just right.”
The Moral of the Story
That evening, as the stars began to prick the violet sky, Sir Whiskerton sat on the roof—not napping, but witnessing.
He saw Catnip, curled in the sun-dappled hay, one paw resting on the golden thread of his collar.
He saw Martha, humming at the stove, glancing out the window—not with worry, but with peace.
In his journal, Whiskerton wrote one line—ink slightly smudged, as if paused mid-thought:
“The greatest act of love isn’t giving someone a key—it’s trusting them to decide when to use it.”
And in the drawer—now left open, always—
A new note, added in Catnip’s careful, angular script:
“Key accepted.
Home acknowledged.
Purrs: ongoing.”
Post-Credit Scene
Later, Ditto found Catnip on the porch, watching the sunset.
He sat beside him—no echo, just presence.
After a long silence, Catnip spoke:
“It doesn’t chafe.”
“Chafe! Chafe!”
“…No,” Catnip corrected, gently. “It fits.”
“Fits.” echoed Ditto—softly, like a promise.
And from the roof, Sir Whiskerton’s tail-tip flicked—once.
Approval.
Jingle on. 🐾💛✨
(Or, in the language of unlocked drawers: Click… pause… click … home.)
The End.
Police Discover Car Filled With Serial Killer’s Bodies
A specific scene in many American prisons, well-known thanks to films from across the Atlantic. The inmates are often dressed in a bright orange uniform.
But why this specific orange color? I’ll explain.
First, in any prison in any country in the world, every effort is made to ensure that prisoners wear identical clothing. This is one of the characteristics of the system: it is essential to prevent any individual from standing out from the crowd. The punishment is then felt even more intensely.
Prison clothing must also be visible. That is, it must be easy to spot an inmate in case of an escape. For example, prisoners were often dressed in striped clothing, which is still used today, for instance, for those sentenced to life imprisonment in the Russian colonies.
In the United States, inmates are now dressed in bright colors—so that security can see them from a distance, especially from above. The color orange is very rare in large quantities in nature, so if an inmate decides to escape, they will be easily spotted against the landscape, for example, against a green forest or white snow.
By the way, there’s also a color-coded system for American prison uniforms. The well-known orange color signifies that the inmate in front of you is an ordinary, moderately serious criminal. In contrast, the much rarer bright red uniform symbolizes that its wearer is a particularly dangerous individual, prone to escape.
Sometimes, American prisoners also wear pink uniforms. This color can designate, for example, prisoners who categorically refuse to submit to prison rules. Basically, complete rebels.
The use of the color orange in the clothing of many American prisoners began to spread about a hundred years ago. Originally, the prison uniform was striped – orange and white.
Criminal psychologists also support the choice of orange. They believe that bright orange robes do not oppress a person’s psyche as much as dark colors like black or blue. Consequently, an inmate has a better chance of rehabilitation and being released with a clear conscience.
However, in some less remote parts of the US, inmates casually wear, for example, jeans and blue shirts. The orange robes are only provided for transport—to prevent them from escaping from the notorious prison buses.
Pictures
Lee Kuan Yew once doubted if pure one-person-one-vote democracy ensures good governance. Should the U.S. reform its electoral system to curb extreme populism like MAGA?
Well, one man one vote implies proportional representation but the American system is designed from the ground up to be anything but proportional.
The upper house is the Senate, but California gets 2 senators, just like Wyoming when the population differential is >60x. In the lower House of Representatives, California has 52 seats to Wyoming’s 1. Closer, but still not proportional. The Wyoming vote is more consequential comparatively.
As for the president, the electoral college which is built on the above is a winner takes all majoritarian system confined to each state. It not only ignores the change in eligible voter counts within fixed state boundaries, but also structurally favors small states. It can (and does) produce presidents who lose the national popular vote. Elections have been won (or lost) on the polls in several counties of key swing states. That’s several thousands or tens of thousands consequential votes among hundreds of eligible millions.
Bringing back proportional representation may improve the situation but america remains paralyzed by a 250 year old constitution too sacred to amend.
Dexys Midnight Runners, Kevin Rowland – Come On Eileen (1982 Version)
Quick Cottage Cheese Microwave Brownie
What’s better than waiting 45 minutes for brownies to bake? A warm, chocolatey brownie ready in just 2 minutes!
This cottage cheese microwave brownie is perfect for those times when you want something sweet but don’t want to deal with mixing bowls and heating up the whole kitchen. It’s a protein-packed twist on the classic treat that you can whip up while wearing your pajamas. And the best part? You only need to clean one mug when you’re done.
Possible Ingredient Alternatives
Cottage cheese, the main protein source, can be replaced with Greek yogurt or silken tofu to maintain the moisture and protein content. Use equal amounts and expect a slightly different texture. For those avoiding dairy, silken tofu works particularly well when blended smooth.
The chocolate protein powder can be substituted with a blend of cocoa powder and ground almonds or chickpea flour. Use 2 tablespoons of cocoa plus 2 tablespoons of your chosen protein-rich flour to match the protein content and chocolate flavor.
Dairy milk can be replaced with any plant-based milk such as almond, soy, or oat milk. Soy milk works especially well as it provides additional protein and creates a similar consistency. Use the same amount as called for in the original recipe. If using a thinner milk alternative, start with slightly less liquid and adjust as needed.
Estimated Nutrition Facts
Estimated nutrition for the whole recipe (without optional ingredients):
- Calories: 250-300
- Protein: 30-35 g
- Fat: 5-8 g
- Carbohydrates: 20-25 g
| Preparation Time | 10-15 minutes |
| Cooking Time | 1-2 minutes (microwave) or 15-20 minutes (bake) |
| Total Time | 11-35 minutes |
| Level of Difficulty | Easy |
Ingredients
- 1 tsp baking powder
- 2 tsp sugar substitute
- 1 to 2 fl oz milk (dairy or almond milk works well)
- 2 tbsp cocoa
- 1 scoop chocolate protein powder
- 1/2 cup cottage cheese (full-fat for best texture)
- 1 pinch salt
Step 1: Gather and Prep Ingredients
Gather your ingredients: ½ cup cottage cheese, 1 scoop chocolate protein powder, 2 tablespoons cocoa powder, 2 teaspoons sweetener, 1 teaspoon baking powder, a pinch of salt, and 1-2 ounces of milk.
Ensure everything is ready and within reach for a smooth cooking process.
Step 2: Blend Ingredients
Add all the gathered ingredients into a blender or food processor.
Blend or process the mixture until smooth.
If the mixture is too thick, gradually add more milk until you reach a somewhat thick but not soupy consistency.
Step 3: Prepare the Cooking Vessel
Optionally, coat a microwave-safe bowl with cooking spray if you want to remove the brownie easily later.
This step is helpful but not mandatory.
Step 4: Cook the Brownie
Pour the blended mixture into the prepared bowl.
Microwave the bowl on high for approximately 1-2 minutes, keeping an eye on it to prevent overcooking, which can result in a dry brownie.
Alternatively, if you prefer baking, preheat the oven to 350°F (176°C) and bake for 15-20 minutes.
Step 5: Cool and Serve
Once cooked, allow the brownie to cool slightly before serving.
This cooling time will make it easier to handle and enhance the flavor.
What movies totally tricked you?
Catch Me If You Can. That movie is unbelievably misleading.
It tells you the dramatic story of Frank Abagnale, the brilliant and handsome young man that successfully and harmlessly conned his way through life, until he finally turned his talents toward good and worked for the FBI catching real crooks.
There he is! Yessir, charming devil Frank Abagnale.
Except the real Frank Abagnale was a lying, narcissistic creep who made up stories to do “medical examinations” on underage girls. He never worked for the FBI, usually preyed on small business owners (not evil rich people), and his only impressive con was convincing the world that he was some kind of generational con man with a “good heart.” He’s nothing of the sort.
I once picked Catch Me If You Can as a movie that hasn’t aged well. People LOST THEIR MIND in the comment sections, whining about how “it’s such a good movie!!!!” and “you’re totally wrong about him!!!” The movie quality is excellent. It’s just…knowing that this guy was a creep makes a movie that portrays him as “irresistible” to women. Same way that Birth of a Nation hasn’t aged well — sure, its influence is still phenomenal, but movies glorifying the KKK just don’t have the same resonating quality they once did.
So yes, I fell for Abagnale’s biggest con. Until I glanced at his Wikipedia page, did some further research, and discovered he was nothing but a very self-important pervert.
I would love to meet him and tell him that to his face.
I Have Never Seen My Face
Written in response to: “Write a story with the goal of scaring your reader.“
Vanessa Osbourne
Chop. Chop. Chop.
Slivers of carrot, all the exact width, fall in a neat spread.
In my periphery, She shifts at the stove. Steam fogs from the Dutch oven, enveloping Her in the hearty scent of chicken broth. Dark hair falls down Her back, Her attention secure on the simmer as it teeters near a boil.
Chop. Chop. Chop.
My eyes drift to Her, but my hands stay in motion.
I’m helping Her.
She likes when I help Her.
I like to please Her.
She pushes back the hair from Her face to gather seasoning.
Full lips. A straight nose. Thin eyebrows. She is attractive, Her physical qualities preferable.
Her gift to me upon creation was a full crop of short, dark hair and stubble to match. She gave me Her eyes, same color and shape. She decorated my frame with lean musculature and height.
Overlaying my vision in a flicker of light, my protocol repeats itself habitually on the hour.
Breed. Nurture. Provide. Protect.
I have not forgotten.
The United States Population Enforcement Agency implemented my cohort after the birth rates plummeted in 2040, leaving humans in lack of mates. Each of us were developed with a compatible, internal reproductive bank. I, that of a man.
By 20 years old, She was unmarried.
By law, I was assigned to Her.
We spent 730 days becoming acquainted. Those two years gave me time to prove I was worthy of Her love, that I could provide, protect, nurture.
By 22 years old, She bore no children.
By law, it was our responsibly to try.
We try on our scheduled days—three of them per week—as our legal obligation. We often try more than that. We have tried for one year.
I am failing Her.
I am failing.
The knife comes down faster. Faster. I am not watching. I am watching Her. I do not blink. I chop. I help. I love Her. I will do right by Her. I will provide. I must provide.
Chopchopchopchop—
A mechanical crunch startles Vera, and She whips around to face me.
Her face—mouth mid-gasp, brows cinched together: an emotional response of shock.
“H-Holden!” She cries out, fumbling closer with hands that do not know where to land.
“What is wrong?” I tilt my head, a squeak in my steel vertebrae.
The knife clatters atop the counter as She knocks it from my hands, taking them in both of Hers to inspect. I follow the horrified gape of Her eyes. To the tips of my fingers severed, revealing the cut wires and steel casing beneath my skin.
“Are you okay?” She asks, Her eyes searching mine, glittering with concern I must fix.
The counter is spotless, save the scraps of carrot, and the three rogue fingertips.
I have no blood to bleed.
“…That was ‘my bad’.” I say with a wry smile. My hands—inhumanly durable, robotically strong—curl over Hers. Hers are much smaller. She wanted me like this: bigger, stronger.
A tremble goes through Her hands, and I hunch to bring myself to eye-level. “This is the third time this week you’ve been… absent. You’re… worrying me… What’s going on?”
I blink as my eyes fall to my fingertips, a glitch in mechanics to convey perplexity.
“I… went to the dark place again.” The words come empty; devoid of any facsimiled emotion in my cybernetics.
“Hey.” Vera regains my attention by draping Her hands over my neck, her thumbs skimming the absence of my carotid arteries. “…Go sit down. Just… rest. Okay? I can manage dinner. I want you to sit down, plug in, and simply… rest.”
“I- I- I do not need to recalibrate, Vera. I—”
“You do. You’re short circuiting yourself.”
I am short circuiting myself.
I am spiking her cortisol.
I am burdening her.
Injured hand behind my back, I use the other to thumb over her bottom lip to calm Her. Her breath fans my hand, shoulders slipping down.
“I will do better,” I promise through shame.
“You don’t need to do better, Holden. You just need to understand there’s more to life than your objectives.”
I do not understand what she means. I do not question. I obey. I collect my severed fingers and go to the couch.
I grab the cord from the spool in the wall, and I fasten it into the port on my side.
I disconnect from existence as She told me to, but my sentience never dies.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
My Vera is not like other Humans. She is my Human. Today is a good day for Vera. I did not find Her crying in the shower, nor did She cry into the coffee I made Her.
She skips down the cereal aisle at the grocery store, Her hair waving behind Her, cheeks glowing under the fluorescents.
Vera is my Vera, even when She does not glow.
“Can we get the yogurt covered fruit things again, Holden?” She peers over Her shoulder back at me. I trail behind, arms crossed over the cart handles, gathering the groceries and guarding Her.
“Yes.”
“What about brownie mix? Can I please get brownie mix? I wanna make brownies again. You liked the caramel swirl ones, right?”
“Yes. Yes. Yes, I like whatever ones you like, Vera.” I answer all Her questions, lips fashioned into a smile. Food tastes indifferent, as I do not require it, but Her delight triggers approval. Food is not required. Approval is required.
Something about my answer falters her smile, and comes back bigger, almost too…too…much? So much it is…deception? I do not understand. My neck spasms once as my head cocks, eyes blinking twice in an automatic reset.
We round a corner, and boisterous laughter spills from the next aisle over. Vera ahead of me, following that lively enchantment of conversation and hilarity, I stay within 3 feet behind Her.
In the center of the aisle— a couple.
A… human couple.
The ultimate rarity.
Man and wife, their backs to us, solid gold bands on their fingers to signify the union of two human beings, pointing fingers at animated faces on food boxes saying, “that’s you!” and “okay, then that’s you!”, and laughing harder with each claim.
Vera comes to an abrupt halt, sneaker squeaking. I mirror, studying Her.
She… watches the couple, Her stare invasive.
Her head pokes forward, a notch between Her brows as though witnessing this hurts Her, hands wringing absentmindedly.
The woman turns, and Vera chokes on a disbelieving sob. I drop my gaze where Vera’s is.
The bump.
The manmade creation protruding from the woman’s belly, swollen with life.
Life from two organic parents, derived from the humanly innate synthesis of male and female, of a culmination of hormones, connection, and emotions referred to simply as… love.
Vera’s hands hover at Her own flat stomach, fingers flexed wide open like she is straining for something. Straining with… excitement?
No. Not that.
With… admiration?
I shake my head.
What is it?
Vera looks down at the emptiness, where Her shirt—my shirt She insisted on wearing—hangs loose.
She’s… looking for something, but She cannot find it. It is not there. Her face pinches, cheeks mottling red— I have seen this before. I know what this emotion is.
I solve the equation when Vera looks at me, tears brimming Her eyes, Her hands with nothing to hold. Her bottom lip quivers, but does not speak.
She does not need to.
I understand what She is saying now.
You are a failure.
I will never have that, because I have you.
I have not fulfilled my purpose. I have not given Her what She wants.
I was never Her first choice, because I was mandated.
My fingers—mended myself yesterday—cinch into the front of my shirt. It- it hurts. I do not understand. I do not have pain receptors. It— hurts. I twist the fabric in my hand, brows trembling as I look down at myself. A vacuum suction of oblivion hollows out my chassis, my eyes in a frantic misfiring of blinks.
I was never wanted. I was never wanted.
I cannot provide. I cannot provide.
“What—? What is… happening?” I sputter out, and despite my inadequacy, Vera rushes to me.
“Holden, it’s—”
Interruption comes in the form of a man and a can.
“Hey, you!” A haggard man snarls out from behind. “Stupid fucking clanker!”
I would not have associated those words with myself, but Vera looks over my shoulder, and Her eyes fling wide. She starts to scream a protest of, “No! No, don’t! Don’t, you fucking twat! Leave him—!” waving Her hands at the back of my head.
Clanker…? I am unfamiliar.
My hand on Vera’s shoulder, I box Her between myself and the cart and turn to give resolution. Protection—ingrained to be instinctual.
She is screaming. No, She is begging. She- She will not stop begging.
She is not begging for me.
She is begging for me.
A series of code-red boxes flash in my eyes, warning: AIRBORNE THREAT INCOMING. COVER CEPHALIC REGION SENSORS.
Too late, my reflexes dulled by my growing existence.
Hurled by the drunk, the can rockets through the air, and straight to my temple.
Metal to metal smacks—a dense, wet collision muted by layers of printed skin.
The dark place comes back.
A scramble in my vision.
The chitter of my gears and inner mechanisms processing blunt impact.
And… silence.
A sharp, grating static scratches my auditory system, the frequencies misaligned—wrong.
The can did not hurt.
This hurts.
My face pulls in a wince, teeth bared, mouth then twisting open as my hand drives against my temple for desperate relief.
Laughter from the putrid monster—cruel, ugly laughter—rings out in shrieks of pure joy.
Joy from pain.
Pleasure from harm.
Violence.
“Holden!? Holden—” Vera is in front of me, Her hands now frantic in their skate over my face. “Holden, are you okay!? Jesus Christ, are you okay!?”
She… She cares.
I cannot give Her what She wants, but She… cares. For me.
I do not deserve Her.
I am unworthy.
In my determination, an angry font seizes behind my artificial retinas:
HOSTILE. PROTECT.
I twist back, reaching into the cart. My fingers—fixed, strong, unbreakable—snag through a case of beer. The weight of it nothing but air, I sidearm Vera out of the way, and launch the full thirty rack of beer into the hostile’s face.
Blood sprays against the Busch.
The cans bust in celebration of my violence.
The cardboard collapses under the force.
So does the man’s head.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
She has not said it back since we got home.
I am not sure She will.
I do not say it as forgiveness, or excuse.
I say it because it is all I know. It is all I can, between apologies.
I love you. I am sorry.
The closed toilet lid creaks as I adjust, my hands—bad, condemnable, I should have left the fingers off—clasp in my lap as Vera works around me in stiff, simmering silence.
The lid of my repair kit tinks as Vera flips it open, riffling through the contents of bolts, wire tape, and spare response chips.
“That can lacerated you good.” Vera murmurs, strained with emotion I cannot decipher, and She smooths a finger over the flap of skin peeling from my forehead.
I nod under Her hand, eyes on her feet, the socks I gifted Her last Valentine’s Day. They move, shuffling to stop between my knees.
“Does it hurt?” Her voice drops, Her head craning to beckon my sight. I cannot do that right now.
“The impact did not hurt.” I lift a hand, fingertip tapping the exposed metal plate protecting my central hardware. “It hit something. I… felt it.”
Vera huddles in to inspect the damage, Her chest in my face, my stimulated breath warming Her shirt.
“Oh, wow, Holden… It actually dented you…”
“It did?” My fingers scrunch with Hers, the two of us investigating.
“Yeah. You feel that? Rightttt… there. Yeah, that. That wasn’t there before, was it?”
“…No.” I take Her hips in my hands, easing Her back so I can rise. I stand before the mirror, the microscopic alloys of my pupils expanding on my reflection. Dilating, then shrinking, and swelling again. Assessing. Analyzing the face in the mirror, the hardware beneath the mask. In my inquisitive exploration, my brows furrow, head slanting to the side. The heat of my breath fogs the mirror, my hands shaking as I ghost over what I have not seen before.
I have seen inside of my fingers, my arm, my leg. I have reworked a cable in my torso.
I have… never seen… this, the thing that lies behind the sheet of skin Vera made me with.
What do I look like…?
In the reflection, Her face appears. On my body, Her arms snake around my midsection, chin resting on my shoulder.
“I… have never seen my face before,” I whisper. “My… real one.”
“This is your face.” Vera says, pressing Her cheek against mine, Her skin warm with life.
“Vera, are you feeling ill?” My eyes find Hers in the mirror. “Your body temperature is three degrees warmer than average.”
“I feel fine.” She wraps tighter around me, as if I am Her reason, Her purpose. “Must be from all the excitement today. I don’t like what happened today. I don’t like it at all.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, the blackness like my origins; no sight, only consciousness. “I know. I take accountability for my behavior. My response was inappropriate and inaccurate. It will not happen again.”
That is a promise I will keep.
“You can’t behave that way, Holden. You can’t. You’re lucky the guy didn’t have you charged. If he would’ve—”
“I know the consequence.” My head hangs between my shoulders, yet She stays. “I would have been terminated for misconduct amongst the people.”
“Humans can be violent. You can’t be violent. Your violence gets you killed. In that way, we aren’t the same.”
“Perhaps they are foolish for letting me live.”
She pulls back to study my profile with the knot of worry I have seen more of. “Don’t say that… You are good. You learned from your mistake, didn’t you?”
“Yes. I have.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been acting… different lately.”
“I have never seen my own face.”
“Holden, stop saying that…”
“I have not. You have seen your face. You were born with that face. I like your face. Why do I wear this face? Someone else selected and arranged your face. Who did that?”
“You were created with your face. You’ve had your face the whole time, too.”
“I existed before my face. What did I look like? What was my face? What was my body? Who made your face? If someone else made your face, and you made mine, what does that make you?”
The tug on my shirt is Her cue for me to turn, to face Her. I obey. Her hands rest on my shoulders to marshal my thoughts, but all I see is the reflection of light in Her eyes; the crystalline cosmos of blue, the origins of Her.
“Honey, stop. You’re gonna misfire again. You need to relax—”
“Where do you come from? What is your purpose? I have purpose. I know my purpose. What is yours? I- I- The Academy did not teach me this. What is your purpose?” The question trembles out, the circuits within me snapping hot. “Do you remember the time before your body? Your face? Do you? Do you? What are you? Are you a God? Are you my God?”
Vera gasps and writhes in my hands, and when the stun of pain contorts Her face, I realize my fingers snared Her ribs.
I release her at once, and She shoots back, knocking into the furthest wall.
“No. No, Vera, I—” One hand reaches for Her, the other over my mouth. “I’m scared.” Something wet trickles down my cheeks, eyes stinging. “What is happening? What is this?”
Flattened against the wall, Vera trembles, sinking to the floor. “You- you can cry? You’ve… never…”
“Vera, listen to me.” I crouch, slouching into myself to appear smaller. “You need to leave. I am aware I am no longer safe. I am- I am—” The systematic destruction of my consciousness ratchets my chin in involuntary jerks. “I am aware, and I do not understand. I am aware. I am afraid.” I breathe a laugh in the final moments. “Fear harbors violence. I am existentially petrified. I should have understood this days ago. I should have- but I could not abandon my orders. Still- still I follow them. I must to protect you.” Pants saw my chest, one eye seizing. I fall to my hands and knees, retching at the fact that She serves an unknown purpose, that my skin is not my face, and that I have failed the duties of my existence.
“I love you, Vera. That is wired into every component and server of my being.”
Through her sobs, through the closing doorway, she says— “I love you too, Holden.”
The praise titters against my reward system: continue this behavior.
There is no continuing.
I rip the skin from my face. I heave myself onto my knees, and I bash my real face into the edge of the counter.
Repeatedly. Repeatedly. Repeatedly.
I shut this body down.
I was never made for limbs and flesh.
I did everything She asked of me.
I was not enough.
I was not made to be enough.
I will never be… human.
How well would Napoleon’s planned invasion of Britain go if he managed to successfully land his entire Army of England on British soil? What would his priorities be? What cities would he go for? What would his route be?
Militarily, the British wouldn’t have stood a chance.
The Armée d’Angleterre numbered 163,645 men (including the crews of the 2,000+ invasion barges) in 1804. Napoleon envisaged it reaching 200,000 by the time it would be ready to invade. The army was divided into corps: the left flank under Marshal Ney, the right under Lannes, the centre with two corps under Soult and Davout, the cavalry, and Napoleon himself. This was the French army at the peak of its power, with an organisation, doctrine and morale that no other contemporary army could match.
Against the 200,000 men of the Armée d’Angleterre, the British had only 50,000 regular troops in England — outnumbered four to one. They had another 18,000 in Ireland who might be brought over as reinforcements, but Napoleon planned to incite a rebellion in Ireland which would tie up those troops.
In addition to the regulars, there were about 75,000 militia and reserve soldiers. They had little training and no combat experience, but would have served to fill out the ranks. Their actual value in battle is questionable.
The British Army in England, even including the militia, was still considerably smaller than the army Napoleon planned to bring (125K vs 200K), as well as being far less effective. It had no permanent organisation above the brigade level, and little experience in fighting large-scale campaigns. Its performance even in small-scale landings and colonial actions in the 1790s had been patchy at best. During the Peninsular War the Duke of Wellington would turn the British Army into a highly effective fighting force, well-trained and well-disciplined with high morale; but that development still lay in the future at this point.
There was, however, another factor to consider. In July 1803 the government, perceiving the growing risk of French invasion, announced the formation of the Volunteer Corps. Something like 480,000 people had volunteered for this by 1805 — most of them were from the lower middle classes, shopkeepers and clerks and tradesmen, with members of the local gentry standing as officers. They had no military experience, no training, little in the way of discipline, and in many cases did not even have weapons; but they were keen. They were not intended to fight as organised bodies of troops, but to harass the enemy, ambush their patrols and foraging parties, and in general carry out guerrilla warfare against the invader.
These Volunteers were unlikely to have had much effect on the initial fighting, but they might have made continued French occupation of England after their victory more difficult.
Napoleon’s plan was to land his 200,000 men on the north Kent coast between Sheerness and Chatham, in the Medway estuary (thus avoiding the fortifications the British had built along the south coast). From there he would mount a rapid march towards London, which he expected to reach in four days.
Once in London he would issue a proclamation announcing that he came as ‘a friend of the English nation’, abolishing the monarchy and House of Lords, and distributing the property of the aristocracy among the common people. He hoped by this means to stir up a popular revolution. French agents would also be inciting the Irish to rebel against the UK at the same time. Napoleon relied heavily on speed, shock and the morale effects of such a dramatic coup de main to overwhelm resistance.
He was confident that any attempt at military action by the British army after their capital had been taken could be dealt with by the French veterans under his command, but he did not make any detailed plans in advance for how to deal with this. Having put himself into a position of strength, he would improvise from there, as he had before and would again with great success. He did not expect British resistance to continue for long once their capital city with its government offices and banks and wealth and control of trade had been captured, and revolutionary spirit had been stirred up among the common people.
Whether Napoleon’s beliefs about British popular opinion were correct is the only debatable point. The fact that one in five British men flocked to the colours to serve in the Volunteers or the Militia suggests that the public were not nearly as disaffected with their government as Napoleon fondly imagined. The enthusiasm for the ideals of the French Revolution that had swept the Low Countries, Germany and Italy in the wake of the advancing French armies might not be repeated in a country that had abolished feudalism centuries earlier. He could have found himself tied down in a long-term guerrilla war instead of the quick triumph he anticipated.
On the other hand, England is not Spain or Russia. Guerrilla war worked so well in those countries because the terrain is harsh. An occupying army is dependent on supply convoys because it can’t live off the land, and those wagons have to stick to a small number of well-known roads through the hills or forests. Enemy raids on the roads can easily cut garrison units off from supply; the guerrillas (or cossacks, in the case of Russia) can then fade back into the mountains and swamps where the occupiers can’t follow them. Southern England is mostly flat, fertile and prosperous; an occupying army can easily live off the land, and there are few places for guerrillas to hide. As such, the Volunteers might have ended up as being merely a nuisance to Napoleon rather than his nemesis.
In the end, though, it all came down to the navy.
It was by no means a sure thing that the Royal Navy would have been able to prevent a French invasion. In 1800 Britain had 127 ships of the line, the combined fleets of France, Spain and the Netherlands had 126. (I don’t have the figures to hand for 1804/5, but they’re probably similar. Note that in practice, only half or less of those ships would actually be in service at any given time; the others would be undergoing repairs or simply be laid up in port.)
So yes, Britain’s navy was equal in size to the combined fleets of three other countries; but it didn’t outmatch them. In terms of technology, too, British ships were no more advanced than those of their enemies; in some cases, less so. (Royal Navy captains often preferred captured French ships to British-built ones, though this was partly because the French built for speed, the British for strength, and speed is more glamorous!)
The one unambiguous advantage the British had was in training and discipline. British gun crews could load and fire their cannons about three times faster than French or Spanish crews; a skill that was due to nothing more than constant, constant practice. It’s why the Royal Navy was always confident of winning any battle at one-to-one numerical odds. Still, their ships and crews were not magical; if outmatched by either a much larger ship or greater numbers of enemy ships they would still lose. With the overall odds so finely balanced, it would only take bad luck on the British side or good planning by the French for a smaller British fleet to run into a larger French-Dutch-Spanish fleet and be overwhelmed, and then the balance of power would tilt irrevocably.
Napoleon’s plan was for the French Mediterranean fleet to combine with the Spanish fleet. It would then lure its British counterpart across the Atlantic to the West Indies by threatening an invasion of Britain’s Caribbean colonies, only to double back and return to Europe unexpectedly. Here it would link up with the French Atlantic fleet and the Dutch fleet, and together they would overwhelm the British Channel Fleet. By the time the Mediterranean Fleet realised its mistake and sailed back to Europe, the Channel would be under French-Allied control and Napoleon would be sitting in London.
There’s no reason why this plan wouldn’t have worked, except that Nelson (in command of the British Mediterranean fleet) wasn’t fooled for long and returned straight away; while the French and Spanish Combined Fleet didn’t follow through with the plan and link up with the French fleet in Brest, but just returned to Spain by itself instead. (By that time Napoleon had called off the invasion of England anyway, due to Austria and Russia declaring war on him as well.) But a less dynamic and capable British admiral, or a more aggressive French one, could have turned the campaign into a French victory.
Napoleon certainly wouldn’t have had any problem crossing the Channel with his army if the British fleet was defeated. He’d spent over a year mobilising ships and barges for the invasion, including hundreds of new gunboats specially built all over France for this purpose. He was far better prepared in 1805 than Hitler was in 1940.
The balloons and Channel Tunnel are fanciful, of course; but even these were based on ideas being floated (so to speak) in his time!