The Fallen Grace

Do not judge my fall. If you had suffered as I have, you would sympathise with me. I daresay you have done the same. Desperation corrupts the purest grace, banishing them from their rightful place in paradise.

When disaster first warred, my husband, son, and I were on a visit to my mother’s home, in Winchester. Having as yet enjoyed the day, we crowded around the television, so as to watch Courage The Cowardly Dog. The cartoon was interrupted, though, by the news. The broadcaster reported of mass bombings having rained down over the heads of Londoners. From the safety of the leathern sofa, we saw the Shard floating in the River Thames. Bridges were decimated, with cars being full of survivors who were desperate not to drown. All the ghastlier were the corpses bobbing up and down, with their rent flesh deteriorating in the water. Those outside of London were advised to flee farther, and avoid returning at all costs. The television blurred then pixelated from the loss of signal.

Our son, aged ten, was distressed by these images of fiery doom. His blue eyes were fogged with crystal tears. He darted around the house, screaming and crying the while. As I tendered to my mother, who was also in distress, my husband solaced our son. Gathered together, my husband averred the judicious course would be to evacuate, as per the admonishment. We planned to drive to Reading, where we would pick up his parents. When nearing Beech Hill, however, we saw a squadron of planes soar above us. An amethyst brume was being released from them; it lingered in the air, fuming and foaming. Noticing this, my husband impromptu halted the car. Having driven with celerity, we were all thrust forward. A crack resounded, as my mother had been crippled by the headrest. Distraught, I shouted at my husband, reproaching him for having been so incautious. Our son bellowed in fear, as blood trickled down my mother’s forehead. Before we had the opportunity to check her condition, missiles were havocked over Reading. They dropped in copious spates, producing pervasive whistles as they pitched. Even from where we were, these tenebrific imps, shoaling in this purple brume as fish would, dove down. Upon impact, thickets of smoke mushroomed upward, like molten Satan’s boletes. I pictured dust, dirt, and people being whisked up by its torrent. Blazes fired, then all silenced, before an audible quake thundered.

Knowing his parents must have been affected by this misfortune, my husband became terrified. He could not control himself. Convulsing, with his pupils blackened, he wept in fury. For the sake of calming him, we changed seats. We skid off, with us boding it best to be directed towards Salisbury, and follow the southerly route. I certified that we skirted around Salisbury, and any cities, towns, or villages hereabouts, which could be under possible threat. As we did so, my husband catered to the state of my mother. She was alive, but on tenterhooks from the physical pain. She, nonetheless, managed to respond without impairments in her speech. My mother appeared well enough for survival.

At length, we stopped on a random road, and diverted to a pathless track. Before us was the gloom of an immense forest. When looking at our telephones to see where we were, we realised the inutility of them. They were static, with waves of chiaroscuro purling on their tiny screens. It was as if some pathogen had borne itself into them. By whom? And why were we being attacked? We knew not, and nor could we find out.

Parking the car where it was occulted by a bosk of trees, we tarried here for the night. Being unprovisioned, our stomachs flurried in acidulous grumbles. The berries we foraged somewhat satiated our hunger. On the other hand, our thirst was quenched. For, wading through the bowery dark, we located a rivulet, pearled from a breach where the moon could penetrate through. I recall drinking with unstinting ardency, and plashing the water over my face. In the wan light, I noted our son’s shivering silhouette. Embracing him, we stood thus in a trance. It was my husband who had us disentranced, by saying he could hear wheezing from my mother. Indeed, we had misjudged the extent of her injury. She described her mind as being subjected to electroshock, as well as being trampled by the feet of an elephant. I couched on some rank grass beside her, and promised that all would be better soon. How I wish I had not deceived her so, for I was aware of how false I had been. For some hours, I clung fast to my mother, infantilised by the dread of her dying. Throughout the night, the still of nature was entrenched by those identical whistles and quakes. When the sun rose, shafting gold at us, my mother would wake no more. She was pale, breathless, and cold. I shed compassion for both her, and my son, who was having to witness what no child should ever. As a proper funeral was impracticable, we paid her a requiem by laying her body in the rivulet, and blanketed her amongst leaves. She had been posed like Ophelia. As I spoke from the heart of grief, all three of our eyes were glassy.

Decamping thereafter, my husband conveyed us to Newquay, by dint of a map. In time, we would be dependent on its guidance alone. We had qualms about whether Newquay would be destroyed also. If so, we decided to continue southward, hopeful that we might stumble upon some kind of life. To our benefit, Newquay was still unblighted. Public mania, however, was rampant. Some were floundering on the concrete, flailing as ragdolls. Others, with murdersome smirks, flitted from shop to shop, marauding all they could. There were no approachable faces, for they had been tainted by the torment of what throes loomed. Hangdog, my husband proposed we do likewise, and supply ourselves with the food, water, medicine, fuel, and whatsoever else. I was bashful at assenting, though we had little choice save partaking. I remained with our son, as my husband braved the bedlam of thieves, fledgling criminals, and the natal decay of society. He hopped from pharmacy, Wickes, petrol station, to a giant Tesco. Whilst waiting for him, I spotted the neck of a woman be cut, the chest of an elderly man be stamped upon, and iniquities besides. This was further exemplified when my husband emerged again. From a brawl over some fuel, he had been whipped with rusted wire. My husband had won, yet been marked with a palpitant wound. It dumbed our son into fixating on his father. He no longer cried aloud. Rather, he swallowed his sorrow.

Agonised, I imparted that I would drive. With rage, my husband jettisoned the idea of me doing so. He was adamant on being strong enough, and would not concede otherwise. Onwards to Penzance we journeyed, with my stubborn husband debilitating himself in the process. I searched the map for vicinal hospitals, but they were either in flames or hysteria. Needless to say, my husband was stoic to there being no possibility of remedying him. Having stolen some medicine – such as codeine, disinfectant, and bandages – he cleansed and wrapt himself. He, I, and even our gawking son, knew this to be impotent against a maligner, infectious malady.

For a whole day, we slugged through interminable roads, both desolate and bustling, till we attained Penzance. Here, law and order was on crutches, with frenzy being less rife than in Newquay. From a frowning paperboy, we caught word of the devastation spreading, festering, tumefying throughout Britain, America, Oceania, Asia, and Eastern Europe. The bombs were reputed to not be nuclear. Instead, they exploded, flattening all to dross, and poisoning the atmosphere through gaseous toxins. From where or whom? – none had certitude. The paperboy advised us to hurry to the docks, where we may board a keel to go abroad. France, Belgium, and the Netherlands were accepting British refuges. Thanking the paperboy, we teetered with our bags of provisionments to test our lot. I could discern how aggrieved my husband was, for he urged us to stop on numerous occasions. Sulphurous-tinged drops were being perspired from his skin. His visible adversity proved providential, though, as one out of the twenty captains on the dock condoled with my husband.

Our captain was named Ahab, with a birchen peg for a right leg. He detailed that we would be adventuring to Africa, not Westernmost Europe. He regarded it vain to swiften to where was next on the list of decimation.

After ushering us on, Ahab jilted multitudes that knelt upon their importunate knees, wetting the ground beneath his feet. Impervious, Ahab refused them by gesturing with his viridian hat. At maximum capacity – seven of Ahab’s mariners, and twelve civilians (including ourselves) – we were ready to depart. As we unharboured, people lunged at the rifting gap between the keel and the dock. Some plunged in, and two bubbles would be all that resurfaced of them. Queerer, though, was the obtrusive sight of a doddering priest. His frosty hair cast snow in the wind, contrasted by his face which was scorched. A complexional scar ran down his left side. He was gazing at the offing, and raving:

“He cometh from otherwhere, whence man hath yet to plumb. Descry yon, seeth how He froth with wrath! Spit doth he at thine recusancy, at thine contumely of His legacy. Eftsoon He descendeth from the welkin, and revenge doth He mete out to ye. How thus, asketh ye? By razing the garden of earthly delights! See ye not how thy folly beest unshriven. The madness, sewn on thy mouths; ye mischieve hast ends meet. Widen thy arms, brood of Icarus, for His bosom be soever sweet!”

Discomfited, I fastened to my child, and glanced at my shuddersome husband. To soothe himself, he was opiating his senses by indulging in codeine. Concerned, I unrolled his navy chinos, and examined the wound. Nauseated by it, I veered to the rosy horizon. Its alpenglow lured me away from my husband, divesting me of my will. I heard a squeal from my son, the fretful astonishment of the mariners, and the retching of a youthful woman. And yet, I walked to the edge of the keel, and emplaced my hands on the wooden taffrails. Who knows how long I stared, but I could have sworn that this horizontal phenomenon was unnatural. Not the magic of diffraction. No, it was more akin to the swollen belly of an explosion.

This must have been an omen of ill, presaging that we had not bilked tragedy. Try as we might, but we were haunted by damnation. Helming the North Atlantic Ocean was fraught with unruly billows, uprearing against the bow as Leviathans. The clouds murked to be impenetrable. A bothersome mist slithered into the fore, inhibiting the ease whereof we sailed. Grimmer still were the veins, supercharged with the violet anger of Zeus, about to lash us. A Neptunian storm was imminent.

Alarmed, the mariners scuttled, like ants defending their queen, across the deck. Two of them climbed the rigging of the keel, and operated the sails, which were rendered flimsy. Ahab shrieked in continuum, instructing his crew, as well as the civilians, to be mettlesome. We wrangled at length, embattling against the tempestuous batterings, and unrestrainable squalls.

On a freak, a violaceous bolt fulgurated upon a mariner amidst the rigging. Electrified, he toppled overboard. That woman retched once more, rolling around in her own vomitus. A sequent bolt, indigo this time, struck Captain Ahab, whose pegleg staggered him backward till misstepping off the stern. Peril permeated. With our son glued to me, and my husband squeezing my hand, we were all three reduced to existential fright. Never before had I begged God. In those moments, I vanquished all my unbelief, and mustered the devoutest prayer I could. As I murmured the final syllable, a yawning billow consumed the keel, and blinded me.

When I awoke, I was luckless enough to have survived. With brine encrusting my eyelids, I scampered around with my fingers, and felt my surroundings. They were sodden and hard. Repossessed of my vision, I distinguished that I was stranded on a basalt rock, somewhere remote from the resins of society. It was massive, and unpopulated by either human, animal, or flora.

A freighted voice alarmed me; turning, I saw our son…or, rather, my son. I presumed my husband to have been luckful. Death, however, had cheated my son and I. We were forsaken to maritime purgatory, with no provisions whatsoever.

My son was frantic, and showed signs of having been maimed when the keel had wrecked aground. Salting the abrasions, he cackled from how it panged him so. He needed not confess his hunger aloud, for I could surmise it by glimpsing at his voracious expressions. To my surprise, though, instead of grovelling for food, he asked:

“Where is dad?”

I admitted to not having the faintest clue. Puling, my son dropped upon the comfortless ground. Succouring him dear to me, I fabled how his father was at peace with the stars, flying through the meadows in heaven. This did not souse the sorrow within him, but it ripened his lively imagination. His irises mirrored the seraphic fantasy I had elicited.

That night, my son and I studied the skies, which had vestiges of constellations, now blunted from the pollution of war. I wished upon one, and kissed my son’s cheek. Sleeping thereafter, we were encroached by a lunatic paddling in water. My son was unstirred. Inquisitive, I investigated what was awry: it was another survivor. A young mariner had swam for his life, and propped himself upon a rocky isle, similar to ours. He had begun anew, after ascertaining the dereliction of his. If he had foreknown of ours being identical, then, in all likelihood, he would have refrained from doing so. Exhausted from his expenditure, the mariner slept, whereas I dozed.

At dawn, he was obstinate on fishing, or procuring something edible to fortify us. In truth, I had no care for such sustenance. I had a morbid avidity for surrendering, rather than pretending as though we had a veritable chance. We never saw the mariner again. What I did see, however, was a red pool thawing throughout the cerulean of the sea, with serrated fins circumscribing it. I averted my son to look in the opposite direction, where the rosiest glows, shimmering, furled upon the horizon. Death was ineludible.

Another day elapsed, and still we had neither eaten nor drunk. Scabs, from dehydration, encysted our face, as the gelid weather chilled us to the marrow. My son shrank inward, and complained of how tumultuous his stomach groaned. He had underexaggerated, for I would have delineated it so: with the acid having frittered out, its contents was superseded by a hollowing effect, ever deepening to be more chasmal than the Mariana Trench. Lest I forget the scaly texture when licking our lips, and the horrid sensation of sinews shrivelling up. The irony being that, all around us, was a perfidious infinity of blue-gold. If we succumbed, and tried its liquid satiety, would we so derange as was rumoured to happen? At night, on this same day, we staked our sanity by sipping from the sea. Its briny granules scathed our moistureless tongues. We were sickened to deliria.

My son had developed what I deemed as flu, for he shook, coughed, and crackled with phlegm when he whispered. All throughout the night, I clenched him, and was unremitting in my zeal. His arms were laming, and his vocal tenor was subding fast. Keening and kissing him time after time, he sobbed muter and muter, incapable of dewing tears. My son could not overmaster his bodily anguish. In the morning, I felt his frozen temperature, beheld his porcelain pallor, and heaved at the ineffable temptation. I rejected the conception of sinking my son, and have him drift down fathomless leagues. After what assailed the mariner, it bids fair that my son would be denied the serenity he so deserves. Besides, by staying he can enhearten me from solitude…and appease my stomach instead with just one bite…or two.

I have since deserted any scruples towards the fever in the sea. If anything, I bathe myself in its maddening delight. In theory, brisking me hellwards. Indeed, I now believe that such places exist. Not from divine clarity, or a godly revelation. No. My faith is in hopes of happier tidings having sent my loves heavenwards. Delirious I may be, but I am not shameless or remorseless enough as to think I belong with them. My hereafter lies with atoning for a sin comparable to Saturn’s.

Will they both forgive my desperation for convincing me to do so? If they are of like mind to me, then I doubt it. Why else would I have rid them of their names?

As I pine and waste away, I wonder how the rest of the world fares. Humans must be on an identical, purgative trajectory.

For a while, I heard muffled whistles, saw dotted squadrons unleash tenuous things, shaped as inverted birds, whereupon Satan’s boletes mushroom. No more does this occur at present. There is but an inquietude stilling what subsists. In a few hours, I hazard that I may be the loneliest survivor left. The least enviable wretch to have ever lived.

There are 8 countries that can produce jet engines. Some of the leaders of these 8 are the USA, some European countries and Russia.

This is part of a turbine blade on a modern Rolls Royce turbine engine . You’ll notice the channels in the blade. These channels are supposed to help cool the blades to about 1100 degrees F. That’s not the hard part of making turbine blades, though.

You see, turbine blades are actually called ” crystals “, given the grain structure of the metals. In early jet engines, due to the extreme heat and early jet engine knowledge, the metal grain would cause the fan blades to “creep” over time. Essentially, impurities in the type and grain structure of the metal would cause the metal to essentially separate at the molecular level .

To solve this, a special manufacturing process was created to essentially align the grain so that it was actually a crystal. For those who know anything about crystals, as long as a force is applied in the same direction as the grain of a crystal, they are generally very resistant to breakage.

Similarly with a jet engine, the force a fan blade must withstand is generally along one axis – away from the plane of rotation, since centrifugal force is the largest force at play.

Making these crystals is an extremely difficult process and is one of the reasons why so few countries build jet engines. It is without a doubt one of the most difficult things for humanity to do. Yes, it is even comparable to space travel.

“I’ve been wandering the world for too long. Hunger and thirst are my companions. Exhaustion is my closest friend. Death nips at my heels with every step I take. I feel I’m just prolonging the inevitable,” he says, as he calls up Green Day’s Good Riddance and hits play. He takes one final swig of whiskey for courage. He puts the glass on his wrist and closes his eyes. A loud knock comes from the studio’s back exit. Charlie opens his eyes.

Oh, I’m no billionaire, but hey, even I could afford Donald Trump’s shiny new ‘gold card.’

Tempting? Not in the slightest.

The first thing that comes to mind? Those charming WWII-era Japanese American internment camps. Nothing screams “welcome” like the thought of having your assets seized, being shipped off to a barbed-wire paradise, and picking cotton while the world watches.

And let’s be honest, if tensions between China and the U.S. escalate (which, let’s face it, some folks seem to be working overtime to ensure), this ‘gold card’ might just come with a one-way ticket to history repeating itself. Hard pass!!!

I have to admit, Donald Trump is nothing if not cunning—selling a $5 million ticket to what could very well be a future camp. In Germany, they had a name for such places: concentration camps. In America, they prefer terms like “quarters,” “internments,” “relocation,” or “incarceration camps.”

Japanese Americans living and working during WW2 in paradise.

AMERICAN WOMEN POURING THEIR HEARTS TO CHINESE FRIENDS ON REDNOTE CHINESE TRADITIONAL REMEDIES

Could declining American influence potentially lead to another world war? If so, what factors could contribute to it and what would be the geopolitical implications?

Is there a decline of American influence? Vance and Hegseth chastised European leaders for neglecting military capabilities and advised them to prepare for war on their own.

Europe whined and cursed, but does as ordered. Macron even delivered a spoof of Hitler’s October 3, 1941 speech, complete with Mongol hordes coming and Europe’s “awakening”.

And what can be better for the American influence than another world war where they can sit on the fence to pick up pieces later?

Shorpy

What do the Chinese people think about France’s naval exercise with the Philippines in the South China Sea?

Macron’s purpose of provoking China is to show its loyalty to Trump, but Trump will not show mercy to Macron.

Macron wanted to lick Trump’s ass, but he didn’t lick the right spot.

Trump hates these ‘Baizuo (white left)’ in Europe and America. After taking office, he announced that the government would only recognize two genders, male and female, ending the official policy of recognizing the third gender.

“Baizuo (white left)” politicians like Macron are naturally disliked by Trump.

Trump decrees end of diversity programs, LGBTQ protections

Trump repeals diversity and LGBTQ equality orders, signaling a break with "woke" culture in his inauguration speech.

https://www.thehindu.com/news/international/trump-decrees-end-of-diversity-programs-lgbtq-protections/article69122151.ece

Trump will definitely support Marine Le Pen to replace Macron, let’s wait and see!

Trump’s goal is clear: to completely drive the European left supported by the Democratic Party (United States) out of European politics and replace it with the right wing he supports. In short, he wants to change everything the Democratic Party (United States) has established.

By doing this, Macron not only failed to please Trump, but also offended China.

At the same time, the PLA’s no-fly zone will soon appear at the doorstep of France.

Our troops can go anywhere enemy goes! The PLA Navy also has the power of ‘Freedom of navigation’.

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If we were to ask which country likes to provoke in the South China Sea the most, Australia, the younger brother of the United States, would definitely be one of them.

After Trump entered the White House, Australia tried every means to obtain tariff exemptions from the Trump administration. In order to prove to Trump Australia’s value as a “running dog of the United States”, it spared no effort to provoke China on the South China Sea issue.

On February 11, Australia sent a P8A anti-submarine reconnaissance aircraft to the South China Sea in an attempt to invade the airspace of China’s Xisha Islands. China dispatched a J-16 to release flares at the Australian P8A anti-submarine reconnaissance aircraft within a distance of 30 meters to drive it away.

Afterwards, the Australian Department of Defense stated that when its P8A anti-submarine reconnaissance aircraft was cruising in the South China Sea, the Chinese fighter jet conducted an “unprofessional and unsafe” confrontation, which threatened the safety of its crew.

Within 48 hours, China took countermeasures. A fleet consisting of Type 055 cruisers, Type 054A frigates and Type 903A comprehensive supply ships conducted live-fire exercises in the Tasman Sea about 150 nautical miles (277.8 kilometers) east of Sydney, and established a no-fly zone at an altitude of 45,000 feet (13,716 meters).

A few days later, Australian Defense Force Deputy Commander Chipman, Deputy Secretary-General of the Department of Defense Jeffrey and others led a delegation to visit China and begged for mercy.

At present, from the software that tracks flight dynamics, it can be seen that many civil aircraft have bypassed the no-fly zone.

Type 055 cruisers carries the Eagle Strike-21 hypersonic missile and the Changjian series cruise missile, with a range of up to 2,000 kilometers. This means that all cities in eastern Australia, including Sydney, are within the range of Chinese missiles.

This is all caused by Australia’s proactive provocation against China.

Pet dogs such as Australia and the Philippines come to the Taiwan Strait in the South China Sea with their American fathers every day to show off their strength, China ignores them from the perspective of peace and makes them feel that they are also diners at the table, so China decided to take action, after all, freedom of navigation…

What is the deadline for the live-fire exercise? How long will the no-fly zone on Australia’s doorstep last? We can only wait for the PLA’s announcement.

Who coined the term “software coolies” or “coding coolies”?

It is my trademark 😁

To be frank, I was inspired by this guy

He said in an interview “I didn’t want to be sitting in a cubicle typing meaningless code like factory laborer”

I just added the “Coolie” because most of the coding was done for the White man and Coolie was a famous derisive word in British Raj Vocabulary

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India began to pioneer a major Software Industry in the mid to late 1990s

It was a revolution

Infosys & Wipro spearheading Software and HCL spearheading Hardware integration

Aptech, SSI, NIIT spearheading IT Training with their DBA and PGDBA programs

People learning C, C++, Foxpro, Oracle, Java, Javascript, HTML

We offered low cost IT Labor services to the West and they flocked to us

We built Bangalore

We built Hi Tech City

We built most of Gurgaon

Real estate prices surged through the roof

From Low Cost IT Labor came low cost Fintech services where the White man came to India and made us borrow his money on his technology platforms and pay for Insurance and Investments

After 30 years

We still do the same grunt and labor work for the White man , using his Core Software, his Hardware and his interfaces

Most of our businesses use Software designed and owned by the White man for which we pay huge license fees

Imagine China making pencils and Tupperware in 1999 and still making the same pencils and Tupperware in 2025 , albeit fancier pencils and Tupperware

Same thing for India!!!!!

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I am ashamed and disgusted

So I call them IT Coolies

It’s not their fault but they are COOLIES at the end of the day

Due to Poor Leaders, Greedy CEOs like Narayan Murthy and Premji and Simple Sudha and due to the “Mediocrity is absolutely fine” endorsing Citizens of India including a dozen people on this platform itself

Most of them are Coolies

Some of them are MESTRIs (Kaantraktars Or Contractors)

A miniscule number of them are Yinjeeneeyers (Engineers)

Not one of them is a Owner or a Landlord!!!!!

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Now look at our Northern Neighbors

They started well behind us

They were making Pencils and Sharpeners when we were making Steel and designing Software Systems

Today?

They own IP

They own Core Software

They are rapidly catching up in Indigenous hardware

Their entire Application base and Internet base is more or less entirely indigenous

Their strides have caused a Trillion Dollar drop in Western Markets

They are miles and miles ahead of us while we still do coolie work

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So I look at them as Coolies typing away code in a cubicle on orders from a White man sitting in Boca Raton or San Jose or Santa Clara or the Bay Area

Using his tools

Like their Great Great Great Great Grandfathers once did

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What is worse is – I don’t mind people looking at it and acknowledging the truth and talk of how to bring about Change

Instead when they talk and act as if India were a major superpower and a IT Giant, that’s what catches my goat

Such people, their mindset is that of a Coolie which can never change even if they have a billion dollars

Pathetic!!!!!

How to Make a Foolproof Omelet in Five Minutes

 

Kitchen tools, gourmet foods, baking mixes, and hard-to-find baking ingredients mentioned in this article are available at The Prepared Pantry.

by Dennis Weaver

 

This is the omelet for the omelet challenged. Never make an ugly omelet again. It’s nearly foolproof, it’s simple, and it’s quick.

We set off to make the best and easiest omelet, something that even a beginning cook could master. We bought ten dozen eggs and started testing methods. At the end, we were making five minute omelets—a little unorthodox but very good and nearly foolproof. We called them “five minute omelets.” You really can cook them in five minutes. And the method is easy.

If you’ve ever made an omelet that didn’t fold well or broke apart or had a tough skin, consider this method.

The Method

Getting the omelet to cook through without overcooking the skin is a challenge. You can lift the edges of the omelet as it cooks to let the uncooked egg flow under the omelet and onto the pan surface. You can put a lid on top to trap heat coming from the hot pan. But for some omelets, that isn’t enough.

A surer method is to start scrambling the eggs when they hit the hot pan, stopping when the eggs are partially cooked. Then pat the eggs into a smooth layer and let them finish cooking without a lid. It works. It’s quick and easy.

Instead of folding the omelet in the pan, simply tip the pan and let the omelet slide onto a plate. As the omelet slips onto the plate, twist of the wrist, and fold the omelet onto itself on the plate. (It’s easy to do; in two or three tries, you’ll have the method mastered.) This method worked so well that we declared a victory. We recorded our methods, developed a couple of recipes, and described the method in an email.

Later we started placing a plate over pan for just a couple minutes once we stopped scrambling and then removing the plate before the omelet was cooked. That accelerated the cooking a little and gave us warm plate on which to serve the omelet but we didn’t leave it on long enough to hide when the omelet was done.

We had perfect omelets in five minutes.

How to Cook an Omelet Using this Method

Choose the right size pan. A three-egg omelet requires an eight-inch pan. The pan should be nonstick.

Whisk the eggs together in a bowl.

Put a pat of butter in your nonstick pan. Place it on medium-high heat. On our stovetop, a high BTU gas burner, that’s 6 out of ten. Heat the butter to just short of brown and swirl it around the pan.

Pour the eggs into the hot pan. Salt and pepper the eggs.

Scramble the eggs with a soft silicone spatula scraping the bottom of the pan and the sides. The eggs will cook quickly and curds will form.

When the eggs approach the consistency of cottage cheese with mostly solids but some liquid egg, stop stirring. Use the spatula as a paddle to pat the eggs down into an even layer. Place a plate over the top of the pan. The plate will trap heat and help cook the top of the omelet. It also warms the plate so that you can serve the omelet on a warm pan.

Let the eggs continue cooking until the liquids are set and the top of the omelet is cooked.

Place the fillings in a row across the omelet just off to one side. For most fillings, you will want them cooked. The omelet should slip around in the pan without a hint of sticking. Move the pan to a plate, tip the pan on angle over the plate, and gently shake the omelet onto the plate filling side first.

When the omelet is about half way onto the plate, twist the pan with your wrist folding the remaining omelet over that on the plate. The omelet should be folded over with the bottom edge protruding about one-half inch.

Unless you’re going to make larger omelets, you’ll need an eight-inch skillet which is the perfect size for a three-egg omelet. It needs to have a good nonstick surface so that it will slide out of the pan easily. If you are making larger omelets, you will need larger pans.

You’ll also need a good silicone spatula to stir the eggs as they begin to cook and to slide under the omelet and loosen it if it starts to stick.

Get an eight-inch pan and start making foolproof omelets.

Dennis Weaver is the founder of The Prepared Pantry, a full line kitchen store in Rigby, Idaho. The Prepared Pantry sells kitchen tools, gourmet foods, and baking ingredients including hundreds of hard-to-find ingredients.

I used to consider Mughals as invaders but after learning that some had mostly Indian blood, they assimilated with the native culture, and even considered themselves an Indian kingdom I am wondering are they really invaders? (I want secular answers)

You would know enough history to understand the tragic story of the Native Americans

It was their land that has formally become the United States of America

They are in a minority

They live in closed off reservations, trying hard to assimilate with the general population

Today most Native Americans regard themselves as American and don’t consider the Anglo Saxons and Caucasians as Invaders

They are all American

They had a bad deal

All the Oil, all the resources, the lands, plantations – it belonged to them and they were chased away and herded into reservations

They are Judges, DAs, ADAs, Congressmen, Aldermen and State Senators now

It is not inconceivable that one of the native Americans could one day be the US President

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Now if the Native Americans have moved on, is it not time that you guys move on as well?

Hindus are in the majority despite all these invasions

Even if the Mughals were invaders, the fact is the Hindus have full unrestricted freedom in Indian lands and don’t live in reservations

It is over

Whatever happened, Hindus have survived and are in control of their own lands

This thing of focusing repeatedly on past history and using it to shape present policy – it is not just unproductive but also dangerous

Imagine if someone in the States starts preaching dangerous stuff to the Black communities about Slavery and the Native Americans about the atrocities they suffered

It could lead to momentous problems and even possible civil war

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So why this constant reference to something that happened in the 1600s or whenever the Mughals invaded?

It’s done with

It’s a part of history that will remain etched forever

The question is, using these references to blame the present generation of Muslims is moot and unproductive

They don’t serve any purpose beyond inciting anger and creating a divided society with mistrust

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Why this obsession with history?

India is such a poor country with so many problems to solve

In such a situation, the best thing for India is to focus on something that unifies India

Referring to past history and using that to shape present day policy – that’s a degree of backwardness that isn’t a feature of major emerging nations or developed nations

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The answer to your query is – the mughals don’t exist now

You don’t see prosperous European nations talking about Genghis Khan or Attila and shaping their future policies based on that history

It’s why they are so successful

Even the African nations don’t talk so much about the ivory hunters or slavers these days

Only India appears obsessed with islamic history and using it to blame present generation Muslims, living in India

Yet another sign of the backwardness I mentioned that seems to hamper India everywhere these days

What did you do that was unusually honest, and turned out well?

A lady came into the store where I worked and put what appeared to be a $20.00 bill down for gas.

I picked it up and then asked her if she wanted her change. She replied: “It’ll hold the full $20.00.” I immediately realized that she didn’t know that she had put down several bills stuck together.

I held up a finger (which made her pause) and flipped her $20 over and showed her how she had handed me not one, not two, but three $20 bills that had been stuck together.

Her eyes grew large and she looked at me a moment. “You could have…” I smiled and replied: “Yeah, but let’s not think about that.” It was a matter of honor and doing what was right. I don’t know if that ever got back to my supervisor or not. I was able to sleep that night knowing I had done the right thing.

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