“Lie about Confiscating Guns.”


Joy Behar’s “recommendation” to gun-grabbing freedom-denying politicians is to lie about their intent to confiscate guns, then just do it once they’re in office.

Well, we’re used to politicians lying to us.  It’s more surprising when they tell the truth.  However even their lies can be informative.  The thing to remember is that a politician has only one raison de etre.  Anything they say, anything they do, has only one purpose:  to win their next election.  There may be occasional exceptions (for instance, a President heading toward a second term being more “flexible” after their last election), but that’s the general rule.  This is especially true when it comes to lies:  they lie because it’s what they need to do to get elected.

Now consider that in the light of Ms. Behar’s recommendation.  Lie about gun confiscation because that’s what you need to do to get elected.  After all, consider how Robert “Beta” O’Roark’s” campaign tanked on his “ban the guns, have mandatory ‘buy backs’, and police going door to door if people don’t comply with the ‘buy back’.” (How can you buy something “back” that you never sold in the first place?)

If you want to be elected, you have to lie about confiscating guns.  At the very least you have to couch it in indirect terms such as “Australian-style gun control” or “UK-style gun control”.  Both of those were widespread confiscations but most people on hearing those terms don’t think of it in those terms.

But here’s the flip side of that.  The same people who are lying about their positions (unless you catch them in unguarded moments), or at the very least are spinning a net of words so you don’t think of it in those terms, are also the ones claiming that there is broad support amounting to a majority of Americans for the “Australian” or “UK” style gun control–for bans and confiscation.

So which is it?  Do you have to lie about banning being the goal to win elections or does banning have the broad support claimed for it?  Because you can’t have both.  If it were really something that a majority of Americans supported, then you would be touting it to the heavens in order to win those votes.

Oh, sure, you point to public polls saying that a majority of Americans support this ban or that ban, “mandatory buy-backs”, and so on and so on. And a correctly designed and implemented poll can give one a good idea of what ideas are popular among the American people.  But not all polls are well designed and well implemented.  Some are designed not so much to measure public opinion but to try to shape it.

And, by your own actions, concealing that you really do want to take their guns in order to win elections, you show that you do not believe those poll results yourself.  Perhaps your internal polls, those aimed to actually measure public opinion rather than attempt to manipulate it, tell a different story than the publicly reported ones?


Then show us you have the courage of your convictions.  Go all-in on gun confiscation, whether called a “buy back” or simply a legal requirement that a person divest themselves of their firearms (with no one else legally able to buy them so the only de fecto legal option is surrender to law enforcement).  Show us that you actually believe those polls.

Or just watch the rest of us as we keep pointing and saying “liar.”


New Release: The Chooser


$0.99 on Kindle, Always free on Kindle Unlimited

Göll is a Valkyrie, a chooser of the slain. She takes those who die in battle first to Hel for judgement, then on to their final destination, whether it’s Valhöl or elsewhere. When her latest slain is an eight year old boy she finds herself facing a new challenge, one she had never before faced in all her centuries of serving the Lord of Battles.


A story of modern Valkyrie.

The black horse descended from the sky to land softly on the immaculate front lawn.  Göll slid off the horse’s back to stand on the grass.  She adjusted the sword at her side, a frown carving ugly lines into the perfection of her face.

Most of her missions brought her joy.  But missions like this?  These she hated down to her core.

Three steps took her up to the front porch of the sprawling ranch house.   The door, though locked, swung open at her touch.

Overturned furniture, scattered books, and shattered glass greeted her; a sharp contrast to the pristine exterior of this house.  Göll’s frown deepened at the scent that assaulted her nose.  Blood and urine, both fresh.

Before Göll could step through the door, a young woman emerged from the shadows inside.  She said nothing, merely looked at Göll, her expression haughty.

With a sigh, Göll stepped aside.  No sense berating that one for what had happened here.  Even the lesser Norns, those who followed each person, dictating their fate, were far beyond her power to influence, far beyond even the Allfather’s.

The Norn emerged from the house, and was gone.  Göll entered.  She heard movement in the back of the house, then running water.  A low, masculine voice was swearing.  While Göll could speak all languages, the man’s words held no interest for her.  Her duty lay elsewhere.

The man’s voice was coming from her right.  Göll turned left.  A short hallway led her to a bedroom.  As in the front of the house, overturned furniture and other wreckage filled this  room.  Göll carefully stepped over the debris, leaving it undisturbed until she came to the small body.  A young boy, his head turned at an unnatural angle.  Not even eight years old.  Yet, in his right hand he held a small craft knife, blade stained with blood.

A weapon in hand.  A death in combat.  That made the lad Göll’s business.

Slowly, carefully, Göll dropped to one knee.  She bent and touched the boy’s still-warm cheek.  His eyes opened, his head twisted as his neck straightened and bones popped back into place.

The boy scooted away from Göll, his eyes wide in terror.  Göll remained still, schooling her face to be soothing and calm.  Even adults in this day, in this land, often greeted her appearance with fear.

“How are you called, Boy?” Göll reached out with her power.  Meant to calm those killed on the battlefield, warriors who would wake still in a battle-frenzy, her power also served to soothe wild-eyed fear.

“Kamil,” the boy said. “My name is Kamil.”

“There is no need for fear.  I am not here to harm you.  You are beyond harm.”

Kamil looked at the floor that lay between the two of them.  His eyes widened as he spotted the shell, his former shell, which remained twisted in death.  Göll saw understanding pass across his face.

“Are you…are you an angel?”

The question brought a smile to Göll’s face. “Not as you think of it.  I am merely a…well, a ‘Chooser of the Slain’.”

She shook her head.  The truth was, despite what the tales might say, she did not choose who died.  Not even the Allfather chose.  Only the Norns chose who lived and who died.  Göll merely carried the fallen to their fate.

Kamil shuddered.  After a moment, he stood and bowed his head. “I am ready, then, Chooser.”

A chuckle escaped Göll’s lips.  She stood and held out a hand. “Not so formal, young one.  But come.  We have far to go.”

The boy took her outstretched hand and she led him back through the house.

Rights and Government, Take Two.

When I wrote about how Rights have to exist independently of any particular government in order to exist at all, I thought that with only a little explanation it would be obvious.  That the “government grants rights” concept was something that people believe mainly because they just haven’t thought through the consequences of that position.  And yet, there was this person:


Seriously, how can a person seriously hold such a position?  How can a person be such a sheep as to believe that they only have a right to life if the government grants it to them?

If the only rights you have are those granted by government than no government can ever be said to violate “human rights.” The rights, after all, are what the government says they are, neither more nor less.  The UN Human Rights Council is meaningless. (Well, I agree it is, but not because rights are only what governments say they are, but because of the UN’s penchant for putting representatives there whose positions are anathema to the very idea of human rights.) All the “sanctions” against various nations for violating human rights?  In error because how can a government that gets to decide what rights one does or does not have possibly violate rights.  If it kills you, has it not simply decided you don’t have a right to life?  If it imprisons you, has it not simply decided you do not have a right to liberty?  If it impoverishes you, has it not simply decided you do not have a right to property?  And so on.

I would like to think that the person with the obscured name was engaging in satire or sarcasm but the wording of the comment suggests otherwise.  This person apparently truly believes that the right to life–the most fundamental of all rights as one cannot hold any other right from the grave–is only yours if government permits it to you.

“We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men [in the vernacular of the time, this structure was general–all persons male, female, or the occasional other] are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these rights are life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness, that to secure these rights governments are instituted among men deriving their just power from the consent of the governed.”

How remarkably naive that seems in the light of Obscured Name’s comment.  What should be self-evident is not so very evident at all.

With positions like that Obscured Name up there is sowing the wind.  Let us pray that we do not reap the whirlwind.

A snippet.

For the first time since the elves had come to Caves of Steel, Elara felt content.  She had stripped down to a light tunic, leaving arms and legs bare. A heavy leather apron protected her body from sparks.  Scars on her arms bore mute testimony to many burns from previous forgings.

She reheated the steel in the forge then drew it and began hammering.  Folding, reshaping, she watched as its form shifted. The anguish of the steel’s voice softened, replaced with echoes of relief.  A ladle. The steel wanted very much to be a ladle.

Elara did not know how much time passed before a hand touched her shoulder.

“Highness?  It is time to dress.” Oridan stood at her side.

“But…” Elara blinked sweat away from her eyes.  She found a rag and wiped it over her face.

“It is time and past time.” Oridan held a hand out toward the door of the smithy. “You must dress for the reception.”

Oridan scowled and shook his head. “And before that, you must bathe.  You cannot greet our guests covered in soot and the smell of ash.”

“Fire and ash is a clean smell,” Elara said, “an honest smell.”

Oridan shrugged. “As you wish, Highness.  It is, nevertheless, an inappropriate smell for nobles and dignitaries of those with whom we hope to ally.”

Elara sighed and picked the half-formed ladle up with tongs.  She dunked it into the quenching trough. Steam rose from the water.  After the water stopped bubbling she continued to hold the ladle in the water to cool it enough to touch.  Once she was satisfied that it had cooled enough she withdrew it and took it into her hand. She hung the tongs on their hook by the forge.

Oridan glanced down at the partially-finished ladle in Elara’s hand. “You don’t need to…”

“It is mine,” Elara said. “I will not have the steel-deaf smith trying to turn it into something for which the steel is unsuited.  If I cannot be happy myself, I can at least make the steel happy.”

Oridan sighed. “As you wish, Highness.” He held out a hand. “This way.”

“I know the way to my rooms, Oridan.”


Elara shook her head and pushed past him.  Oridan fell in at her side. As she left the smithy the two guards, who had at least had the courtesy to wait outside while she worked, joined them.

Guards, Elara thought, to protect her.  They served as well to keep her imprisoned in this place.

“Prince Farian of Lariendel will be first at the reception tonight.  He is the second son of King Torien.”

Elara started.  She had not noted Oridan talking.

“Prince Farian,” Elara said. “Lariendel.  And they are?”

“They are seafarers.  Their ships are the swiftest on the Easterern Sea.  They deal in fish and fish oils. They also make pearl jewelry of surpassing loveliness.”

Elara nodded.

“After Prince Farian, you will greet Lord Emborian, of the Dragon Isles.  He is the third son of Reigning Duke Valles.”

“Another seafaring nation?” Elara tried to keep the sneer from her voice.

“Of necessity.  They are an island nation.  Mostly, they mine gems on the flanks of their islands.  They are not skilled jewelers, so they sell the gems to others for crafting.”

“Colored stones.” Elara rolled her eyes. “Third son.  Second son. This is who they send to the Greenwood’s court?”

Oridan shrugged. “They are unlikely to inherit their father’s lands, but marriage with one will cement an alliance which can strengthen us in our wars with the orcs.”

Elara pressed her lips together to forestall the words that sprang to her lips.  After a moment, she felt safe to speak. “Continue.”

Oridan droned on, naming the various guests to the reception.

“Finally, there is Corden.” Oridan stopped at the door to Elara’s suite of rooms. “First son of Boredan, Lord of Thorgrim’s Reach.  It is a small land south of here.”

The disgust in Oridan’s tone caused Elara to pause and look up at him.

“You do not like this Corden?”

“Thorgrim’s Reach has refused our offers of protection against the orcs.  They prefer to remain, as they call it, neutral.”

“They don’t want to be involved in our wars?  Perhaps that is wise of them.”

“You cannot trust orcs,” Oridan said. “They will pretend to honor any treaties or any professions of neutrality, and then strike when it suits them.  Thorgrim’s Reach may be a small land but it’s rich, with fertile fields and productive mines of ore. Once the orcs take it they will be that much stronger.”

“I see, Regent.  Thank you. I must now prepare.  You will send an escort to the reception at the appropriate time?”

Oridan bowed. “As my queen commands.”

Elara nodded, then backed through the door.  Once the door closed on Oridan and the two guards she sighed.

“Your queen?  Your prisoner, you mean.”


Elara turned to see elf maid, Tanya, who posed as her chief servant standing, wringing her hands.  Elara forced a smile.

“Forgive me my…frustrations.”

Tanya curtsied. “There is nothing to forgive, Highness.  How may I serve you?”

Elara sighed again. “I must prepare for this reception so…”

“A bath has been drawn.  If Your Highness will come this way?”

Elara smiled. “Of course, Tanya.”

Elara followed Tanya deeper into the suite.  As they passed through the bedroom Elara paused a moment to caress the hilt of the orc sword racked across the headboard of her bed.  She had forged that sword, her first, and gifted it to Buck Tooth in token of her devotion.

Elara fought back the tears.  Buck Tooth was dead, as were all the other orcs of Caves of Steel Clan.  This sword was all she could carry away, all the elves had let her carry away.

Tanya stood watching Elara.  When her eyes met Elara’s she bowed her head.

“Highness?  Are you well?”

“It is nothing, Tanya.  Please, lead on.”

Tanya bowed and opened the door to the bathing room.  Two other maids emerged from the room and approached Elara.

Standing compliant, her face schooled to expressionlessness, Elara allowed Tanya and the two other maids to undress her.  She frowned as one of the maids, a new one she had not seen before, tut tutted over Elara’s waist. Although Elara did not have the stoutness of a hard working, and therefore well-fed orc, these elves seemed to prefer reed thinness.  The other maid, Berani by name, wore her habitual scowl as she considered the thick cords of muscle that roped Elara’s arms and shoulders, the result of long hours over the forge in addition to drilling with orc weapons.

Only Tanya seemed unmoved by Elara’s failure to meet elf standards of beauty.

Steaming hot water filled the bathing pool.  Elara entered and sat on the carved marble bench.  Her maids once more converged on her. They washed body her with perfumed soap that stung in the fresh burns that sparks from the forge had left on her arms.  More perfumed soaps and fragrant oils anointed her hair.

As last, Elara emerged from the bath and the maids dried her with soft towels.

Not content with simply bathing her, Elara’s maids began the process of dressing her for the reception.  She gasped as Berani placed a wide strip of heavy cloth around Elara’s waist and began cinching up the laces.

“I can’t breathe,” Elara ground out through clenched teeth.

“If you can speak, you can breathe,” Berani said. “Many people of import will be present.  You must be presentable.”

“I…can’t…breathe.” Elara reached for the laces but Berani smacked her hand away.

“Now, now, Highness.  Propriety must be observed.” Berani gave the laces one final tug, then deftly tied them off.

With the tugging finished, Elara found that she could indeed breathe, albeit only shallowly from the very top of her chest.

Tanya held a long, split skirt for her of rich green fabric.  At least Elara would be able to walk in that and the elves did not appear to mind how much of her leg and thigh showed when she walked thus.

The new maid held a tunic of slightly lighter green, one with puffed sleeves, perhaps designed to disguise the shape of Elara’s arms and shoulders.  Elaborate embroidery of gold thread, highlighted with tiny multi-colored gemstones decorated both skirt and tunic. So attired, no one would doubt that she was a person of wealth and importance.

Elara allowed first Tanya, then the new maid to help her into her clothes.

As the new maid adjusted the hem of Elara’s tunic, Elara looked down at her.

“Your name?”

“Shirabeth, if you please, Your Highness.”

“I suppose that is your name whether I please or not.” Elara gritted her teeth then nodded once. “Thank you.”

As Berani started to approach with the next part of Elara’s attire, Elara held up a hand to forestall her.  She looked Shirabeth up and down.

“Shirabeth?  That is not an elvish name.  And there is something different about you.”

“My mother was human.” Shirabeth ducked her head, as though in shame. “As a half, I was able to choose which heritage to follow.  I chose elf but my father’s kin would have naught to do with me. So…”

“A lady in waiting to the queen is a position of high honor,” Tanya said by way of explanation. “Even without the support of family, she should be able to make a good marriage in time.”

“I see.” Elara shook her head.  The ways of elves were so strange.  It was like they were all wrapped about in chains, chains they could not see, chains they did not even know bound them.  She let the thought slide from her mind as Tanya made final adjustments to the fall of Elara’s tunic.

Once the skirt and tunic settled over Elara’s frame to suit her three maids, Berani produced a long silk scarf of brilliant scarlet and began to wind it around Elara’s waist.  This, at least, Berani did not pull tightly, not like the torture device Elara wore under the tunic. Berani knotted the scarf over Elara’s left hip allowing the two ends to hang down over the slit in the skirt.

While Berani worked on the scarf, Shirabeth took a brush to Elara’s hair.  Elara had kept her hair short in the caves. Long hair could be a hazard working with steel.  She had not been among the elves long enough for her hair to grow much. Shirabeth sighed in frustration as Elara’s hair refused to conform to her dictates, forming instead a halo around Elara’s head.

“Let it be, Shirabeth.” Tanya approached holding something in her hands that Elara could not see.

“But–” Shirabeth gave the brush one more tug in Elara’s hair. “–the fashion is…”

Tanya laughed. “She is the queen.  If she wears her hair in a cloud about her head, then that will be the fashion.  Do not doubt it.”

Elara gritted her teeth.  Fashion? Strong arms and a spirit willing to work, that was what mattered, not this colored drapery.

Tanya knelt at Elara’s feet and slipped the object in her hand into the silk sash about Elara’s waist.

“This, too, is not fashion,” Tanya said. “But it suits you in its way.”

Elara looked down at what Tanya had given her.  A dagger, a little one scarce more than a toy. Silver sheath, hilts and grip encrusted with tiny gems that sparkled in all the colors of the rainbow.  Elara took the grip in hand and slowly drew forth the blade.

Steel.  Good steel.  More, steel that was happy to be a blade.  Elara did not know if mere chance produced that result or if someone among the elves could hear the voice of the steel.  She did not think so. The Shaman had told her, many times, that steel was the gift of orcs and of dwarfs. Magic was given to elves.  And to humans were given numbers; they were so very many.

“Thank you,” Elara said, then caught herself before more words could tumble unbidden from her lips.  These three were the enemy. They were elves, the people who had destroyed her home and family. They would die, along with all the others…

…when the time was right.

On This Date: The Fall of the Berlin Wall.


Thirty years ago today, the Berlin Wall finally came down heralding the then approaching reunification of Germany.

In the final days of World War 2, Soviet troops had swept through eastern Germany before meeting eastward marching forces of the other allied powers leading to the final defeat of Germany.  Italy had already fallen in 1943.  Japan would continue a few months longer, finally surrendering in September of 1945.

Prior to the final defeat of Germany, in the Yalta conference, the major allied powers agreed to divide up the responsibility for occupying Germany into various sectors, each allied power having responsibility for a sector (or two, smaller sectors, in the case of France).  The Soviet occupation zone would eventually become East Germany, with the others becoming West Germany.

Post war, the Soviet occupied areas of Europe cut off most contact with the West, closing their borders and sharply restricting visitation, immigration, emigration, and trade.  this closing was described as an “iron curtain” across the border between Soviet occupied Europe and the West.

Berlin, the capital of Germany, lay deep within the Soviet occupation area.  It, too, was divided, with railways and air travel providing access to the Western zones of the city.  In 1948, in an effort to drive the Western occupation out of West Berlin, the Soviet Union blockaded the city and closed off the railways.  All that was left was air for resupply.  This lead to the famous Berlin Airlift, a prodigious logistic effort bringing necessary supplies into the city.  In the end the Airlift was successful and the Soviets called off the blockade in 1949.

In the late 50’s and into the beginning of the 60’s the stream of refugees fleeing Soviet occupied Germany to the West through West Berlin reached epic proportions, with In June of 1961 some 19,000 people fled East Germany though Berlin.  In July, that number was 30,000.  In the first 11 days of August 16,000 people fled.  And on August 12 alone 2400 people crossed from East to West Berlin never to return.  All told, more than three million people fled East Germany, many of them skilled professionals such as doctors, teachers, and engineers.

This flow of emigrants, particularly among the educated and skilled portion of the populace, was unacceptable to Soviet Leadership.  Soviet Premier Nikita Kruschev instructed the East German government (nominally an independent nation, but truthfully under the control of the Soviet Union) to close off the border for good.  They hastily set up a barbed wire and concrete block wall to close off East Berlin from the West.

Before the wall was built, travel between the two sections of the city was relatively free.  People might reside in one and be citizens of East or West Germany but they could shop or work in the other.

The wall ended that.  Once it went up, commerce between East and West Berlin almost completely halted.  Crossing of the border between the two only occurred in special circumstances.

And thus things continued for nearly three decades.  John F. Kennedy made his famous “I am a Berliner” speech but, in the end, proved to be impotent in forcing any change.

People still sought to flee from the deteriorating conditions in East Germany to the West, but now that flight was wrought with hazard.  Some few made it–about 5000 from 1961 until the wall fell in 1989.  Some died–at least 171 killed in the attempt.  But many more were deterred by the hazards presented by the wall and its guards as witness that more than three times as many people who left East Germany in those first 11 days of August 1961 as in the entire 27 years of the wall’s existence.

In time, the struggle of the Soviet Union to compete with Western economies with their freer trade and the greater responsiveness to consumer demand, led the new Premier of the Soviet Union to institute Perestroika (“change”) and Glasnost (“openness”).  Attempted to shore up the Soviet Union’s socialism, these programs, instead provided its death knell.  The process of rolling back socialism could not, in the end, be stopped and led first to the various satellite nations shaking off Soviet control and finally in the dissolution of the Soviet Union itself.

One of the results of that breakup was East Germany divesting itself of ties to the Soviet Union–faced with more internal problems than dealing with a recalcitrant former satellite–and tying itself more closely with its sundered brother, West Germany.  And this led, in the end, to the tearing down of the Berlin Wall on November 9, 1989.  The reunification of East and West Germany into a single state of Germany followed soon after.

A whole generation and more has grown up since the fall of the Berlin Wall.  Many of this younger generation has seemingly forgotten, or never learned, of the horrors that drove people to flee the socialist state of East Germany in such numbers as to drive their political masters to build a wall to keep the people in.  The guns guarding that wall were not pointed out to defend against invaders, but in, to defend against escape–a prison rather than a fortress.

And this younger generation seems bent on creating here, in the United States, not the wall itself but the conditions that led to its construction, with guns pointing in to keep people from escaping.  They can tell themselves that this time they’ll “do socialism right” but that is no more than hubris, pure and simple.  Because in the end The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return.

“Never let a man stir on his road a step…” A Blast from the Past

…without his weapons of war
for unsure is the knowing when need shall arise
of a spear on the way without.


Thus said Odin to all who would heed.  The world is a dangerous place, full of predators, and while most no longer need fear those that walk on four legs, in there place we have many who walk on two.

Even the so called Prince of Peace said:

Then said he unto them, But now, he that hath a purse, let him take it, and likewise his scrip: and he that hath no sword, let him sell his garment, and buy one. (Luke 22:36)

(Yes, other translations say “cloak” but I like the King James Version and the implication that it is better to be naked than unarmed.)

The truth is, it is a dangerous world, full of predators both two legged and four.  While most people don’t consider wolves and bears and such a major threat in the modern world, I can note that I have seen coyotes in Indianapolis.  These are not generally a threat to adults, but can be to pets and small children.  In similar vein there are plenty of stray (“feral”) dogs which, while usually more timid than aggressive can still sometimes prove a threat.

There have also been both unconfirmed and a few confirmed (game cameras catching them) sightings of cougars in Indiana.  The Department of Natural Resources states that these are generally transient males “just passing through”.  There are no breeding populations in the State.


But while the risk of four-footed predators is small for most people.  The risk of those on two feet is a different matter entirely.

Generally speaking violent crime rates are down.  This is a good thing.  But “down” is not the same as “no longer an issue”.

According to crime statistics reported by the FBI for 2016, there is approximately one violent crime (Aggravated Assault, Robbery, Rape, Murder) per every 300 people in the US.  In other words an individual’s chances of being the victim of one of these crimes is, on average about 0.3% for the year.

Sounds pretty safe, doesn’t it?

However, when you consider that over a lifetime, the impression changes.  The lifetime likelihood of being a victim of a an attempted or completed violent crime, according to a Department of Justice study, was 83%.  In about half of those cases the attempted crime would actually be completed.

I should note that things are better than this study reports:  The annual crime rates are down from those used in the lifetime likelihood of victimization study.  A quick run of the numbers suggests that the probabilities are about half what they were when the study was done.  That means that one is only, assuming current rates continue, 41% likely to be the victim of an attempted or completed violent crime.


You have to ask yourself:  are you willing to bet your life and safety on 40%?  If you are, well, it’s your life and your call to make, I suppose.  I’m not.  Because, when it happens, there’s just me.  The police?  If the police were there, most likely the violent criminal would not engage in his violent crime, choosing instead another place and time.  And until the police do arrive, there is just me.  Even the police admit that:

(Show them the phone?  Really?)

40% sometime in my life?  The odds of something happening today are minuscule.  The odds of something tomorrow, or any other given day, similarly so.  But add those days together and the odds start creeping up.  And I don’t know which, if any, of them will be “the one”.  After all, if I did, I’d simply avoid the situation of that day.

Those of us who do not go out looking for trouble do not know when it might find us on its own.  And so, as Odin would no doubt say in the modern world:

Never let a man stir on his road a step
without his weapons of self defense
for unsure is the knowing when need shall arise
of a gun on the way without.

Feeding the Active Writer: Low Carb Cream of Chicken Soup

Most soups use entirely too much starchy stuff for my taste–noodles, rice, potatoes, what have you.  I’ve done some variations, sometimes using Xantham gum rather than cornstarch of flour as a thickener.  This one worked well.


  • 1 lb cooked chicken, diced
  • 2 quarts chicken broth
  • 5 cups water
  • 2 cups mozzarella Cheese, shredded
  • 2 cups heavy cream
  • 2 tbsp xantham gum
  • 2 tbsp garlic powder
  • 2 tbsp ground black pepper
  • 2 tbsp dried parsley flakes
  • 1 tbsp thyme
  • salt to taste

Add all the ingredients into a 5 quart slow cooker.  I like to put the chicken in first, then sprinkle the xantham gum over it, then follow with the other ingredients.  This helps keep the xantham gum from clumping.  All of the seasoning amounts are approximate and basically “to taste”.

Cook on low for 4-6 hours.  Stir.

Makes 15 cups.

One cup has:

  • 14.5 grams fat
  • 1.5 grams net carbs
  • 10.5 grams protein

I use 3 cups as a very hearty lunch.  It keeps reasonably well in the refrigerator and keeps well.  I haven’t tried freezing, but I suspect it wouln’t present any problems there either.