Tree Climbing!

Note to self: Always choose to write books that involve fun research. Like going to Scotland. Or dating rock stars. Or climbing trees.

Okay, Cranky Rah has never actually dated a rock star, but two out of three ain't bad. I had a lovely morning out in a local park with Ruby Hazelnut, one-third of The Three and my best rock climbing buddies. And the Poet-Accountant, who preserved the moment in pictures.

The beautiful red oak we climbed.

The lovely ropes and knots that keep us safe.

Hooking on the foot ascender, because climbing
with only your arms is hard.

Ruby Hazelnut gets ready to climb.

Ruby Hazelnut doing some branch walking.

Cranky Rah and one-third of The Three hanging out.
The fabulous S served as one of my beta readers for the book involving tree climbing,
and when I came down from my first climb I said, "I'm going to have to totally rewrite that chapter."
S's response? "Yeah, you are."
This is why we research. And have beta readers who will tell you the truth.

Cranky Rah, looking not so cranky. Because, hey, rewrites are fun. (And no, I'm not lying. I love to edit.)

About 50 feet up. Do I have to come down?
Can't someone just send up some tea and shortbread?

Swedish Authorities Say, "Don't Try This At Home"

Still adorable and oh-so tasty.

The last time I blogged about the weird places research leads us, it was to the edible dormouse, a creature of big-eyed cuteness and, to the Romans, supreme tastiness. Today, it takes us to trying to split an atom at home.

Cranky Rah was not trying to split an atom at home. Cranky Rah was simply learning about how neutrons split apart from protons so she could work it into a metaphor about twins (which sounds weirder than it comes off in the book, I promise). Anyway, what I ran into was this article about this pretty crazy Swedish guy who collected a bunch of radium, americium and uranium and tried to cook them up in sulphuric acid on his stove top as a kind of mini nuclear reactor. Because he was, you know, curious.

What kills me is how he'd been working on this (and blogging about it) for some time before it occurred to him that it might be illegal. He politely contacted the Swedish Radiation Safety Authority and they, needless to say, responded in person.

Friends don't let friends go to
dinner dressed like this.

Now, seriously, don't do this. And in case you have a burning desire to try it (probably because someone just told you not to), this post from Live Science will hopefully convince you that

1. It's pretty hard for normal people, and even evil despots, to get the materials one needs to split an atom in one's kitchen, and
2. That even if you were able to get your hands on the appropriate radioactive elements and even if you were able to cook up some uranium 235 next to your Keurig, you wouldn't be around to see the atoms splitting because you would be deader than an edible dormouse at a Roman feast. And probably about as crunchy.

All this talk about radium reminds me of the fabulous song Marie Curie by the Deedle Deedle Dees. And if that's not enough quirky historical wonderfulness set to music for you, listen to their song about Abigail Adams. 

Words Rah Loves: Edible Dormouse

I wanted to start this blog post with the quote You never know what events are going to transpire to get you home. I know it by Jim Lovell, commander of Apollo 13 (I've mentioned my obsession with the Space Race, right?). It turns out it was also said by some dude named Og Mandino, author of The Greatest Salesman in the World.

I've never heard of Og, though The Greatest Salesman has sold 50 million copies and been translated into 25 languages. I don't know if Og stole the line from Lovell or vice versa or if they both borrowed it from a third party, but the actor Matt McConaughey has said The Greatest Salesman is the reason he became an actor, so I'm not going to be too harsh on old Og.

(The name Og, in case you were wondering, wasn't given to him in honor of his great caveman ancestors; it's short for Augustine.)

So you really never know where research might take you. Like to the edible dormouse.

I've been doing a lot of research that takes me into the realm of botany and zoology. There's a type of animal dormancy called torpor, kind of a hibernation-lite. Hummingbirds, for instance, go into torpor on cold nights to preserve energy. Their body temperature plummets, and their heart rate can drop from 1,500 beats per minute to 50 beats per minute.

It was in Discover Wildlife's article How to Tell Torpor from Hibernation that I read this:

Common dormice hibernate at ground level in woven nests partly covered by leaf litter or moss or in hollow trees. Edible dormice have been recorded under tree roots and beneath floorboards in outbuildings.

Edible what?

Everyone knows the Dormouse from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland—who, incidentally, keeps falling asleep during the tea party. I had no idea there were multiple kinds of dormice, much less some poor thing called edible.

So here's the deal on the edible dormouse:

Aren't I so cute?
Oh, wait! Is that a Roman?!

The largest of all dormice (five to seven inches long), the edible dormouse is also known as the fat dormouse and, less harshly, as the squirrel-tailed dormouse. Though it's a terrible threat to the woodlands and orchards of England, it is a native of western Europe, which is where the Romans got a hold of it and gave it its gastronomic name.

How'd I lose my nose? Well, I love a
crunchy little dormouse, I do, but
they're viscous.

The Romans used to catch these furry little rodents in the fall when they were fat. They kept them in pits and fed them chestnuts, acorns and walnuts, and then when it was time to roast them up, the Romans would stuff them with pork and pine nuts or glaze them with honey. Apparently, whole roasted dormice made a tasty snack.The Etruscans agreed.

You might think the edible dormouse is pretty happy, now that those pesky Romans are all gone and they have free rein in the UK, but, alas. They are still hunted and eaten in Slovenia, and it was there that the British celebrity chef Heston Blumenthal got the dormice for his 2009 Christmas feast. Chef Bluementhal called his dormouse on a stick, dipped in white chocolate, a "dormouse lollipop," and it was not a hit. Even Bluementhal admitted, "It went down a bit like a lead balloon," which is a lovely double entendre.

What does this have to do with etymology? Not a thing. I just love the phrase edible dormouse.