#rouelle

[francepittoresque]

IL Y A 255 ANS | Mort du chimiste Guillaume-François Rouelle ➽ http://bit.ly/Guillaume-Rouelle Le 3 août 1770, la voix de la chimie française cesse de résonner. Pionnier infatigable, volcanique et visionnaire ayant débuté dans la forge d’un chaudronnier avant d’enflammer les amphithéâtres parisiens, Rouelle, enseignant incandescent et esprit fulgurant, réinventa la chimie à grands jets de sels, de flammes et d’enthousiasme, dompta la matière, et forma une légion de savants

[barumonster]

Straight Arrow

(An intro to Hunter General Rouelle De Luca.) It’s late in the day, the sun lingers just above the surrounding tree line but the air is still hot and moist. A bead of sweat slides down her temple from the tangled curls of her hairline, right into the dip of flesh on her cheek where her hand presses into her too warm skin. Behind her, metal cracks sharp against wood, a splintered sound, but not quite splitting. Rouelle’s arm gently starts to quake, but she holds the bowstring taut long enough to lick the salty taste off her upper lip, gray eyes trained on the target. She inhales. And releases. The arrow flies through the air almost too fast to track and with a thock it lands centered. The tension in her arms relaxes and she lowers her bow, exhaling the remaining breath she held. Her lips purse, fingers tightening on the grip at her side. Another crack of wood and two halves split into their individual piles. “You’re taking too long to aim. You’ll never get faster if you don’t trust your instincts.” Her mother’s voice is thick like the humidity, the kind of smoke that comes from years of damage; The raised scars across her neck speak of it.

Rouelle turns to watch the woman pick up another log and set it on the leveled stump. Her hair is pale like straw and laced with gray, thick curls cut short to frame her face, trimmed down at the nape of her neck. Her skin is warm and dark, her eyes hazel, creased at the corners. An old Hunter, but not really that old. People tell Rouelle she looks like her mother, except she has her father’s eyes and the stars of his skin. Her mother wipes her brow with the back of her bare arm, pocked and striped in violent history, then readies her axe. She never looks up at the girl. “Just pull, knock, release.” Rouelle nods and her mother swings the axe; this one splits the firewood in one heavy strike. “Okay.” She turns back towards the coiled hemp target some 30 feet ahead of her and takes another deep breath, eyes trained on the center of the spiral where three arrows already crowd the space. Another moment goes by, fingers twitching next to the quiver at her hip. She pulls an arrow and as quickly as she can, knocks it, aims, and releases.

It lands somewhere between two others. Rouelle pauses for a moment, focusing on the cluster of arrows, waiting. “Better,” she hears, and although it isn’t warm, it’s approving. The corner of her lips pull in satisfaction. With a surge of confidence, she repeats. Once, twice, three times, before pausing to retrieve the arrows. As she returns to her marked position, quiver full again, the sound of hooves on soil brings her pause. She twists her body to look towards the path that leads through the thick forest to their little cabin. Resting beyond the outskirts of town, it isn’t often they get visitors, but she recognizes the black and gold of the Enforcer uniform as soon as the sun hits it. Her mother straightens to full height, which isn’t much taller than she is, and wipes her brow again as she rests the head of the axe on the ground, leaning weight on it. Rouelle thinks she recognizes this Enforcer from town, a splash of purple across his chest peeking out from under the black and gold. She turns back to her target and pulls an arrow. The Enforcer slows to a stop a few feet from her mother, idling his horse a step back. Before he can even open his mouth in greeting, her mother speaks up. “Is he in trouble, or dead?” she asks.

  Rouelle releases the arrow; it’s off center. “I’m sorry, Mila.” He has a deep voice and she’s sure she knows it. A friend of her parents? She hasn’t met many. Rouelle drops her arms, bow at her side, and turns around to watch the Enforcer hike down off of his horse, gathering the reins in one gloved hand. Suddenly her heart is pounding; she looks between the man and her mother, back and forth for an agonizing minute of silence before her mother, jaw clenched, gives her direction. “Rou, go inside.” But she stands there for a minute longer, fingers tightening around the leather grip. “Go on,” Mila insists.

She takes a deep breath and turns towards the cabin obediently. The two adults wait until the door pulls shut heavily before they resume the conversation. Inside, it’s even warmer. A fire crackles underneath a pot of broth and the shut door traps the humidity in with her. Rouelle stands on the other side, breathing deep, listening to the quiet. They’re talking low and calm, and she scarcely makes out their voices at all. After a while, she gives up. She returns her bow to the weapon rack, right next to her father’s longbow. The backup, he calls it. He prefers them short. She runs her fingers along the wood curve and wonders when she’ll be big enough to use it. It’s taller than she is. After a while, she sits at the dining table and waits, picking at the old, splintered wood with her fingernails. It feels like ages before the door pushes open, scraping against the stone floor, swollen with the moisture of summer air. Her mother enters the cabin carrying a splash of purple in her hands; Rouelle recognizes the Hunter sash immediately. She doesn’t move, only watches Mila step slowly to the table and set down the cloth with more weight than expected. Something is wrapped up in it, but Mila doesn’t unfold the cloth. She stands there, reaching out to rest her hands on the table, eyes boring into the sash as if it might move, or perhaps do them the courtesy of meaning something else. Rouelle can’t stand it anymore. “He’s dead, isn’t he.” Her mother’s voice is hoarse with control when she answers. “Yes.” Suddenly her heart is racing again, pounding in her little chest. She clenches her fists atop the table, pursing her lips, twisting them up as she tries to swallow down the desire to cry or scream or maybe both. “What was it?” She tries to sound calm, like her mother. Cool and collected and ever untouched. But that cool exterior burns to ash when Mila responds. “It’s not important.” The old hunter pushes away from the table and leaves her there with the sash covered items to cross the room, tending to her pot above the fire. She stirs the soup with a heavy ladle and silence fills the room again. Rouelle stares down at the purple cloth, a little dirty, but the color still bright and the pattern recognizable. She reaches out and pulls on it, loosening the wrap, tossing aside the top layer to see what was within. Just a ring, a bracelet made of little glass beads, and some coin. That’s it. That’s all that was left to return. There are no blood stains on the fabric, just dirt and old haphazard stitches where he let her sew a tear for him. Rouelle crumples it up in her hand, items and all. Outrage bubbles up inside of her, twisting her face, making her hands shake. She stands up from the table, the chair skidding on the stone. “What killed him?!” Mila pulls the ladle out of the soup and sets it down on the mantle with a snap. It makes Rouelle jump slightly when the woman wheels around and looks at her, eyes narrowed and mouth set with disappointment. Rouelle swallows her nerves and demands an answer. “What killed him!” Mila moves fast to the table and lands her hands on it heavily, leaning towards Rouelle on the other side. Rouelle leans back where she stands, breathing fast and shallow and angry, but her mother is like a panther growling low in warning. “I’m not telling you that because the last thing a hunter needs is a grudge.” There’s a thick pause in the air, Rouelle’s tightened mouth laxing into a frown under her mother’s hard gaze. “And we both know that’s where you’re headed.” Her eyes start to sting, so she looks away from her mother’s stern face and back down at the cloth bundled in her hand. “What if I fail?” “You won’t.” Mila’s voice is firm and quick. Rouelle doesn’t see her shake her head, or swirl her gaze around the room as if the words would come out of the wooden boards for her. “There isn’t a drop of magic in your blood, there’s no reason for that to happen,” is the best she can come up with. Rouelle has been training since she was six years old. Her mother was right. There was no reason for her to fail the initiation and no reason she would not become a hunter. With only a year remaining, she expected her father to be there. For him to see her off that day. One final day. Her vision gets blurry and her voice cracks around the knots in her throat.  “Is he really dead…?” Mila’s gaze softens, although her daughter can’t see it. Brows furrow, the line of her mouth deep when she frowns. Moving around the table, warm hands find her and Rouelle leans into her mother’s embrace, the hunter sash clutched in her hand between them as she lets out a soft sob. A hand pets the curls of her tied hair, brushing back escaped strands, and the smoke of Mila’s voice is warm and comforting, finally. 

“I’m sorry, Rouelle.” A year passes. The day is fresh, dew on the grass grabbing at her leather boots as she paces back to the saddled horse. She’s fluttering with nervous energy, checking what she packed thrice over and tightening the ties on her satchels. Her bow is packed, the quiver full. A cheap dagger sits hooked in her belt, just in case. The sun has barely risen, is it too early to leave? Her mother watches from the bench outside the front door, a small smile in the lines of her face. In and out of the cabin Rouelle goes, checking one more time for the minimal amount she had to take with her. A few clothing items, a good pair of boots, a sewing kit, oil for her hair, bowstring, some coin, and her weapons. It wasn’t much, but a lifetime would one day prove it was all she really needed from one place to the next. Rouelle stops beside her horse, patting the mare’s neck gently and smoothing the fur. Her heart is racing, but it’s a good feeling, the kind you get when you land a good kill on a hunt. Soon, she’d be training to hunt more than deer or rabbits. There’s a smile on her face that she can’t push off and even though she’s a couple of hours from town, she’s ready. “You won’t need her once you begin your training. Sell her for some extra coin once you’ve passed your initiation.” Her mother approaches from the other side of the mare, reaching out to hook fingers on the bridle. “The tack will fetch you a bit extra too.” “Alright.” Rouelle peeks around the horse at her mother. Neither of them can really see around her, so Mila dips underneath the mare’s neck and joins Rouelle on the other side. She looks her over again and smiles with pride. After they exchange a long look, her mother nods firmly. “You should head out. Better you’re early than late. You never know what might happen on the road.” Rouelle nods, looking up at the saddle, then takes a deep breath and hauls herself up onto the horse. She gathers the reins in her hands and looks out beyond the path that leads down the road. She knows it well, they’ve been up and down this way many times before, but this is the first time she’ll visit the Enforcers. Her stomach is in knots. She glances down at her mother again, who lets go of the bridle and steps back. “Before you go.” Mila moves around the horse again, leaving Rouelle on the front lawn as she dips into the cabin and disappears for a few moments. The mare idles, and Rouelle mentally goes over her checklist one more time before her mother emerges from inside. She’s carrying her father’s longbow and a piece of bright purple cloth. Mila reaches her daughter's side again and begins latching the bow to the saddle bag, Rouelle’s face scrunching in question. “You’ll grow into it.” But she never really does. When the bow is secured, she offers the cloth to her. Rouelle releases the reins to take it, unfolding it in her hands. It’s not her father’s, but her mother’s old hunter sash. “That too,” Mila says quietly. Rouelle smiles, stuffing the sash into the top of her boot. “Thank you.” Mila nods, smiling tight, knowing it's the end. “Be good, little star. Keep your arrows straight.” Rouelle’s chest swells with the deep breath she takes, smiling brighter, nodding. Her father’s words, her mother’s voice. Her mother smacks the butt of the mare and urges her off, taking a step back. Rouelle only glances back once before the trees swallow up the cabin, but Mila is still standing there in the dewy grass, stern enough to make the moon rise at dawn.

[francepittoresque]

3 août 1770 : mort du chimiste Guillaume-François Rouelle ➽ http://bit.ly/Guillaume-Rouelle Doué d’une mémoire heureuse, d’une grande facilité à concevoir les choses et d’une sorte de soif d’instruction, il fit de brillantes études à Caen. Dans les intervalles qu’elles lui laissaient, et durant les loisirs des vacances, il manifestait un goût décidé pour la botanique et l’histoire naturelle

[francepittoresque]

3 août 1770 : mort du chimiste Guillaume-François Rouelle ➽ https://j.mp/2BqQzGs Doué d’une mémoire heureuse, d’une grande facilité à concevoir les choses et d’une sorte de soif d’instruction, il fit de brillantes études à Caen. Dans les intervalles qu’elles lui laissaient, et durant les loisirs des vacances, il manifestait un goût décidé pour la botanique et l’histoire naturelle

[francepittoresque]

3 août 1770 : mort du chimiste Guillaume-François Rouelle ➽ http://bit.ly/Guillaume-Rouelle Doué d’une mémoire heureuse, d’une grande facilité à concevoir les choses et d’une sorte de soif d’instruction, il fit de brillantes études à Caen. Dans les intervalles qu’elles lui laissaient, et durant les loisirs des vacances, il manifestait un goût décidé pour la botanique et l’histoire naturelle

[kris33390]

Rouelle de porc au vinaigre et au miel

Rouelle de porc au vinaigre et au miel

J’ai un peu hésité avant de réaliser ce plat parce-que c’est un peu gras et que la dernière fois que nous en avons mangé c’était plutôt dur. Finalement c’était très bon et très tendre, la cuisson au four à 160°C y est sûrement pour quelque chose. Pour deux, une petite rouelle était largement suffisant. Ingrédients pour 2 et un peu plus 1 rouelle de porc de 650 g environ 6 échalotes 5 cl d’huile…

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[francepittoresque]

3 août 1770 : mort du chimiste Guillaume-François Rouelle ➽ https://j.mp/2BqQzGs Doué d’une mémoire heureuse, d’une grande facilité à concevoir les choses et d’une sorte de soif d’instruction, il fit de brillantes études à Caen. Dans les intervalles qu’elles lui laissaient, et durant les loisirs des vacances, il manifestait un goût décidé pour la botanique et l’histoire naturelle

[dinnerrecipestips]

Rouelle de porc au cidre doux porc, pomme de terre, cidre, moutarde, feuille de laurier, huile, beurre, farine, ail, oignon, thym, poivre, Sel