Word: mash
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Dates: during 1950-1959
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...latest is Stranger Come Home, which comes with the assurance that all its characters are "imaginary." But any moderately attentive reader will begin naming the originals who inspired them almost at once, will feel in the end what is sadly true: that Stranger is a sour mash of stale news stories. The only bit of imagination connected with Author Shirer's book is the startling notion of calling it a novel...
Wine production, if nothing else, was better than ever last year. In France and Spain, growing conditions were perfect, the grapes were larger, and the boys who mash the grapes had bigger feet. But the wine consumers have not risen to meet this new challenge, which, according, to U.N. statistics, involves a mere 636 million gallons of surplus wine. Ready for sale, this surplus wine would fill just slightly more than two-and-a-half billion bottles. This trifling amount of wine would be easy work for any but the present group of apathetic wine drinkers...
...sometimes makes many rough drafts before he gets what he likes, often keys his cartoons in with P-D editorial campaigns, and frequently consults the paper's editors for ideas and suggestions. "The whole process of creating a cartoon," he explains, "is one of distillation. All the mash of information and detail bubbles and boils around. The first run should disclose the subject. Then it is redistilled until its essence appears in a clear, simple draft...
High federal taxes on liquor have produced a growing bootleg industry, and not all of it is hidden away in mountain valleys. Last week in Brooklyn, federal investigators made one of their biggest finds since prohibition days. Residents reported an aroma of mash in the wind and yeasty bubbles on the East River. Agents followed their noses to a two-story abandoned waterfront warehouse, climbed a six-foot metal fence, had a scuffle with a Doberman pinscher (which bit two of them), broke down three doors, and found a still which cost $50,000 to build. It could turn...
...sustenance. Then his wealthy family hired an illiterate peasant girl named Marie Chevalier as their cook. A native genius, Marie could whip up sauces creamy as clouds and subtle as sunsets; she could pluck a plum tart from the oven at the split second of proper crispness or mash a marron to the delicacy of morning dew. "She civilized me," sighs Curnonsky, repeating an old quip: "She turned my needs into pleasures...