Monday, October 22, 2012

Summoning The Demon Bechamel


Let it be known on this day, that there exists no more fearsome spirit than the Demon Bechamel. For this Demon does not enter your domain in the usual fashion, such as rock and roll music, short skirts, or people you disagree with. Rather, he sneaks in at your most vulnerable moment, that moment where the core of your being is demanding nourishment. He slips between your lips, glides over your tongue and ensconces his infernal presence not only in your entrails, but in your arteries, his fatty leavings slowly choking your blood within it's vessels. Hear me now, dear reader, and hear me clearly. The Demon Bechamel, if over-summoned, WILL lead to your earthly demise. He will force his way into every life giving vessel and chamber and seize your heart for his own. Be warned!

To summon the Demon Bechamel, you must first gather about yourself the tools of the Art.

- The churned cream of a bovine beast
- Grains of wheat, ground into a fine powder
- The milk of a bovine beast, or, if you dare, a mixture of bovine milk and cream of equal proportion
- A stainless steel saucepan, suitably consecrated in your preferred manner
- A Wand of Incorporation, common name :Whisk

  There are three different levels of summoning for this Demon, though in each, the fatty churned cream and wheat powder must be in equal proportions. One tablespoon of each  shall result in a lighter summoning. In truth this is Bechamel's most insidious form, as He feels so light one may over-invoke him into one's being without giving it a second thought. Two tablespoon of each and Bechamel's infernal presence becomes more apparent. With simple disguises like browned pig flesh or perhaps an aged bovine product such as cheddar, He insinuates himself in every home. A common sign of his presence is the low hum of "mmmm" and satisfied grunts of digestive pleasure. And for those times when you need to have a definitive sign of the unholy, three tablespoons of each should produce such rich and sinful effects that you may indeed need a triple bypass just for gazing upon his deliciously evil visage.

The summoning of Bechamel is, in fact, a rather simplistic ritual, easily done by even the most novice of magicians. Allow me to list for you the processes and incantations

- Place your Saucepan of Summoning upon the burner, and light the eternal flames of torment on medium-low.

- Within the pan, show your dominance over the churned bovine cream by forcing it into a liquid state.

  "Hail Bechamel, Giver of the Cardiologist's Salary!"

- Once a liquid state has been obtained, add in your wheat powder (equal proportions, depending on    the degree of summoning you wish), with a flourish and stir vigorously with the Wand of Incorporation.

- The churned cream and wheat powder will undergo a secret alchemical process and become as one, who is now called Roux.

"Hail Roux, Binder of Sauces!"

- Slowly add the bovine milk, continuing your vigorous application of the Wand of Incorporation. Allow for the Roux to be absorbed completely. Roux is a troublesome spirit, and the lumps of his misfortune must be beaten out with the Wand.

- When the mixture is at the desired consistency for your purposes, allow it to come to a simmer. Simmering destroys the raw flavors of wheat powder that Roux will cause if not slowly tortured with heat.

"Hail Bechamel! He who hath come forth from Roux, I command thee to do my bidding!"

- If the summoning seems too strong, your mixture may be quite thick. The judicious use of additional bovine milk shall rectify that easily.

Above all, remember that the Demon Bechamel thrives on decoration and enhancements. Popular additions to the ritual include:

- Pig flesh. When browned in a Skillet Of Art, may produce enough of it's porcine fat to replace the butter in the creation of the Roux. This is perhaps the most deadly incarnation of Bechamel to date.
- Cheese, of all sorts, can be melted into Bechamel at the end of the ritual.
- Onions, garlic, peppers- they may all be put to the flames till golden and soft  in the liquid butter prior to the addition of the wheat powder.

These are just a few changes one can make. Remember, when practicing these sacred arts, experimentation is the key to a successful summoning.

May the Darkness Of Nom fall upon thee!

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Some Awesome Magick Themed Videos

Pandeism and the Left Hand Path ^

Intro to Chaos Magick ^

Awesome thing to do with sigils!^

Long, but great lecture on magick by Grant Morrison^

Below is a bit of funny. Andrew O'Neil, Occult Comedian, parts 1-7

Monday, August 27, 2012

Another Loki Mix

Some darker stuff. Some funny stuff I think fits His sense of humor. Some stuff I use for meditation and ritual. I'll leave you to figure out which is which.

^ Black Light Burns-Lie

^Oomph- Labyrinth

Zowie-Smash It

Kate Miller Heidke- The Devil Wears a Suit

Kate Miller Heidke/Fatty Gets a Stylist- Are You Ready?

The Left Rights- I'm On Crack

Mustard Pimp- Money Shot

MSI- Stupid MF

Big Bang-Fantastic Baby

Thursday, July 19, 2012

Fire, Fuel, and Yellow Light.

there was something brewing
in the cupboard.
fire suspended in fuel.
you whispered softly
"it's amazing what a
substance, can actually
do to  face"
there was something brewing
in the sky.
the sweet yellow light
of your coming.
i won't drink from a snake, darling.
you must mistake me for
one of those holy roller
slain in the spirit lokeans.
i won't hold your bowl.
i don't serve that which
lies in shape, waiting.
i will gladly serve that which Is.
there was something brewing
in the cupboard.
venom of it's own, toxins
and fire.
my old familiar friend.

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

Insert Witty Title Here

This is a stream of consciousness sort of thing, both fictional and true. I rarely write anything other than "divine rage" type of things. it's hard to be open. it's easier to be open in the form of a story. Preceding it are two videos that sort of set the mood for what my mindset was when I wrote this.

smoke swirls upward from the clove cigarette. thin, delicate fingers don't so much grasp the vintage cigarette holder, as they simply balance it between themselves. he's in full rococo tonight....or is it regency? i can never tell them apart, though i'm sure if i asked, i could arouse in him a two hour lecture on the finer points of eighteenth century human fashion. the lace edging of his cuff bounces as he neatly flicks ashes into an open mouth. apparently, some dwarf or another has gotten on his bad side tonight, and was serving as an ash tray. He glances at me, as if aware I might judge him as cruel for it. "He owed me, darling. Anyway, he's a masochist. If you don't like it, you're free to remove yourself". The sparkle in his eyes dared me to complain further.

I look around his hall tonight. "GILD ALL THE THINGS" seems to be the theme. Tiny cherubs peep out from every conceivable place one could imagine placing a chubby, winged infant. Gold, of course, some with gemstone eyes, the overall effect being demonic-eyed gold babies staring at you everywhere you turn. Rococo then, Definitely Rococo. The walls were draped in pastel fabrics, pink and lavender, baby blue and a foamy green so light as to be nearly white. A riotous peal of giggles erupt from the chaise he's ensconced in. "I decorated just for you dear." The cherubs echoed his giggles. "Brandy, then?". He rose and glided elegantly towards the end table, where a intricately carved glass bottle of brandy and two crystal snifters were displayed.

i took the time now to drink in his appearance. deep red hair, streaked with blond and golden highlights, tied back in a ivory lace ribbon. his face was lightly made up, porcelain skin, eyes lined in smudgy black, a light glittery sheen on his lips. Our sigil, done now in rose gold, hung on a thin chain around his neck. He must have long since discarded his cravat, judging by the pool of pale green silk crumpled on the floor by the chair. His jacket was some sort of pastel brocade. If you looked closely, you could see the design was a skillfully woven map of the nine worlds. It hung loosely, unbuttoned, and the ivory lace-edged shirt beneath was open, allowing a peek at his lithe body. His cream suede breeches left little to the imagination. All in all, he resembled a overly sexed parody of a dilettante lord of the manor. But I like that sort of thing.

He filled the snifters to the brim, and handed me one, a playful grin on his face. "All this, just to wet a pair of mortal panties. Such trouble you lot are." He scanned my face again, squinting his eyes this time. "
No, you are indeed not here for a game of slap 'n tickle, are you? You never are. So, what now? Still afraid of dying and afraid of living at the same time? Mommy-ruined-my-life again? Oh, or maybe more " save me from killing myself or i'll turn atheist? No? Hmmm?" More giggles. More puffs of clove, More ashing in the dwarf.

He folds himself back into his chair, and I perch on the cherub-covered couch across from him. We sip our brandy in silence for a bit, while I try and gather my words. I try and force them out of my mouth, but all that emerges is short grunts, single words. Tears, however, I have in spades. I weep, harder and harder, while he stares at me, much like a child entranced by the television. He knocks back his brandy in one fell gulp, and suddenly rises, throwing the snifter down. It explodes in a shower of glittering glass bits.

"ENOUGH!" He bellows. "Enough of your weakness! You can't trust anybody, not even ME. Not even the person who has stood by you all your life. You stupid woman, you will be your own undoing! I know what's wrong with you, even if you can't balls up and say it. You're unhappy and you have no right to be. You know you have no right to be. Simply put, you choose to be ungrateful for what was given to you.  You can ostensibly look at your life, and see that it is good. You not only have a loyal, beautiful, mortal man who practically treats you like his goddess, but you also have ME, and do you have any idea how blasphemous and insulting it is when you sit there and say "I hate myself"? You may as well piss on an artists painting! You are my great work of art. All of you are. You are all my beautiful paintings, restored and glorious, from the shit heap that was your fate before me. We won't even get into how Deus must feel about your blasphemous little emo bullshit. You are a fucking god and it's about time I teach you how to act like it." He rips off his jacket, hurling it a corner. He picks up his cigarette and again and inhales deeply. "Drink your fucking brandy!" I take a sip. "LIKE YOU FUCKING MEAN IT". I knock back the rest of the glass, glaring at him with an almost teenage level of defiance. The cherubs laugh sinisterly, their high voices echoing through the hall.

He fills my glass again. "Once more. Drink. But this time, you drink to your own divinity. " I do as I am told, this time it burns less, instead forming a nice warmth that spreads, and flushes my cheeks. Again my glass if filled. " This one you drink to your own memory. Others may remember you fondly when you pass. But you must remember yourself as the glorious creature you are". The warmth becomes a glow, the flush becomes deeper. I am calm.

He sits beside me then. The anger that flowed so fiercely had died down, evolved to whatever resembles sympathy for someone like him.
"Listen, I could have done that without the screaming. I have a lot of far greater problems right now. That's not a put down, it's just fact. I'm sorry. I'm still right though. You have no reason to be unhappy. Your misery is self created." I nod. I know. I created it. He patted my tears away with his handkerchief, my eyeliner leaving black streaks on the pink fabric."Come here" he said, grabbing my hands and pulling me to my feet. He tugged me over to stand in front of the grand mirror hanging on the wall.

The mirror was possibly the most beautiful mirror in all existence. The top was crowned with a yellow, rose, and white gold sculpture of Yggdrasil. The trees roots cascaded down the huge mirror, ending in a an complex knot of roots at the bottom, entwined with a serpent. A tiny squirrel of gold set with topaz and jet scurried up and down the mirror, around and around the frame. He grabbed my shoulders and lined me up so my reflection was centered.

"What do you see?" He asked.I replied,  "A short, fat girl-cripple with a back curve. Who's trying too hard to be fashionable. Like when a crippled or retarded lady tries to dress up cute, and everyone around her tells her she looks great, in that sing-song voice liberal women use when they encounter the handicapped. The implication being, you look great, for what you are. "

"Well, aren't we a superficial little cunt today?" He murmured. "Go deeper. What do you see?"

"Me. Just me. As I am. Not perfect. Not fucked up enough to elicit true sympathy from anyone, but too fucked up to ever fit in to normal society. Someone who tries to make the best of what they have, as much as they can.
A collection of damages, traumas and personality conflicts shoved inside a dysfunctional body, and ran by a dysfunctional mind".

"Accurate, but quite negative. This is what you feel like inside, isn't it". He waved his hand in front of the mirror. My reflection changed. I stood about 5'6". My breasts were perky, and round, My stomach gently curved, but lean. My back straight and healthy. Full, lush, feminine hips. Strong thighs and sculpted calves. Feet in fashionable heels. My skin was smooth and pale and perfect.  He waved again, and the image faded. "You feel like a normal girl, who is somehow trapped in this prison of a body." I nod. I do a lot of nodding with him. "This is what you're stuck with". He gestured towards my normal reflection.

"This is what could have been". Again with the waving. The mirror showed a woman, not standing, but in a motorized chair, strapped in at the waist. No makeup. Hair short, but unfashionably so, and greasy. Instead of dark jeans and a cute tank top, my reflection was wearing grubby sweats. Beneath the sweat pants, my legs were shriveled and useless, never able to walk. "And that's just what the outside of her looks like....the inside is worse. So much worse. She can't read. She was locked up in a place for the lame and crippled. No one. She literally had no one. No friends. No love . Nothing. Ever. She never touched a pencil. She never put paint to canvas. She never even thought to question God or reality or try magick. She was born "wrong" and locked away by the same parents you had. This would have been you without me, and my work. This was your fate. This is why I call you ungrateful."

He waved again and images flashed. There was my grandmother, at my age, deciding to pick out a new lipstick at the store. As her hand lingers on the orange-red so popular with her generation, I see a man in the background. Auburn hair, short and slicked with pomade. Black suit. Reading a newspaper and staring hard at her while she tried on the shade, purchased it, and left. Flash. I am three. My grandmother is sitting on the couch, holding a lipstick of the same shade out at me and I teeter on my two recently healed legs. I stumble a bit. One foot goes forward. Then the other. I walk. I see her putting the lipstick on me, holding me up to the mirror as she told me what a good girl I was. Flash. Scene after scene, of Himself in the background. Influencing my choices, my past, going back decades to make one tiny change that would lead to my inevitable current state of being. Ensuring that each opportunity for beauty, for knowledge, for perseverance, for survival, was met to the fullest possible influence. I see abuses, that though they seemed horrific, were so much less than what could have been. I see him making chances for me to thrive, to be more than a result of what was done to me. I am speechless.

He turns and smiles at me then. "You are the best possible outcome of your genetics. I will do all I can to turn the chances in your favor. But you have to work towards your own evolution . You cannot stagnate. You cannot drag yourself down. Do you hear me?'

"Yes," I said, looking him in the eyes. "Yes, I do".

"We need to make a contract. A binding contract." I nod.

"Rule one: You will not hit yourself. You will not bite yourself. You will not cut yourself. Period. It is blasphemy of the worst kind. A rejection of creation. You will call to me. You will ask me for help. You will talk to your husband before your issues build to that point. You will ask him for help. You can do this. You've went years without self harm. It is possible".

"Agreed. I will call to you. I will ask for help. I can and have done this before."

"Rule two: You will stop referring to me in terms of mental heath crap. I am not "an alter persona of your idealized self". I am not " some dissociative hallucination". I am not " that crazy Loki stuff you ramble about". That shit drives me mad, woman. It stops now. I am Loki. or Loke. Or Loptr. Even Lodur, should you interpret it that way. But I am not something that rose from your abusive childhood. I am what saved you from it".

" I agree. Even my husband has corrected me on this. I'm sorry. I let one arrogant chaos magician convince me I'm crazy, and allowed one man's opinion to dictate what I think of a lifelong friend. That is wrong of me. And Dustin was wrong for assuming you were part of my other mental health issues."

He smiled, and did the sign of benediction. "I forgive you, my child".

"And the last rule. You will create for me. You will paint and cook and make music for me. You will keep yourself in good enough health to continue to do this for a long time. Everything that comes from those hands should be for me, for my amusement or pleasure, or for your own. They are one and the same"

I laugh, then. "What do you think I do? I agree, easily".

Everything fades then. The mirror. The gilded palace of opulent tackyness. The psychotic cherubs. His legs. His dick. His torso. His face. Fading. I am sitting in my bed, at a loss for words. I sleep, healed.

Monday, July 9, 2012

Lots of Rambling Loki Stuff.

 I will lay in my sorrow, covered in the heavy blanket of memory.
He comes softly then, a slight psychic breeze like the swooshing of a long jacket.
Closer and closer He will come, till we are nose to nose, face to face.
He seeps inside my skin, through my bones, and into my heart. His ethereal  form seeks out all the broken places.....
 All the dirty little fuck-holes of reality hidden inside of me.
The leaden pieces of my soul are made golden in His gnostic illumination of my Form and Function.
He transforms that which I feel into that which I understand.

The above rambling is something I wrote several days ago. It's hard to open up about spiritual things for me. I can channel "divine rage" all day long, but when it comes to feeling other's not my forte. I've gotten along pretty well in life by being a quick witted cunt. It's a wonderful survival skill, up to a point.

But sometimes you just feel like a Negative Nancy. Everything looks super-bullshitty all the time. I mean, ALL THE TIME. I can list the things I hate easily....society, politics, religious fervor, Hiddleson and Co., irrational people and their irrational belief structures, the healthcare system, the new healthcare system, the concept of having a president in the first place, the way money is used to exploit damn near everything....I could go on for hours.

 But to talk about what I love, that is like trying to speak with a ball gag in my mouth. I know for sure there are three things, in this order, that matter to me in life. My husband. Loki. My cats. And most all things and activities associated with them.

I love Loki. I want to be clear about that. I am not his wife, nor would I care to be. I need human contact in a relationship. I am not chosen or special or anything other than Myself. Gods do not battle for my soul, they tend not to rape me, and they rarely ask me for anything other than a few acts of goodwill to my fellow man, a few sips of booze, and a good conversation. I am not your super duper class A spirit worker. What I am is a damn fine occultist. I am a person who prides herself on a neatly crafted blend of logic and mysticism. I can divine like a mother-fucker, because I rarely let my own beliefs and opinions color a reading. I can sigilize a sentence like nobody's business.

I accept that it may well be all in my head, and I just don't give a crap if it is. Because it works. It happens. He talks and sashays and pouts around my house quite frequently. If it's a hallucination, then oh the fuck well. If I experience it, then it is real is some sense, and how the hell do you tell if gods are "real" in the first place? If I ask Loki "how do I know you're real" all I'll get is "how do you know you're real?". How DO I know I'm real? Sigh.......He loves nothing more than to make me question ALL THE THINGS.

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

The Hey Nonny Nonny Song

Have you seen the sheep,
Looking so sweet,
Dressed in the Wolf-Sire's clothing?
I saw the sheep,
Mild and meek,
Full up with fear and self loathing.

Every good sheep, will long for his shepherd
Someone to guide him, to keep him tethered
Tied to the dualistic, masochistic, atavistic
Hey nonny nonny nonny hey, oh
Hey nonny nonny nonny hey, oh.

Have you seen the sheep,
Oh, how they creep,
Down on their knees for their Master. 
I saw the sheep,
Blind and asleep,
Deaf to My voice and My laughter

Every good sheep will long for his shepherd,
Some one to guide him, to keep him tethered
Tied to the catechistic, formalistic, egotistic,
Hey nonny nonny nonny, hey, oh
Hey nonny nonny nonny hey, oh

Have you seen the sheep,
Out in the pasture.
Have you seen them weep,
Crying for their Master.
I have seen the sheep,
Grazing in the pasture.
I have seen the sheep, my dear,
But I am not their Master.
Hey nonny nonny nonny hey, oh.
Hey, nonny nonny, nonny hey, oh.

Monday, July 2, 2012

Ah, the month of Loki blogging. Oh, how deeply meaningful and spiritual and great and all that jazz. I do say, ladies, down on those knees and adore me with thy lips. And throat. Maybe a little hand action. I'll even pull your hair and call you my dirty little cum puppet, should that be your fancy. But dear sweet baby Jesus, DO NOT FUCKING WORSHIP ME. Remember Fimafeng? He was soooo quick to serve, and what was his fate then? Fucking servile sheep. Hang out with me, talk to me, get to know me a little. Get me drunk, get me stoned, get me off. Cram your minds with factual knowledge about your reality in my name and honor. And most of all, dear "ladies", GET YOUR ASS BACK IN THE KITCHEN. Yeah, I went there. Make me a sandwich while you're at it. Stop sanitizing me. Stop making me a saint, a savior, some remote object you mutter praise for but refuse to look at clearly.  Accept all of me, as I accept all of you. 

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Eine Kleine Rokk Musik

Well, I am oddly pleased with the title of this post, I'll be honest. I feel really fucking witty right now. Anyway, I am bored and taking a rest after doing a load of dishes, so I thought I'd compile a short list of music I'd associate with Angrboda .  There's only three so far, but that's just all I can think of at the moment.

First up, Roisin Murphy's Ramalama. It is a my go-to "song about taking hearts out of people".
It's got a great beat, of course.

The next video is Paloma Faith's Do You Want The Truth or Something Beautiful? Reminds me of Her and Loki. Also, I think this is the closest to what Angrboda looks like to me.
Gotye "Hearts a Mess". I am going to post the lyrics under the video. To me, it could be a song from Loki to Gullveig.
Pick apart
The pieces of your heart
And let me peer inside
Let me in
Where only your thoughts have been
Let me occupy your mind
As you do mine

You have lost
Too much love
To fear, doubt and distrust
Its not enough
You just threw away the key
To your heart

You don't get burned
Cause nothing gets through
It makes it easier
Easier on you
But that much more difficult for me
To make you see

Love ain't fair
So there you are
My love

Your heart's a mess
You won't admit to it
It makes no sense
But I'm desperate to connect
And you, you can't live like this

Your heart's a mess
You won't admit to it
It makes no sense
But I'm desperate to connect
And you, you cant't live like this

Your heart's a mess
You won't admit to it
It makes no sense
But I'm desperate to connect
And you cant't live like this

Love ain't safe
You won't get hurt if you stay chaste
So you can wait
But I don't wanna waste my love

Tuesday, May 22, 2012

You don't have to own the pain
You don't have to live this life in shame
You don't have to mend your heart
You never really broke it, you just took it apart.
You don't have to say my name
You don't have to tell anyone I came
But, you really shouldn't  dim your light
It's your only weapon in this war that you fight,
Inside your head.
 Well, I can make you golden
As the world turns slowly
to lead.

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Somewhere in the Interwebs:

CaviezelBride: OMG ya'all. I went to Passion of the Christ yesterday! IT WAS AWESOME. I could really feel the spirit of my Liege and Savior there. THEY WERE SO ACCURATE. I <3 Jim Caviezel. Mmmm...what a hottie!

JesusHChrist4Life: Just glued a picture of Him (Jim) on the face of my crucifix. NOW it REALLY looks just like Jesus!!!!! Yay!!!!

(Is this terrifying you yet?)

What if the god in question was a god you actually liked? And what if the movie in question wasn't a Christian snuff film, but instead a hugely popular comic franchise? I "marvel" at the newest trends in paganism these days.

Remember that bumper sticker "Dear God, save me from your followers." ? I can relate. >_< This post would be a lot more ranting, but I'm feeling nice and will leave it at that.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Three Awesome "Diet" Recipes

Cheesecake replacement therapy:

one cup Fage 2% greek yogurt or any other brand of
Greek yogurt that is all natural, very thick, and free of added thickening agents
honey, preferably local

pure vanilla extract

small lemon wedge

whole grain cereal, I use Uncle Sam cereal.

Stir honey into yogurt, to taste. Add a squirt of lemon and a dash of vanilla. Swirl a bit more honey on top. Top with cereal. Eat. Should have only 4 grams of fat. You can use non fat yogurt as well, it just won't be quite as creamy in mouthfeel.

No Guilt Enchiladas:


3/4 lb. tomatillos - peeled, rinsed and diced
one can green chiles
4 cloves garlic
1 hot pepper of your choice
large handful of chopped fresh cilantro
juice of about half a lime
salt to taste

Process for sauce: Put in bowl and puree with immersion blender or put in normal blender and puree till smooth

Enchilada Filling:

One large sweet potato, peeled and diced
One small onion, diced
Four to five cloves garlic, roughly chopped
one ear of fresh corn, corn removed from cob
once can drained and rinsed black beans
one can of tomatoes with green chiles (i use Kroger's
roasted tomatoes, salsa-style)

Red Powder:
Toast one dried red chile of you choice, seeds included, plus cumin seeds in a skillet. Grind in a coffee or herb grinder. Add smoked paprika or regular paprika, garlic powder, onion powder, cayenne to taste. Alternatively, you can buy powdered ancho chile and cumin, however they will not taste as fresh as toasting and grinding it at home.

Start everything but the beans and tomatoes in a large skillet with just enough vegetable oil so they don't stick. Season with red powder. Cook on medium heat till onions soften and caramelize and potatoes are mostly cooked through. Add the can of tomatoes, simmer until liquid evaporates. Taste and add more red powder if needed.  Add a pinch of salt as well. Maybe some ghost chile sauce if you are brave. Gently stir in rinsed beans.

To assemble enchiladas:

I make them more like a lasagna then traditional rolled enchiladas, because they just end up falling apart when you serve them rolled.

In a good sized casserole pan, put down a layer of corn tortillas. Then spread some sauce to cover. Add potato and bean filling. Measure out 4 servings of Mexican blend cheese. Add one serving to this layer. Continue to layer this way, using your last serving of cheese to top the casserole. Bake at 400 till top is lightly browned and melty. Serve with a dollop of nonfat yogurt, fresh cilantro, a wedge of lime and some chopped avocado. Should feed about 4 people. We got 5 servings out of it. Even better the next day, when sauce has absorbed into the tortilla. DO NOT USE FLOUR TORTILLAS. THEY ARE AN ABOMINATION.

Orange Soup:

one butternut squash, peeled and diced
one sweet potato, peeled and diced
one orange bell pepper, diced
five carrots, peeled and diced
six cloves garlic, chopped
one onion, chopped
hot pepper of your choice, diced
garam masala seasoning or your favorite indian/curry spice blend
one box of vegetable broth
salt and pepper to taste

this is easy. put all chopped vegetables into a soup pot. add seasoning to taste, and vegetable broth. simmer until everything is cooked through. reduce the liquid a tiny bit-there should still be plenty of liquid. Use an immersion blender in the pot or blend in a traditional blender. Garnish with chopped cilantro and a dab of nonfat greek yogurt if desired.