conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide a plot for a book about Replicators, Asgard, O\'Neill entitled Small Victories.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Small Victories: Confident that the destruction of Thor\'s starship has ended the Replicator threat to Earth ("Nemesis"), the SG-1 team returns home through the second Stargate that has been put up at Stargate Command.\nShortly after they learn that a Russian Foxtrot class submarine has been hijacked by creatures whose descriptions match the Replicators, Thor arrives at Stargate Command and asks SG-1 for help against the Replicators in the Asgard galaxy.\nAs Colonel O\'Neill (Richard Dean Anderson), Daniel Jackson (Michael Shanks) and Teal\'c (Christopher Judge) go to deal with the hijacked submarine, Major Carter (Amanda Tapping) goes with Thor.\nO\'Neill, Daniel, and Teal\'c try to obtain intelligence on the little self-replicating robotic invaders in the submarine, but they are forced to fall back.\nWith Daniel\'s new theory that the Replicators are made up of the same materials they consume, the Replicators may be eliminated through sinking the iron submarine as long as the surviving Replicator from Thor\'s advanced ship is destroyed beforehand.\nMeanwhile, Carter witnesses a short battle against the Replicators in the Asgard galaxy during which five Asgard ships are lost.\nCarter notices the Replicators\' attraction to new technology and proposes to use the O\'Neill, an incomplete Asgard ship originally designed to fight the Replicators, as a lure to draw the Replicators into hyperspace and destroy them in the O\'Neill\'s self-destruct.\nThor eventually accepts the plan, the Replicators take the bait and are destroyed.\nBack on Earth, O\'Neill and Teal\'c penetrate the submarine and find and destroy the original Replicator.\nWhen the other Replicators take full control of the submarine, O\'Neill orders the forces outside to destroy the submarine and prepares for the end, but Thor beams the team onto his ship before the explosion occurs.\nWith the imminent Replicator threat over, Thor promises that when the Asgard defeat the Replicators, he will come to assist Earth in the war against the Goa\'uld.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first five paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Small Victories
  Title: Small victories : recipes, advice + hundreds of ideas for home-cooking triumphs / Julia Turshen ; photographs by Gentl + Hyers. 
  Classification: LCC TX714.T88 2016 | DDC 641.5--dc23 LC record available at <http://lccn.loc.gov/2015039651>**
  I will always remember the first time I met Julia Turshen. She was catering a party for my dearest friends and when she walked into the room, it simply lit up. I'm not sure if it was her brilliant smile, infectious laugh, or that gorgeous wild hair but the whole picture is truly memorable. She went on to make an amazingly delicious and earthy dinner for all of us, but it was only later when she and I became friends that I came to really understand Julia's special brand of magic.
  It began with celery. As a kid obsessed with everything about cooking, I decided I should be able to chop precisely and sauté effectively. I convinced my parents to buy me endless bunches of celery to practice with. I spent entire weekends perfecting my dice and heating up a little oil in a skillet in which I would attempt to flip the celery without using a utensil, just like I had seen all of my favorite chefs and teachers do on television. Committing the motions to memory, I eventually grew comfortable with the techniques and continued to build on the celery, turning the sauté into a soup, a stir-fry, and more. Teaching myself to cook wasn't a quick process, but along the way I stopped to celebrate each accomplishment and began to consider them small but very worthwhile victories. The day no celery landed on the floor: Small victory!
  Celebrating small victories is not only how I've marked my life (both in and out of the kitchen), but it's also a sure way of becoming a comfortable and intuitive, even inventive, cook. Which brings us to this very personal collection of recipes and advice, the goal of which is to demonstrate that cooking doesn't have to be complicated to be satisfying, or over-the-top to be impressive. Each recipe in the pages that follow introduces a small victory (often more than one). They range from not always obvious but very useful tips (e.g., how to get the seeds out of a pomegranate without making a mess) to broader ideas about cooking (e.g., the only thing that stands between you and a tender pork shoulder is time, and patience itself is an important ingredient). Every recipe is also accompanied by a number of spin-offs, which are thoughts on how to turn that small victory into many other things besides the main recipe. In other words, if you cook this thing, you can also cook all of these things.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about sautéed.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Small Victories
  Title: Small victories : recipes, advice + hundreds of ideas for home-cooking triumphs / Julia Turshen ; photographs by Gentl + Hyers.  
  Classification: LCC TX714. T88 2016 | DDC 641. 5--dc23 LC record available at <http://lccn. loc. gov/2015039651>**
  I will always remember the first time I met Julia Turshen. She was catering a party for my dearest friends and when she walked into the room, it simply lit up. I'm not sure if it was her brilliant smile, infectious laugh, or that gorgeous wild hair but the whole picture is truly memorable. She went on to make an amazingly delicious and earthy dinner for all of us, but it was only later when she and I became friends that I came to really understand Julia's special brand of magic. 
  It began with celery. As a kid obsessed with everything about cooking, I decided I should be able to chop precisely and sauté effectively. I convinced my parents to buy me endless bunches of celery to practice with. I spent entire weekends perfecting my dice and heating up a little oil in a skillet in which I would attempt to flip the celery without using a utensil, just like I had seen all of my favorite chefs and teachers do on television. My very supportive family ate more sautéed celery than they would probably like to remember. Committing the motions to memory, I eventually grew comfortable with the techniques and continued to build on the celery, turning the sauté into a soup, a stir-fry, and more. Teaching myself to cook wasn't a quick process, but along the way I stopped to celebrate each accomplishment and began to consider them small but very worthwhile victories. The day no celery landed on the floor: Small victory!
  Celebrating small victories is not only how I've marked my life (both in and out of the kitchen), but it's also a sure way of becoming a comfortable and intuitive, even inventive, cook. Which brings us to this very personal collection of recipes and advice, the goal of which is to demonstrate that cooking doesn't have to be complicated to be satisfying, or over-the-top to be impressive. Each recipe in the pages that follow introduces a small victory (often more than one). They range from not always obvious but very useful tips (e. g. , how to get the seeds out of a pomegranate without making a mess) to broader ideas about cooking (e. g. , the only thing that stands between you and a tender pork shoulder is time, and patience itself is an important ingredient). Every recipe is also accompanied by a number of spin-offs, which are thoughts on how to turn that small victory into many other things besides the main recipe. In other words, if you cook this thing, you can also cook all of these things.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I have a soft spot for old-school Italian American restaurants. I love how they all pretty much have the same menus and how each one promotes one or two signature pasta dishes that, according to my very unofficial research, always seem to have a bit of sausage meat and cream (like the legendary Rigatoni Pitti at Bar Pitti on Sixth Avenue in New York). This orecchiette—full of spicy Italian sausage and sweet onions, with a final warm bath of a little cream and plenty of Parmesan—is my rendition. It's also my favorite thing to eat on a cold night, preferably on the couch in front of a movie (though it does make for a great, simple dinner-party dish, and then all you need is a salad and something sweet for afterward). The **small victory** here is all about taking the pasta out of the boiling water before it is totally done and finishing it in the sauce. I like to think of dried pasta as a sponge that swells with whatever you're boiling it in when you cook it. Trading the last few minutes of cooking in water for something more flavorful gives you pasta with the most impact. Also, save some of the starchy pasta cooking water for finishing the dish. It lets you elongate the sauce and better coat the pasta without having to add more cream.
  In a large skillet over medium-high heat, warm the olive oil and crumble in the sausage. Cook, stirring now and then, until the sausage is really well browned, all of its fat is rendered, and little bits of meat are sticking to the bottom of the pan, about 10 minutes. Use a slotted spoon to transfer the sausage to a plate and set aside.
  Add the onions to the pan, sprinkle with a large pinch of salt, and turn the heat to medium-low. Depending on how much fat the sausage released, your pan might be almost dry; if so, add 1 to 2 Tbsp olive oil. Cook the onions, stirring them every so often, until they've completely collapsed, are dark brown, and have picked up all the stuck bits of sausage, about 30 minutes. Transfer the onions to the plate with the sausage.
  Meanwhile, bring a large pot of generously salted water to a boil. Add the orecchiette, bring the water back to a boil, and cook for 2 minutes less than the package tells you to (or until the orecchiette is cooked through but maintains a little bite). Use a mug to collect about 1 cup [240 ml] of the cooking water and set it aside.
  Drain the orecchiette in a colander, give it a good shake, and then return it to the now-empty pot over low heat. Add the reserved sausage and onions and stir everything to combine. Add the spinach in handfuls, tossing to wilt each handful before you add the next. Then add the cream, lemon zest, and half of the Parmesan. If the orecchiette seems a bit dry, add some of the reserved cooking water (I will leave the amount to your discretion—it depends on how much water ended up in the pot when you transferred the orecchiette from the colander). Season to taste with salt.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the first sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I love how they all pretty much have the same menus and how each one promotes one or two signature pasta dishes that, according to my very unofficial research, always seem to have a bit of sausage meat and cream (like the legendary Rigatoni Pitti at Bar Pitti on Sixth Avenue in New York). This orecchiette—full of spicy Italian sausage and sweet onions, with a final warm bath of a little cream and plenty of Parmesan—is my rendition. It's also my favorite thing to eat on a cold night, preferably on the couch in front of a movie (though it does make for a great, simple dinner-party dish, and then all you need is a salad and something sweet for afterward). The **small victory** here is all about taking the pasta out of the boiling water before it is totally done and finishing it in the sauce. I like to think of dried pasta as a sponge that swells with whatever you're boiling it in when you cook it. Trading the last few minutes of cooking in water for something more flavorful gives you pasta with the most impact. Also, save some of the starchy pasta cooking water for finishing the dish. It lets you elongate the sauce and better coat the pasta without having to add more cream.
  In a large skillet over medium-high heat, warm the olive oil and crumble in the sausage. Cook, stirring now and then, until the sausage is really well browned, all of its fat is rendered, and little bits of meat are sticking to the bottom of the pan, about 10 minutes. Use a slotted spoon to transfer the sausage to a plate and set aside.
  Add the onions to the pan, sprinkle with a large pinch of salt, and turn the heat to medium-low. Depending on how much fat the sausage released, your pan might be almost dry; if so, add 1 to 2 Tbsp olive oil. Cook the onions, stirring them every so often, until they've completely collapsed, are dark brown, and have picked up all the stuck bits of sausage, about 30 minutes. Transfer the onions to the plate with the sausage.
  Meanwhile, bring a large pot of generously salted water to a boil. Add the orecchiette, bring the water back to a boil, and cook for 2 minutes less than the package tells you to (or until the orecchiette is cooked through but maintains a little bite). Use a mug to collect about 1 cup [240 ml] of the cooking water and set it aside.
  Drain the orecchiette in a colander, give it a good shake, and then return it to the now-empty pot over low heat. Add the reserved sausage and onions and stir everything to combine. Add the spinach in handfuls, tossing to wilt each handful before you add the next. Then add the cream, lemon zest, and half of the Parmesan. If the orecchiette seems a bit dry, add some of the reserved cooking water (I will leave the amount to your discretion—it depends on how much water ended up in the pot when you transferred the orecchiette from the colander). Season to taste with salt.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last paragraph.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Thank you to **ALL OF MY FAMILY AND FRIENDS** , the people I most love to feed. Thank you in particular to those of you who patiently consumed the most eclectic meals while I worked on these recipes.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the first paragraph for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Small Victories
  The worst possible thing you can do when you're down in the dumps, tweaking, vaporous with victimized self-righteousness, or bored, is to take a walk with dying friends. They will ruin everything for you.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: It was such a cool, dark cave under my bed, with a big, soft moss-green carpet. Her breathing was labored. She looked apologetic.
  I called the vet and asked if I should bring her in. He said she'd feel safer dying at home, with me, but I had to go in to pick up the narcotics. He gave me three syringes full. I took them under the bed with me, along with the telephone, with the ringer off, and I lay beside her and assured her that she was a good dog even though she could no longer take care of us. I prayed for her to die quickly and without pain, for her sake, but mostly because I wanted her to die before Sam got home from school. I didn't want him to see her dead body. She hung on. I gave her morphine, prayed, talked to her softly, and called the vet. He had me put the phone beside her head and listened for a moment.
  I stayed beside her on the carpet under the bed, and then she raised her head to look around like a black horse, and she sighed, and then laid her head down and died.
  I couldn't believe it, that she was gone, even though she'd been sick for so long. But you could feel that something huge, a tide, had washed in, and washed out again.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Provide the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: People sang, and babies cried, and your feet started to hurt, and you wanted to go home, and just then the broad-bottomed Palestinian women started chanting, "This is what democracy looks like. This is what democracy looks like."
  Wow. That's the prayer I said the morning after the peace march: Wow. I felt buoyed by all those people walking slowly together down Market Street, by the memory of the peacenik dogs with kerchiefs around their necks, the Mothers in Black, and the peace sheep. Then, amazingly, only a few days later, the very first bulbs began to bloom. Within a week, there were dozens of daffodils in the yard. When this finally happens in late winter every year, I'm astonished. I've always given up. In November and December when I plant them, I get swept up in the fantasy that the earth, after so much rain, will be rich and loamy. Planting bulbs sounds like a romantic and fun thing to do, but it never is. The earth is rocky and full of roots; it's clay, and it seems doomed and polluted, yet you dig holes for the ugly, shriveled bulbs, throw in a handful of poppy seeds, and cover everything over, and you know you'll never see them again—it's death and clay and shrivel. Your hands are nicked from the rocks, your nails are black with soil. December and January have been so grim the past few years, and this year the power kept going out, and everyone was crazy as a rat. Yet here we are in February, with war drums and daffodils everywhere, and poppies waiting in the wings.
  Thank you, Jake Morrissey and Geoff Kloske, supreme commanders of Riverhead Books and of my life. Thank you, Anna Jardine, for brilliant and exasperating copyedits all these years. You have saved me from looking illiterate more times than I can count. Thank you, Alexandra Cardia and Katie Freeman and Lydia Hirt, and all the other rascally Riverhead rabbits.
  All writers are doomed without great writing friends to keep them honest, push them to make the work better, encourage and nag, celebrate or commiserate. Thank you, Doug Foster, Mark Childress, Neshama Franklin, Janine Reid.
  And most of all, to St. Andrew Presbyterian Church, Marin City, California, and Pastor Veronica Goines. Services at eleven.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Services at eleven. This is what democracy looks like."
  Wow. That's the prayer I said the morning after the peace march: Wow. I felt buoyed by all those people walking slowly together down Market Street, by the memory of the peacenik dogs with kerchiefs around their necks, the Mothers in Black, and the peace sheep. Then, amazingly, only a few days later, the very first bulbs began to bloom. Within a week, there were dozens of daffodils in the yard. When this finally happens in late winter every year, I'm astonished. I've always given up. In November and December when I plant them, I get swept up in the fantasy that the earth, after so much rain, will be rich and loamy. Planting bulbs sounds like a romantic and fun thing to do, but it never is. The earth is rocky and full of roots; it's clay, and it seems doomed and polluted, yet you dig holes for the ugly, shriveled bulbs, throw in a handful of poppy seeds, and cover everything over, and you know you'll never see them again—it's death and clay and shrivel. Your hands are nicked from the rocks, your nails are black with soil. December and January have been so grim the past few years, and this year the power kept going out, and everyone was crazy as a rat. Yet here we are in February, with war drums and daffodils everywhere, and poppies waiting in the wings.
  Thank you, Jake Morrissey and Geoff Kloske, supreme commanders of Riverhead Books and of my life. Thank you, Anna Jardine, for brilliant and exasperating copyedits all these years. You have saved me from looking illiterate more times than I can count. Thank you, Alexandra Cardia and Katie Freeman and Lydia Hirt, and all the other rascally Riverhead rabbits.
  All writers are doomed without great writing friends to keep them honest, push them to make the work better, encourage and nag, celebrate or commiserate. Thank you, Doug Foster, Mark Childress, Neshama Franklin, Janine Reid.
  And most of all, to St. Andrew Presbyterian Church, Marin City, California, and Pastor Veronica Goines.People sang, and babies cried, and your feet started to hurt, and you wanted to go home, and just then the broad-bottomed Palestinian women started chanting, "This is what democracy looks like.