Broccoli Love Quotes

Ma and God God gave us fingers--Ma says, "Use your fork." God gave us voices--Ma says, "Don't scream." Ma says eat broccoli, cereal and carrots. But God gave us tasteys for maple ice cream. God gave us fingers--Ma says, "Use your hanky." God gave us puddles--Ma says, "Don't splash." Ma says, "Be quiet, your father is sleeping." But God gave us garbage can covers to crash. God gave us fingers--Ma says, "Put your gloves on." God gave us raindrops--Ma says, "Don't get wet." Ma says be careful, and don't get too near to Thoses strange lovely dogs that God gave us to pet. God gave us fingers--Ma says, "Go wash 'em." But God gave us coal bins and nice dirty bodies. And I ain't too smart, but there's one thing for certain-- Either Ma's wrong or else God is.

Nothing heals the soul like chocolate," she said. "I just love chocolate. It's God's apology for broccoli.

Choosing one thing over another doesn't necessarily mean we love the thing we choose. If given the choice to eat spinach or broccoli, you may choose broccoli. It may only mean you don't want to eat spinach. Heaven is not for people who just want to skip Hell. Heaven is reserved for those who love Jesus, who have been rescued by Him and who long to praise Him. If someone doesn't have much use for praising Him now, it's foolish to think they're ready for Heaven.

I believe that 'love' and 'wrong' are two deeply unrelated words that should never be thrown into the same sentence together. Like 'dessert' and 'broccoli.

Do you know what broccoli is like to your body? It is like a hundred-dollar bill. When you eat it, you are paying yourself with health. Do you know what a cookie is like? It is Monopoly money! You’re giving your body fraudulent currency.

Likely. Actually, scratch that, you probably don’t like ice cream anyway, because you don’t enjoy anything that’s good in life.” She kept on walking, pensively chewing on her lower lip. “Maybe the cafeteria has some raw broccoli?” “I don’t deserve this verbal abuse on top of the flu shot.” She beamed. “You’re such a trooper. Even though the big bad needle is out to get you.

What a job, to raise someone from birth to adulthood, bestowing upon them your knowledge and your values and, despite your best intentions, any number of traits you've inherited yourself. What a loaded task, to make every move, every day, in such a way that the impressionable larva-person in your home will see your example, process it into something with herself, and grow layers of muscle and soul over it until she is a fully developed human being. And all the while, the little person you're nurturing is fighting you - spitting out the broccoli, not wearing the helmet, rolling her eyes at your carefully chosen words of advice - and you become constantly worn down even as you pour your energies into loving her.

I sat on the couch for a while as Augustus searched for his keys. His mom sat down next to me and said, “I just love this one, don’t you?” I guess I had been looking toward the Encouragement above the TV, a drawing of an angel with the caption Without Pain, How Could We Know Joy? (This is an old argument in the field of Thinking About Suffering, and its stupidity and lack of sophistication could be plumbed for centuries, but suffice it to say that the existence of broccoli does not in any way affect the taste of chocolate.) “Yes,” I said. “A lovely thought.

Then he explains Chinese food in Manhattan to me: 'See the way it works is, there's one central location out on Long Island where all this stuff is made. Then it's piped into the city through a series of underground pipes that run parallel to the train and subway tracks. The restaurants then just pull a lever. One lever for General Tso's chicken, another for beef with broccoli sauce. It's like beer; it's on tap.' It's amazing how convincing he is when he says this. There's no pause in his description, nowhere for him to stop and think, to make this up as he goes along. It's as though he's simply repeating something he read in the Times yesterday. This makes me love him more than I did just five minutes ago.

The heart was a tyrant, like a child demanding ice cream instead of broccoli and throwing a fit to get its way.

TO-DO LIST 1. Buy broccoli 2. Make sure Haddie gets the help she needs from a better therapist. 3. Set up a vocational counseling appointment for Henry. 4. Convince Will to love me again. 5. Get Birdie to talk to me. 6. Bury Louise once and for all. 7. Have a religious epiphany so # 8 is going to be okay with me. 8. Die.

Marlena and I were very different, but sometimes, when we were together, we could erase our separate histories just by talking, sharing a joke or a look. But in the kitchen with Mom, the kitchen that was always clean, where there was always something to eat, where the water flowed predictably from the tap and behind every cabinet door were dishes, only dishes, I saw how wrong I was to feel like Marlena and I had so much in common, and how lucky. Because here was the difference that mattered. My skinny mom with her Chardonnay smell and her forgetting to unplug the flat iron, with her corny jokes about broccoli farts and her teeth bared in anger and her cleaning gloves in the backseat of the car, my mom who refused to stop loving me, who made dumb mistakes and drank too much and was my twin in laughter, my mom who would never, ever, leave, who I trusted so profoundly that a world without her in it exceeded the limits of my imagination. That was the difference, and it was huge, and my never seeing it before is something that I still regret.

She grew broccoli, and I grew dentures. We were perfect for each other. Our love disappeared into each other like a box of toothpicks.

The existence of broccoli does not in any way affect the taste of chocolate. “Yes,” I said. “A lovely thought.

I sat on the couch for a while as Augustus searched for his keys. His mom sat down next to me and said, “I just love this one, don’t you?” I guess I had been looking toward the Encouragement above the TV, a drawing of an angel with the caption Without Pain, How Could We Know Joy? (This is an old argument in the field of Thinking About Suffering, and its stupidity and lack of sophistication could be plumbed for centuries, but suffice it to say that the existence of broccoli does not in any way affect the taste of chocolate.) “Yes,” I said. “A lovely thought.

Once unpacked, I saw my family downstairs. Each step released something spidery inside me: the sick-making terror of need. Needing the accumulative, impervious love of being forced to eat all your broccoli even when it is making you retch and gag to put it in your mouth. The love of the TV being turned off past eleven. The love of being asked to say hello to the dog over the telephone. I’d always seen my mum and aunt from knee height, never quite managed to meet them as equals. It occurred to me how ludicrous it was that families slept in separate bedrooms, not piled on top of one another like lazily sunbathing lions.

Most of Cecilia’s friends were talkers. Their voices overlapped in their desperation to tell their stories. I’ve always hated vegetables . . . The only vegetable my child will eat is broccoli . . . My kid loves raw carrots . . . I love raw carrots! You had to jump right in without waiting for a pause in the conversation, because otherwise you’d never get your turn. But women like Tess didn’t seem to have that need to share the ordinary facts of their lives, and that made Cecilia desperate to know them. Does her kid like broccoli? she’d

THE FORTRESS Under the pink quilted covers I hold the pulse that counts your blood. I think the woods outdoors are half asleep, left over from summer like a stack of books after a flood, left over like those promises I never keep. On the right, the scrub pine tree waits like a fruit store holding up bunches of tufted broccoli. We watch the wind from our square bed. I press down my index finger -- half in jest, half in dread -- on the brown mole under your left eye, inherited from my right cheek: a spot of danger where a bewitched worm ate its way through our soul in search of beauty. My child, since July the leaves have been fed secretly from a pool of beet-red dye. And sometimes they are battle green with trunks as wet as hunters' boots, smacked hard by the wind, clean as oilskins. No, the wind's not off the ocean. Yes, it cried in your room like a wolf and your pony tail hurt you. That was a long time ago. The wind rolled the tide like a dying woman. She wouldn't sleep, she rolled there all night, grunting and sighing. Darling, life is not in my hands; life with its terrible changes will take you, bombs or glands, your own child at your breast, your own house on your own land. Outside the bittersweet turns orange. Before she died, my mother and I picked those fat branches, finding orange nipples on the gray wire strands. We weeded the forest, curing trees like cripples. Your feet thump-thump against my back and you whisper to yourself. Child, what are you wishing? What pact are you making? What mouse runs between your eyes? What ark can I fill for you when the world goes wild? The woods are underwater, their weeds are shaking in the tide; birches like zebra fish flash by in a pack. Child, I cannot promise that you will get your wish. I cannot promise very much. I give you the images I know. Lie still with me and watch. A pheasant moves by like a seal, pulled through the mulch by his thick white collar. He's on show like a clown. He drags a beige feather that he removed, one time, from an old lady's hat. We laugh and we touch. I promise you love. Time will not take away that.

I understand, intellectually, that the death of a parent is a natural, acceptable part of life. Nobody would call the death of a very sick eighty-year-old woman a tragedy. There was soft weeping at her funeral and red watery eyes. No wrenching sobs. Now I think that I should have let myself sob. I should have wailed and beaten my chest and thrown myself over her coffin. I read a poem. A pretty, touching poem I thought she would have liked. I should have used my own words. I should have said: No one will ever love me as fiercely as my mother did. I should have said: You all think you’re at the funeral of a sweet little old lady, but you’re at the funeral of a girl called Clara, who had long blond hair in a heavy thick plait down to her waist, who fell in love with a shy man who worked on the railways, and they spent years and years trying to have a baby, and when Clara finally got pregnant, they danced around the living room but very slowly, so as not to hurt the baby, and the first two years of her little girl’s life were the happiest of Clara’s life, except then her husband died, and she had to bring up the little girl on her own, before there was a single mother’s pension, before the words “single mother” even existed. I should have told them about how when I was at school, if the day became unexpectedly cold, Mum would turn up in the school yard with a jacket for me. I should have told them that she hated broccoli with such a passion she couldn’t even look at it, and that she was in love with the main character on the English television series Judge John Deed. I should have told them that she loved to read and she was a terrible cook, because she’d try to cook and read her latest library book at the same time, and the dinner always got burned and the library book always got food spatters on it, and then she’d spend ages trying to dab them away with the wet corner of a tea towel. I should have told them that my mum thought of Jack as her own grandchild, and how she made him a special racing car quilt he adored. I should have talked and talked and grabbed both sides of the lectern and said: She was not just a little old lady. She was Clara. She was my mother. She was wonderful.

Cheeseburger-Stuffed Twice-Baked Potatoes • MAKES 8 SERVINGS • THIS RECIPE IS THE LUSCIOUS love-child of a stuffed potato skin and a cheeseburger, where Russet potatoes are scooped out and twice-baked to make crispy carriers for a generous helping of beefy filling that’s smothered in melted cheddar cheese. It tastes as decadent as it sounds, but it is actually quite healthy, because hollowing out the potatoes keeps carbs in check (and gives you the makings of mashed potatoes for the next day) and amping up lean beef with chopped mushrooms, broccoli, and tomatoes gives you a big portion with a sensible amount of meat.

What a job, to raise someone from birth to adulthood, bestowing upon them your knowledge and your values and, despite your best intentions, any number of traits you’ve inherited yourself. What a loaded task, to make every move, every day, in such a way that the impressionable larva-person in your home will see your example, process it into something within herself, and grow layers of muscle and soul over it until she is a fully developed human being. And all the while, the little person you’re nurturing is fighting you—spitting out the broccoli, not wearing the helmet, rolling her eyes at your carefully chosen words of advice—and you become constantly worn down even as you pour your energies into loving her.

Then one night a report about breast cancer came on the news, all about mammograms and early detection, women talking about finding a lump in their breast. We were making dinner. We always turned the television off when we sat down to eat but we could watch it while we were cooking. That was the rule. “I have one of those,” she said to the television set. “You had a mammogram?” She shook her head. She wasn’t looking at me. “A lump.” I had been cutting up a head of broccoli and I put down the knife and washed my hands. “What did you do about it?” “I didn’t do anything about it.” “What did the doctor say?” She looked at me then. “The whole thing scared me to death.” “So what happened?” My brain insisted on hearing it in the past tense, I had a lump in my breast once. I couldn’t understand that this was something that was happening. “I thought I’d wait for you to come home,” she said. “You’re always so good at figuring things out.” “I’ve been home three months.” But she had found the lump a year before, and taped a gauze square over it when it started to leak. When I looked at her again I could actually see a disruption in the pattern of her dress. That’s how big it was. Once we started making the hopeless rounds of oncologist appointments, the past broke away. All the things I’d thought about myself before—I am an actress, I am not an actress, I was in love, I was betrayed—disintegrated into nothing. I made bowls of Cream of Wheat she wouldn’t eat and then scraped them into the trash once they turned cold. I managed the schedule of people who wanted to come and see her, her two sons and two daughters—one of those daughters my mother—my father, my brothers, all my cousins, all her friends. I made sure no one stayed too long. I sat by her bed and read to her.

The Enchanted Broccoli Forest. Oh, what a pleasure that was! Mollie Katzen's handwritten and illustrated recipes that recalled some glorious time in upstate New York when a girl with an appetite could work at a funky vegetarian restaurant and jot down some tasty favorites between shifts. That one had the Pumpkin Tureen soup that Margo had made so many times when she first got the book. She loved the cheesy onion soup served from a pumpkin with a hot dash of horseradish and rye croutons. And the Cardamom Coffee Cake, full of butter, real vanilla, and rich brown sugar, said to be a favorite at the restaurant, where Margo loved to imagine the patrons picking up extras to take back to their green, grassy, shady farmhouses dotted along winding country roads. Linda's Kitchen by Linda McCartney, Paul's first wife, the vegetarian cookbook that had initially spurred her yearlong attempt at vegetarianism (with cheese and eggs, thank you very much) right after college. Margo used to have to drag Calvin into such phases and had finally lured him in by saying that surely anything Paul would eat was good enough for them. Because of Linda's Kitchen, Margo had dived into the world of textured vegetable protein instead of meat, and tons of soups, including a very good watercress, which she never would have tried without Linda's inspiration. It had also inspired her to get a gorgeous, long marble-topped island for prep work. Sometimes she only cooked for the aesthetic pleasure of the gleaming marble topped with rustic pottery containing bright fresh veggies, chopped to perfection. Then Bistro Cooking by Patricia Wells caught her eye, and she took it down. Some pages were stuck together from previous cooking nights, but the one she turned to, the most splattered of all, was the one for Onion Soup au Gratin, the recipe that had taught her the importance of cheese quality. No mozzarella or broken string cheeses with- maybe- a little lacy Swiss thrown on. And definitely none of the "fat-free" cheese that she'd tried in order to give Calvin a rich dish without the cholesterol. No, for this to be great, you needed a good, aged, nutty Gruyère from what you couldn't help but imagine as the green grassy Alps of Switzerland, where the cows grazed lazily under a cheerful children's-book blue sky with puffy white clouds. Good Gruyère was blocked into rind-covered rounds and aged in caves before being shipped fresh to the USA with a whisper of fairy-tale clouds still lingering over it. There was a cheese shop downtown that sold the best she'd ever had. She'd tried it one afternoon when she was avoiding returning home. A spunky girl in a visor and an apron had perked up as she walked by the counter, saying, "Cheese can change your life!" The charm of her youthful innocence would have been enough to be cheered by, but the sample she handed out really did it. The taste was beyond delicious. It was good alone, but it cried out for ham or turkey or a rich beefy broth with deep caramelized onions for soup.

And then there was his love affair with my best friend, perhaps the only woman he’d ever seen drink several glasses of bai-jiu and smoke a half-pack of cigarettes in a single seating. Each dish that night had a special presentation, a colorful ring of carrots about the twice-fried eggplant, a garland of thinly-sliced chilies haloing the garlicky green beans, a well-placed broccoli head in the fish’s open mouth. She smiled at him when he gave her one of his cigarettes, coyly lighting it with a subtle turn of the wrist, and after she took her first long drag, he motioned us up. Never to be repeated, he brought us back his narrow kitchen, a blackened wok bubbling over a powerful blue fire. Deftly splashing it with alcohol, he flipped the contents into the air and watched the flame dance across her eyes.

He had carte blanche to eat whatever he wanted. No amount of broccoli and vitamin D kills ten lung tumors and I know not how many brain tumors. Have the tiramisu.

No, I love to break rules.

I was thinking omelets today. Maybe broccoli and cheese?” Sean’s head slumped over his coffee cup and Emma knew she had to say something…without telling her grandmother she’d fed her own fiancé a food he hated her first night home. “Um…how about mushrooms instead?” Gram rummaged in the fridge. “I don’t see any mushrooms. We still have broccoli, though.” “Sean only eats broccoli once in a while, like for special occasions,” Emma said in a rush. “He loves it, but it…it makes him gassy.” Since Gram still had her head over the crisper door, Sean was free to give her a what-the-hell look and she gave him an apologetic smile. After three weeks of living a lie—or two different lies—she should have been better at thinking on her feet. “We can’t have that,” Gram said. “”We still have some leftover ham. How do ham-and-cheese omelets sound?” “That sounds wonderful,” Sean said, still glaring at Emma.

No matter what anybody said, he loved the Alisal, he thought as he drew in a deep breath. Standing under the light by the Packing Shed, where he could see the quiet, dark streets, he marveled at how much the neighborhood changed between day and night. In a few hours, even before the sun came up, hundreds of men and women would crawl out from their houses to go pick lettuce and broccoli in the surrounding fields. Like his mom. The streets would be a cacophony of sounds, a well-orchestrated chaos of cars and people.

She wouldn’t have traded being there for any other location in the world. Wouldn’t have traded it for all the exotic destinations flaunted in Pan Am travel brochures. Not Tahiti, not Monte Carlo, not Hong Kong. No, she wanted to be here, in this ramshackle market not a ten-minute drive from her humdrum house and life. Except it wasn’t a humdrum life anymore, was it? No, I’m at the most exciting place on Earth. The center of the world. The Roman Forum during the reign of Augustus Caesar. “Let’s explore more,” John said after he deposited a head of broccoli into the cart.

We celebrated her freedom on Tuesday night with a visit to Opart Thai House, where I introduced her to the magic of brilliantly prepared Thai dishes for the first time. She really loved the appetizers, especially the Tiger Cry, a marinated grilled beef with a spicy dipping sauce, as well as the chicken and eggplant in oyster sauce, and pad kra praow, a ground-pork dish with basil and peppers, which felt almost familiar to her- it has a background that tastes a bit like crumbled Italian fennel sausage. She liked the pad Thai, which she thought her youngest would really enjoy, and was sure that Gio would at least get into the various satays and embrace the broccoli and beef.

No, you're not passing up on A good glorious kitchen gadget. You're passing up on THE glorious kitchen appliance. The key is to get one which has 3 knobs: temperature, mode (bake/toast/broil), and time. Instead of easily making toast, I love to butter the bakery first and obtain it properly caramelized under the broiler. Merely today I warmed up some leftover biscuits and waffles; instead of coming out just a little soggy and rubbery in the microwave they turn out just simply because crisp and very good as if they were new. Pizza tastes 100x better rewarmed in a toaster oven than a microwave; cheese is definitely nice and melty rather than scorching warm and rubbery (like in a microwave). We generate garlic bread all the time; utilize it on bake for some minutes then zap it on broil until stuff are browned. Jalapeno poppers happen to be another prevalent thing I take advantage of it for when simply producing them for a 1-2 people. Roasted garlic, quesadillas, baked broccoli, stuffed mushrooms... all sorts of things that work effectively in it. We guess it creates more impression for smaller sized households, but we use ours many times a day time (family of 3). It's easily our most-applied counter top appliance. In 15 years I've never needed a normal toaster, and I take in an unhealthy volume of toast. Overall, just super versatile and significantly better for reheating anything baked, or doing little baking batches and never have to heat the oven.

compose a very stupid song titled “I love sausages in my ice cream” and get an award for it or become well-known for creating an odd superhero named Broccoliman who saves the world by eating tons of broccoli?

broccoli

YOUR LONGEVITY HEALTH, FITNESS & LONGEVITY WEEKLY CHECKLIST 1. Hydrate. Drink half your body weight in ounces of water per day. Add some fresh lemon and a pinch of Celtic sea salt to optimize your hydration and electrolyte balance. 2. Eat foods closest to their natural source. Avoid processed carbs, and low quality processed meats. 3. Decrease Disease Risk. Consume at least one serving of cruciferous vegetables per day including broccoli sprouts, cauliflower, broccoli, brussels sprouts, or kale. 4. Commit to a structured eating window. Consume meals in an 8 to 12 hours and fast for 12-16 hour window each day. 5. Stay consistent with sleep. Go to sleep and wake up at about the same times each day. 6. Get strong. Perform three resistance training sessions per week. 7. Strengthen your heart, lungs, and build endurance with 3 cardiovascular exercise sessions of 20 to 30 minutes each session. 8. Consider the power of using heat and cold to use positive stressors to lower your blood pressure, reduce inflammation, reduce your risk of Alzheimer’s, and cut your risk of cardiovascular disease by up to 50%.

So think about eating plenty of red foods to support healthy Akkermansia (sorry girls, I’m not talking about red wine here): cherries, raspberries, strawberries, pomegranate seeds, red grapes, red apples, and red peppers. Cruciferous vegetables like broccoli, cauliflower, Brussels sprouts, cabbage, kale, and artichokes contain compounds that help detoxify estrogen. Prebiotics and probiotic-rich foods are bacterial darlings. Gut bacteria love to munch on prebiotic foods like garlic, onion, asparagus, and bananas. Probiotic foods such as kefir, kombucha, kimchi, sauerkraut, and other fermented foods bring beneficial bacterial strains, like lactobacillus, to the gut.

Incidentally, when you put inverted commas around a word in this way, as I just did around the word 'sick,' it means that you don't really believe that the word in question is true. In this case, I know that you weren't really sick that day; you just felt like having a morning off to watch children's television in your pajamas. Hence 'sick,' instead of, well, sick. If you really want to annoy someone, you can make little inverted commas by holding up two fingers of each hand and twitching them gently, as though you're tickling an invisible elf under the armpits. For example, when your mother calls you for dinner, and dinner turns out to be boiled fish and broccoli, you can say to her, 'Well, I'll just eat my 'dinner,' then,' and do the little fingers sign. She'll love it. Seriously, I can hear her laughing already.

7 foods that Naturally cleanse your Liver This article lists the 7 best foods to eat to keep your liver healthy: 1. Garlic Garlic Garlic contains sulfur compounds that are essential for supporting the liver and activating liver enzymes that are answerable for flushing out toxins and waste from the body. Garlic additionally contains element, a very important mineral and nutrient that assists in detoxification and supports the ductless gland. 2. Walnuts These oddly-shaped balmy contain high levels of l-arginine, glutathione, and polyunsaturated fatty acid fatty acids, all of that facilitate to detoxify the liver and support poison elimination. Plus, they're nice for fighting inflammation and supporting the health of the brain. 3. Citrus Fruits Lemons, limes and grapefruits are all natural sources of water-soluble vitamin and contain several potent antioxidants. Like garlic, citrus fruits have the flexibility to spice up the assembly of liver detoxification enzymes. 4. Turmeric This unimaginable herb contains a large indefinite amount of antioxidants that facilitate to repair the liver cells, shield against cellular injury and assist in detoxification. Turmeric is especially smart at serving to the liver hospital ward from serious metals and assist in endocrine metabolism. Turmeric conjointly boosts the assembly of gall and improves the health of the bladder. You can create Associate in nursing array of delectable chuck victimisation turmeric, starting from pumpkin and turmeric soup to “golden ice.” 5. Broccoli Along with alternative genus Brassica vegetables, like Belgian capital sprouts, cabbage and cauliflower, broccoli contains sulfur compounds, similar to garlic, that facilitate to support the detoxification method and also the health of the liver. In fact, these fibrous veggies will facilitate flush out toxins from your gut, and that they contain compounds that facilitate support the liver in metabolising hormones. 6. Leafy Vegetables The bitterer, the better! Your liver loves bitter, therefore fill on blow ball, rapini, arugula, leaf mustard and chicory. These foliaceous greens contain varied cleansing compounds that neutralize serious metals, which might abate the liver’s ability to detoxify. Plus, they assist to stimulate digestive fluid flow. 7. Avocado This unimaginable fruit contains glutathione that may be a powerful inhibitor that helps to guard the liver from incoming waste and toxins. It conjointly assists the liver in eliminating these chemicals from your body and protects against cellular harm.

Red and white wine (TBD) Victory Brewing Company Prima Pilsner Soft pretzel bread/spicy mustard sauce Cheesesteak arancini/homemade marinara sauce Deconstructed pork sandwich: braised pork belly, sautéed broccoli rabe, provolone bread pudding Lemon water ice Commissary carrot cake I'm particularly proud of my riff on the pork sandwich, one of Philadelphia's lesser-known specialties. Everyone presupposes the cheesesteak is Philadelphia's best sandwich, when, in fact, my favorite has always been the roast pork. Juicy, garlicky slices of pork are layered with broccoli rabe and sharp provolone on a fresh roll, the rich juices soaking into the soft bread while the crunchy crust acts like a torpedo shell, keeping everything inside. The flavors explode in your mouth in each bite: the bitter broccoli rabe, the assertive cheese, the combination of garlic and spices and tender pork.

To this day, it is embarrassment that is the most perplexing emotion I've felt in response to death. I know this might sound strange and, frankly, I find it impossible to even describe. But I felt like a failure. I felt like I'd been caught unaware, like I'd been ambushed. I felt irresponsible somehow, like I'd let my guard down or been naive. I look at old pictures of my family—smiling, happy, and blissfully unaware of the catastrophe that would befall us. And I think, We were so stupid. We were such suckers. How did we not see it coming? Why weren't we prepared? Why didn't we build a bunker or something? Tim likes to tease me because if ever I'm hosting a dinner party and the meal is a bit overdone, I like to announce garishly to the group: "I just want everyone to know that I know the food is burned!" The thought of serving a bad-tasting meal, or having broccoli in my teeth, or of having my pants zipper down without my knowledge is horrifying to me. I don't exactly mind failing, but I like to do it on my own terms, undergirded by my own self-awareness. The thought of being oblivious petrifies me. But death plays by no rules and doesn't care how it might sully your reputation. No amount of self-awareness lessens its sting. It will come for you and the ones you love the most, whether you are oblivious or if you see it coming a million miles away.

Mac’s Mac N’ Cheese One box of elbow macaroni (cooked and drained) 1/2 cup of sour cream 1 cup of milk 1 can of Campbell's condensed cheese soup 1 ½ cups of (orange) cheddar cheese, 1 1/2 cups of white sharp cheddar cheese, grated 2 eggs 1 teaspoon of ground mustard 1 teaspoon of adobo or seasoned salt ½ tsp pepper ¼ cup parmesan cheese 3 tablespoons of butter Boil pasta for six minutes, then drain.  The crock pot should be set to high.  Add pasta to crock pot along with grated cheeses, cheddar soup, sour cream, butter, milk and eggs.  Mix all together then add all the seasonings.  If desired, add additional cheese or sour cream.  You can periodically check back to make sure it is not browning too much at the sides.  You can stir every now and again. 2 hours to 2.5 hours on high is pretty near perfection although slow cooker times vary.  You can always check on it and look at the sides.  If they are browning too much you can always turn the temp down to low.  The cheese is very flexible also.  You can use different types of cheese or add more or less depending on your taste.  I once caught Delilah adding more cheddar cheese to the crock pot. I honestly think this is the macaroni and cheese recipe I will stick to like glue.  It is amazing.  And it can be tweaked.  Bacon bits can be added to the mac n cheese.  Add some lobster for a nice seafood lobster mac n’ cheese.  Bread crumbs can be sprinkled over the top at the end.  Or if you want to add some veggies, broccoli can be placed on top as well.  Brandon and Rose added sliced hot dogs for AJ since hotdogs are his favorite.

How’d she take it.” Sean thought for a second. “Truthfully? She wasn’t that impressed. She knew her daddy had a plane and she wants a ride. She took it right in stride, like she’d been expecting me to show up any second.” “And you?” Aiden asked. “You take it in stride?” “Aw, hell, it wore me out so bad I fell asleep on her little bed. Slept until the sun was down. After spending about three hours with her—eating her imaginary chicken and broccoli, reading books, picking up toys, talking about bikes and dogs and playmates at school—I was shot. She has these high heels she wears. She took some to school so her friend Jason could wear them, too.” He grumbled. “While I was asleep, she painted my face with magic markers…” Aiden whooped with laughter. “Yeah, you laugh. I’ll turn her loose on you.” “I’d love that,” Aiden said. “When can I meet her?” “Gimme some time, Aiden. I’m way behind the power curve here. I don’t know anything about kids, and there is so much to know. You have no idea.” “She’s just a kid, Sean. Don’t overthink it. Enjoy her.” “Did you know that when a little kid poops, you have to check their little butt to make sure they wiped it clean? Did you know that?” Aiden chuckled. “Yes, Sean, I knew that.” “Where the hell do you learn something like that?” “I dated a woman with a couple of little kids. Haven’t you? Ever dated a single young mother?” Sean was quiet for a moment. “Not really.” “How can you not really date a young mother?” “I’ve gone out with women with kids before, yeah. But I’ve never been around the kids. I have friends with kids, but I never paid attention to that stuff. I’m in way over my head.” “Franci will help you with all that. How is Franci?” “Cautious. I told her I thought we should get married and she told me to slow down—she wants to be sure it’s the right move.” “Bullshit. She wants to be sure you’re in love with her. That you can be a lover and a family man. Don’t you know anything about women?” “Not as much as I thought I did,” Sean admitted. “My little brother the playboy,” Aiden said. “Time to take life a little more seriously, huh? I want to meet her. Rosie. Let me know the minute I can. And I’d love to see Franci again.” “You know, just because Rosie took me in stride doesn’t mean the entire Riordan clan won’t be a little overwhelming for her,” Sean said. “Let’s not throw her in the deep end of the pool, huh?” “Red hair and green eyes, I hear,” Aiden said. “Like Mom and Paddy and half our cousins. That must have been a shock.” “The second I saw her, I knew. Plus, it couldn’t be anyone else’s kid—Franci and I were tight.” He paused. “Till we weren’t.” “Well,

For a while, she’d held on to some illusion of control. And then, right about the time Ricky gave up his afternoon nap, she finally understood that for all the schedules and consistency, the rewards and reprimands, ultimately it’s the child who chooses how to behave. It’s the parent’s responsibility to provide the safe environment, the predictable rules, the loving discipline, and the healthy meals, but ultimately the child has to be the one to put the broccoli in his mouth, chew, and swallow.

Broccoli branches, mashed potatoes, spools of gravy, sliced pillowy white bread. It slides on to Sirine's plate, glossy with butter. The meat loaf is oniony and dense under its charred crust, dressed in sweet puddles of ketchup. On the counter there's a food-stained copy of The Joy of Cooking and a red-plaid Betty Crocker cookbook, both from the library. She's impressed. No one ever wants to cook for her; the rare home-dinners at friends' houses are served with anxiety and apologies. But Han just seems excited- his skin slightly damp and pink from the kitchen heat- and intrigued by the new kind of cooking, a shift of ingredients like a move from native tongue into a foreign language: butter instead of olive oil; potatoes instead of rice; beef instead of lamb. He seats her on a pillow on the blue cloth and then sets the dishes before her on the cloth. He sits across from her, one knee skimming hers. They touch and she makes herself lean forward to reach the bowl of potatoes. Their knees graze again. Han tastes each dish while looking at Sirine, so the meal seems like a question. She nods and praises him lavishly. "Mm, the rich texture of this meat loaf- the egg and breadcrumbs- and these bits of onion are so good, and there's a little chili powder and dry mustard, isn't there? It's lovely. And there's something in the sauce... something..." "You mean ketchup?" Han asks. "Oh yes, I suppose that's it." She smiles. "That's remarkable." Sirine smiles vaguely, tips her head, not sure of what he means. "What?" "The way you taste things...." He gestures over the food, picks up a bite of meat loaf in his fingers as if it were an olive. "You know what everything here is- I mean exactly." "Oh no." She laughs. "It's so basic, anyone can do that. It's like you just taste the starting places- where it all came from. Unless of course it's ketchup." He gazes at her, then carefully takes her hand and kisses her fingers. "Then I think you must be of this place." Sirine laughs again, disconcerted by his intensity. "Well, I don't know about that, but I think food should taste like where it came from. I mean good food especially. You can sort of trace it back. You know, so the best butter tastes a little like pastures and flowers, that sort of stuff. Things show their origins

If you really want to annoy someone, you can make little inverted commas by holding up two fingers of each hand and twitching them gently, as though you're tickling an invisible elf under the armpits. For example, when your mother calls you for dinner, and dinner turns out to be boiled fish and broccoli, you can say to her, "Well, I'll just eat my 'dinner', then," and do the little fingers sign. She'll love it. Seriously. I can hear her laughing already.

Beet greens Bell peppers (red, yellow, green) Broccoli Brussels sprouts Cabbage Carrots Cassava Cauliflower Celery Chicory Chives Cilantro Collard greens Cucumber Dandelion greens Eggplant Endive Fennel Garlic Green beans Jalapeños Jicama

Incidentally, when you put inverted commas around a word in this way, as I just did around the word 'sick,' it means that you don't really believe that the word in question is true. In this case, I know that you weren't' really sick that day; you just felt like having a morning off to watch children's television in your pajamas. Hence 'sick,' instead of, well, sick. If you really want to annoy someone, you can make little inverted commas by holding up two fingers of each hand and twitching them gently, as though you're tickling an invisible elf under the armpits. For example, when your mother calls you for dinner, and dinner turns out to be boiled fish and broccoli, you can say to her, 'Well, I'll just eat my 'dinner,' then,' and do the little fingers sign. She'll love it. Seriously, I can hear her laughing already.

Foreign locations often presented problems to the caterers. The British crews rarely ate any local foods ‘Call this proper food?’ you’d hear the cry go up, ‘We want steak pudding, sausage and mash and treacle sponge with custard.’There was one day when something went wrong in Egypt and word reached us mid-morning that there wouldn’t be any lunch. Cubby knew he’d have a revolt on his hands, and so – somehow – gathered together huge great cooking pots, bundles of pasta and meat, and made a wonderful pasta with meatballs and sauce. He served it up to the boys and girls himself too. Cubby liked nothing better than to cook, and the crew liked nothing better than to eat. You can see why everyone loved Cubby so much – and he was ‘Cubby’ to everyone. There was no ‘Mr Broccoli’ on his set.