Chai Quotes

I could not stop wasting time. It was crazy. I wanted to do something with my life, but instead I went to sleep, or sung in the shower, or sat and stared at the wall. I couldn't even tell you about anything that I saw. I didn't talk to anybody. The cicadas kept dying outside, and as I dreamed, my mouth grew thick and venomous with silence.

Though there had been moments of beauty in it Mariam knew that life for most part had been unkind to her. But as she walked the final twenty paces, she could not help but wish for more of it. She wished she could see Laila again, wished to hear the clangor of her laugh, to sit with her once more for a pot of chai and leftover halwa under a starlit sky. She mourned that she would never see Aziza grow up, would not see the beautiful young woman that she would one day become, would not get to paint her hands with henna and toss noqul candy at her wedding. She would never play with Aziza's children. She would have liked that very much , to be old and play with Aziza's children. Mariam wished for so much in those final moments. Yet as she closed her eyes, it was not regret any longer but a sensation of abundant peace that washed over her. She thought of her entry into this world, the harami child of a lowly villager, an unintended thing, a pitiable, regrettable accident. A weed. And yet she was leaving the world as a woman who had loved and been loved back. She was leaving it as a friend, a companion, a guardian. A mother. A person of consequence at last. No. It was not so bad , Mariam thought, that she should die this way. Not so bad. This was a legitimate end to a life of illegitimate beginnings.

Xu cười đã bảo rồi, người tỉnh không khóc như trẻ nít vậy đâu. Người tỉnh càng mất nhiều càng chai lì, càng thản nhiên.

Love and passion are well and good while they last, but in the end what mattes is whether you like the person you are with. Friendship and companionship matter more. They are the things that last. And if in the end we learn to be friends, I will be content.

मैं अक्सर सोचा करता हूँ , जाने कितना प्यार लगा होगा इतनी नफ़रत के लिये

आज हक़ीक़त से बढ़ के कोई फ़रियाद मांग ले, आज छत पे चड़के आसमां से चाँद मांग ले

I think I'll try the cinnamon-spice chai latte," she said, giving me a stern look that said, I will not be ashamed of my beverage selection.

The best thing we could have done for Afghanistan was to get out of our Humvees and drink more green chai. We should have focused less on finding the enemy, and more on finding our friends.

Everyone lies about writing. They lie about how easy it is or how hard it was. They perpetuate a romantic idea that writing is some beautiful experience that takes place in an architectural room filled with leather novels and chai tea. They talk about their “morning ritual” and how they “dress for writing” and the cabin in Big Sur where they go to “be alone”—blah blah blah. No one tells the truth about writing a book. Authors pretend their stories were always shiny and perfect and just waiting to be written. The truth is, writing is this: hard and boring and occasionally great but usually not. Even I have lied about writing. I have told people that writing this book has been like brushing away dirt from a fossil. What a load of shit. It has been like hacking away at a freezer with a screwdriver. I wrote this book after my kids went to sleep. I wrote this book on subways and on airplanes and in between setups while I shot a television show. I wrote this book from scribbled thoughts I kept in the Notes app on my iPhone and conversations I had with myself in my own head before I went to sleep. I wrote it ugly and in pieces.

क्यों बेमतलब सी बातों मे तुम मतलब ढूँढा करते हो, कुछ बेमतलब सी बातों को बेमतलब ही रहने दो

Desperate people lose the thing that makes them human beings. They lose their heart. Anger and hate fill them so that they act like animals.

The chaiwallah brought sabz chai, Kashmiri-style. It was pink and milky, sprinkled with cardamom and brimming with crushed pistachios and almonds. A romantic tea, I always thought.

Every unhappy person thinks her unhappiness is unique.

The past defines us as much as the present. By never knowing my past, I was never sure of who I was. Because mine was missing, I never felt whole.

Am Israel chai, the people of Israel are still alive, and they will exist, and they will always exist - no matter how many times they try to destroy us. We will always stay here.

The word itself creates an empty sensation. Try saying it now. "Why?" Notice how your tongue touches nothing when you form the word with your mouth. Feel the gap, the space inside your mouth, that it creates. The air. It is a place that needs filling. It is missing an answer.

It was very cally and vonny, with one bulb in the ceiling with fly-dirt like obscuring its bit of light, and there were early rabbiters slurping away at chai and horrible-looking sausages and slices of kleb which they like wolfed, going wolf wolf wolf and then creeching for more.

But tales like this must not be taken as truth. You must remind yourself that it is hard to tell where truth ends and a lie begins. So listen all you like, but disbelieve all you hear... You are in the city of lies.

The vision one holds of one's life is so limited, reduced in scope to a moment, so that each person can make choices only within that narrowed reality.

The stories we tell each other, and the stories we tell ourselves. The stories we reveal, and those we hide. The stories we tell our children. These are the temples we build, they must not be erased.

I was someone hungry for stories; more specifically, I was someone who craved after facts...I was, you see, at the start of this tale, a person with history. I had no story of my own. Lacking this, I developed a curiosity about other people's lives.

Watch it...people who keep things inside them develop all sorts of disease...all that emotional gunk's got to find an outlet. Angry people develop cysts; stubborn people get arthritis; resentful people die of cancer.

Fate, no doubt, had a hand in it.

steaming of cup of mint chai.

Can these foods [low-fat, vitamin-enriched, etc] even be called "healthy"? Perhaps we should think about it this way: If you cut a batch of pharmaceutical-grade cocaine with chai, you could say with some degree of honesty that it is "healthier," "less addictive," and "now with chai!" But would you say it's "good for you"?

Everyone lies about writing. They lie about how easy it is or how hard it was. They perpetuate a romantic idea that writing is some beautiful experience that takes place in an architectural room filled with leather novels and chai tea.

ALWAYS FULL OF QUESTIONS...How many times must I tell you, better to listen than to talk. But you're always talking...asking useless things...whatever for?" "Because I want to know.

I notice there’s a fourth cup, one she didn’t gesture to. “And what’s that one?” “That’s a chai latte,” Parker says. “For me.” “And what if chai lattes are my signature drink?” I deadpan. Without any hesitation, Parker pushes the cup my way. “Then it’s yours.

We can fight fire with water provided we can get it there soon enough. But often we act when it's too late. The result is splattered in the pages of our history: bloodbaths, uprisings, revolutions, you name. And on it goes. We learn so slowly. After so many centuries, we're still a people who eat fire and drink water.' 'Why bother,then?' 'Because we have to believe that one day we'll learn.

Absurdly, I placed an order for a Venti Chai Latte while Judge Lambert famously told The Defendant that someday soon a current of electricity would pass through his body until he was pronounced dead by the warden, and that he should, even more absurdly, take care of himself.

Hipster (n.): Yes, you ride a fixed-gear bike and drink single-origin chai from a local specially abled artist’s hand-thrown ceramic mug. Your bi-friend only listens to cassettes, and you just love vintage flats, and your rescue dog is named Cobain. Please just wear your hat and glasses and turned-up pants and defy categorizing. Remember: you will one day be driving a Volvo with toys thrown willy-nilly and Burger King wrappers on the floor, listening to Sade and digging it unironically. Even the freshest kale can go brown and wilt. Cave futurum.

Hơn sáu vạn giáo sư, bác sỹ, sinh viên, thanh niên lẽ ra có thể dành những năm đẹp nhất của cuộc đời mình để cống hiến cho xã hội những gì mà họ thành thạo nhất. Vậy mà, để được chế độ thừa nhận, họ đã phải xuống biển, lên rừng, bàn tay chai sần đi và kiến thức chuyên môn thì mai một.

One of the many online arguments I've had about the importance if language, how language can hurt, has been about tea. Chai tea means tea tea. The number of times you see this on a menu makes you wonder why people can't be bothered to do their research. Like naan bread too. Bread bread.

i smile. things taken for granted have a way of catching you offguard when you least expect it, and then you're taken by what the portuguese calls saudade, a sense of longing for something, someone not there anymore.

Mình điên, hoặc thế giới này điên, chỉ có thể là một trong hai. Mình không biết rốt cuộc là bên nào điên. Miệng chai và nắp chai không vừa nhau. Cũng có thể trách cái chai, mà cũng có thể trách cái nắp. Nhưng dù thế nào cũng không thể thay đổi được sự thực miệng chai và nắp chai không vừa..." (Aomame)

Manila is a city of extremes. The poor are very poor and the rich very rich. They live side by side. The rich live in sprawling houses in residential subdivisions with fancy names like Green Meadows, White Plains, Corinthian Plaza, Bel Air, San Lorenzo, Magallanes and the very exclusive Forbes Park, a leafy enclave that was home to the famous Manila Polo Club. The poor are not far from sight. They live in little pockets on the periphery of these affluent subdivisions. A constant reminder to the rich that there is another side to life.

Sometimes you just need to embrace your inner dorkiness, weirdness, and craziness.

Karena itu aku tidak mau seperti mereka yang sudah jelas-jelas ditolak olehmu tapi masih saja menyatakan cinta. Apakah itu tidak bodoh namanya? – Fanny

A sudden memory: drinking chai tea with

For Indians, chai resolves most things, consoles for the things it can't.

my own ears, I sound like an overinvolved mother. Is that how Nimmi sees me? I reach for my cup and drain my chai. Malik is twenty, a grown man. But in him I still see the eager, enterprising boy he used to be.

on page 149 of 476 on From Beirut to Jerusalem : " Kumohon pada setiap burung yang lewat untuk mengatakan kerinduan dan rasa cintaku kepadamu, untuk kemudian kembali membawa berita tentang orang-orang yang kucintai

My parents' silences about many things alarmed me. They made me aware of invisible lines that I couldn't see that they drew between themselves and the rest of the world. I never knew when that line might be drawn to exclude me.

He's gone," Sara said. "I can feel it. This time for good." Natalie hugged her, and she started to sob. Then Harry shattered the silence with a pained yell, hurling his thermos into the woods. With tears in his eyes, he said, "I want a drink." I hugged him fiercely. "It'll have to be one of my special chais, Harry. Have I made you a dirty one yet?" "I want mine filthy," he said. We trudged back to the museum together, and toasted Coby with dirty vanilla chai lattes.

Jo called her preferred coffee shop the next morning, the one where Emma picked up her latte every day. She added an iced chai to her standing order. It was something she did sometimes, after late-night shoots or before a long day. A little pick-me-up for Emma.

There is very little that is natural left in people when they stray from the cities. Day hiking in Gore-Tex with a bag of trail mix and a cell phone in a fanny pack and a bottle of iced chai tea clipped to your belt isn’t actually natural, it’s tourism, or worse, voyeurism.

When the Japanese invaded, informers said mother was an important member of the resistance. She was taken in, badly tortured and never confessed. Her life was spared because the Japanese interrogators could not believe a woman could have held such a key role. When her children were grown-up, mother would tell us, ‘It’s not as bad as it sounds. The first time, you’re scared you’ll give away your friends. But there comes a point when you pass out. Once that happens, you cannot feel pain anymore. Once you have learnt that, you can beat your torturers.

From my low perch, I watch the world as it passes by on these dirty side streets. There are no westerners in this corner of the city. Just locals going about their business. Weighing out brightly colored spices, walking back from the fish market, stopping at the paan shop, socializing over tea. Old men in lungis and flip-flops walking hand in hand and dirty-faced children who are all bright smiles and wild eyes. I am comfortable here. Sitting on this board, in this tiny chai stall, hidden away from the recognizable world. For the moment, I have disappeared.

He was holding a tray. On the tray were two glasses of milky Indian chai. ‘Chota hazari, sahib,’ said Ladoo. Bed tea. ‘What a nice gesture,’ I said returning to Olivia. ‘Mrs Puri has sent us up some tea.’ ‘I wish she had sent it up two hours later,’ said Olivia from beneath her sheets.

I can never drink chai anyone else makes. You've ruined me for substandard chai." Ashna smiled. Most people did murder tea. They didn't understand how spices interacted with leaves and basically just threw stuff together and called it a blend. Some even had the gall to call it "tea" when there was no tea in it.

Quote from Chai ❤️‘a review: “I owe an older version of myself some semblance of a past—not a past to outrun but to turn around and embrace. I owe them memories of some kind of happiness, of deep-bone contentment. Like the characters in this book, I don’t want to find myself at the finish line, realizing that I’ve never run the race.

I considered pushing Chai a little more just to see what would happen. There were all sorts of ways to play with the idea of a werewolf therapist being James Bond. Live and Let Cry. No wait, would Live and Let It All Out be better? Live and Let Chai? Full Moonraker. The Spy Who Emotionally Displaced Needs onto Me. Dr. Noooooarrrhgggh!

Her store was small but cozy. Pastel vases presented fresh pink peonies on the windowsills while Teresa Tang sang through the speakers. My lifelong love affair with tea had begun here at a very young age. I'd had my formal introduction to rooibos, matcha, chai, maté, and pu'erh, all seducing me with their floral, fruity, earthy scents.

I surveyed my surroundings. The hill was covered with sweet-smelling wildflowers and dancing butterflies awash in warm, glowing light—the power of Freya, goddess and ruler of Vanaheim, washing over the realm. On the hilltop, Freya’s handpicked warriors lounged on blankets, laughing and sipping chai. I scowled. Peace, butterflies, chai: this world was awful.

When you enter the home of God, you should get rid of all worldly distractions—that’s the message of the Khajuraho temples.

Duties can be taught but not the responsibilities.

You carry all the ingredients to turn your existence into joy, mix them.

If I were a woman, I would vow the rest of my life to you in appreciation and swear to never marry anyone else.

Io sapevo suonare la tromba. È sorprendente come sia inutile, suonare una tromba, quando c'hai una guerra intorno. E addosso.

Quote from Chai ❤️‘s review of They Both Die At The End by Adam Silvera “I owe an older version of myself some semblance of a past—not a past to outrun but to turn around and embrace. I owe them memories of some kind of happiness, of deep-bone contentment. Like the characters in this book, I don’t want to find myself at the finish line, realizing that I’ve never run the race.

Als ich drei Tassen Chai vor meine Eltern auf den Tisch stelle, sie um ein Gespräch bitte, mache ich mir keine Illusionen. Trotzdem bin ich ruhig, als ich mich ihnen gegenüber niederlasse, meine Stimme zittert nicht und ich sitze aufrecht. Ich ziehe aus, sage ich. Ich bin unsicher, sage ich. Ich bin verliebt. Das sage ich nicht. Aber ich sage: Ich will an meinem Fundament rütteln.

He spent two years running a hospital for Chai.” Molly put her arm around the younger woman. “Which was the equivalent of working the ER in a city like New York or Chicago. He saved a lot of lives.” She made sure Max was paying attention, too. “And before you say, ‘Yeah, of drug runners, killers, and thieves,’ you should also know that his patients were just regular people who worked for Chai because he was the only steady employer in the area. Or because they knew they’d end up in some mass grave if they refused his offer of employment. Before Grady came in, if they were injured in some battle with a rival gang, they were just left for dead.” Jones looked up to find Max watching him as he sterilized a particularly sharp knife. “Me and Jesus,” he said. “So much alike, people often get us confused.

những câu hỏi tôi dành cho thế giới hắn không trả lời không cúi gằm mặt thản nhiên hắn cười tôi cái cười không độ lượng tôi ngủ giấc ngủ của sâu bọ mơ về giấc ngủ của quả xanh tỉnh dậy đã chín cựa mình rơi quả rụng thành hồ giữa sa mạc không ai đến kịp thế giới có thấy mình bị chai sạn không? có thấy điệu cười khẩy nhạt nhẽo lắm không? lớn vậy rồi mà có hiểu câu hỏi không? mực nước biển đồng loạt dâng đột ngột chỉ những con cá khóc

« C’hai ragione, è stupido prendere delle medicine che dovrebbero aiutare le persone a non essere depresse e invece le fa ingrassare, perché essere grassi è un sacco deprimente.» Scossi la testa. Che razza di idiozia poteva spingere qualcuno a mettere la propria vanità al di sopra della propria salute mentale? E che razza di idiota avrebbe potuto avallare una simile scelta? Eppure mi faceva piacere che Darian la pensasse a quel modo. Accidentale o no, era la prima volta che qualcuno mi riconosceva la possibilità di essere frivolo e sciocco come qualsiasi altro individuo. Che mi riconosceva il diritto a non essere grato per il semplice fatto di passare da un giorno all’altro come un gonfio e vacuo zombi. «Allora siamo tutti e due superficiali e ci meritiamo a vicenda,» dissi.

Everyone lies about writing. They lie about how easy it is or how hard it was. They perpetuate a romantic idea that writing is some beautiful experience that takes place in an architectural room filled with leather novels and chai tea. They talk about their “morning ritual” and how they “dress for writing” and the cabin in Big Sur where they go to “be alone”—blah blah blah. No one tells the truth about writing a book. Authors pretend their stories were always shiny and perfect and just waiting to be written. The truth is, writing is this: hard and boring and occasionally great but usually not.

Chàng biết là mỗi bước chân đặt lên bờ là như giẫm phải mảnh chai mảnh sành. Nhưng chàng vẫn bằng lòng để cho bà tiên thay hai lá phổi vào chỗ cái mang cá của chàng. Từ đó chàng lên bờ. Để không phải chịu đau đớn mỗi bước đi, chàng chấp nhận cho hai chân dính liền lại. Chỉ một thời gian mà thôi. Chỉ là một chuyến du lịch. Đi thăm thú đời sống con người mà chàng đã từng sống. Từng có cả người yêu. Bao giờ chàng đọc hết nghe hết nghìn lẻ một câu chuyện thì chàng sẽ tự thấy là đủ. Chàng là người đi sưu tầm chuyện của cõi trần. Sưu tầm đủ nghìn lẻ một chuyện thì chàng sẽ ra bờ biển để đổi đời người lấy lại đời cá.

I am Hannah fucking Kabbah. I go to the supermarket every week without a shopping list. I once memorised an entire psychology textbook the day before an exam after realising I'd been revising the wrong module for weeks. And guess what? I got an A. I spent the first few years of my professional life keeping multiple toddlers alive. Do you know how hard it is to keep toddlers alive, Ms. Chai Latte? It's really fucking hard. And I was good at it. I do not get things wrong. I do not make mistakes. I do not fuck up FUCKING CHAI LATTES. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME? This is what Hannah thought. But what she said was... Oh. Wait. Shit.

Though there had been moments of beauty in it, Mariam knew that life for the most part had been unkind to her. But as she walked the final twenty paces, she could not help but wish for more of it. She wished she could see Laila again, wished to hear the clamour of her laugh, to sit with her once more for a pot of chai and left over halwa under a starlit sky. She mourned that she would never see Aziza grow up, would not see the beautiful young woman that she would one day become, would not get to paint her hands with henna and toss noqul candy at her wedding. She would never play with Aziza's children. She would have liked that very much, to be old and play with Aziza's children. Near the goalpost, the man behind her asked her to stop. Mariam did. Through the crisscrossing grid of the burqa, she saw his shadow arms lift his shadow Kalashnikov. Mariam wished for so much in those final moments. Yet as she closed her eyes, it was not regret any longer but a sensation of abundant peace that washed over her. She thought of her entry into this world, the harami child of a lowly villager, an unintended thing, a pitiable, regrettable accident. A weed. And yet she was leaving the world as a woman who had loved and been loved back. She was leaving it as a friend, a companion, a guardian. A mother. A person of consequence at last. No. It was not so bad, Mariam thought, that she should die this way. Not so bad. This was a legitimate end to a life of illegitimate beginnings. Mariam's final thoughts were a few words from the Koran, which she muttered under her breath. He has created the heavens and the earth with the truth; He makes the night cover the day and makes the day overtake the night, and He has made the sun and the moon subservient; each one runs on to an assigned term; now surely He is the Mighty, the Great Forgiver. "Kneel," the Talib said O my Lord! Forgive and have mercy, for you are the best of the merciful ones. "Kneel here, hamshira and look down." One last time, Mariam did as she was told.

I've made countless variations on this recipe. Chai-infused shortbread diamonds. Rosewater shortbread squares. Cocoa shortbread sandwiches spliced with Nutella. But tonight, in honor of Grandma Damson, I make hers, from memory. In a sense, I fail. No ghosts materialize in the kitchen, not Grandma Damson, not Nonna, not anyone. But out of the mess I make a dozen ideal shortbread wedges, perfect in shape, size and flavor. Warm and delicate. With a glass of cold milk, they are delicious. When shortbread melts on your tongue, you feel the roundness of the butter and the kiss of the sugar and then they vanish. Then you eat another, to feel it again, to get at that moment of vanishing. I eat myself sick on them.

Từ lần cuối cùng gặp nhau ở nhà hàng McDonald’s, đã bảy năm trôi qua, tôi đột nhiên cảm thấy quãng thời gian đằng đẵng như vậy chỉ như trong khoảnh khắc của một cái quay đầu. Cuộc đời dâu bể. Cái thay đổi chỉ là trái tim ngày càng chai sạn của tôi, cái thay đổi chỉ là cái vỏ bề ngoài càng như hóa đá của Dĩ Thâm. Còn cô ấy hầu như không thay đổi. Vẫn nụ cười vô tư. Hôm đó về đến nhà, ngồi trên ghế sôpha, nhìn trời sáng dần qua cửa sổ. Do bận công việc, căn nhà thuê đã lâu không sửa, chậu hoa trên ban công mua về để đấy, không biết đã ra hoa tự lúc nào, vài cành hoa đã tàn phất phơ trước gió, chỉ còn một cánh màu đỏ trên đài hoa nhỏ xíu màu tím nhạt. Bỗng nhiên tôi cảm thấy mình giống như loài hoa không biết tên này. Lặng lẽ ra hoa, lặng lẽ tàn, ngày tháng trôi qua không ai thăm hỏi.

My studio team and I approached the creation of this series with enthusiasm, wit, sincerity and sometimes more than a dash of humour. Is the result just another foray into the clichés of Orientalism? I think not. For the most part the people photographed became co-conspirators in our elaborate game of recreating reality. They enjoyed chai with us and a morning samosa (we most always shoot in the early morning since it is the best time to utilize available light). Our models were indeed “posed and paid”, but they cooperated by suggesting so many things themselves… eagerly grasping the process we were undertaking and joining in the creation of what generally became more than just a photo shoot. Each session in the studio became an “event”…an episode of manufactured expression in which all participated and all remembered.

He spent two years running a hospital for Chai.” Molly put her arm around the younger woman. “Which was the equivalent of working the ER in a city like New York or Chicago. He saved a lot of lives.” She made sure Max was paying attention, too. “And before you say, ‘Yeah, of drug runners, killers, and thieves,’ you should also know that his patients were just regular people who worked for Chai because he was the only steady employer in the area. Or because they knew they’d end up in some mass grave if they refused his offer of employment. Before Grady came in, if they were injured in some battle with a rival gang, they were just left for dead.” Jones looked up to find Max watching him as he sterilized a particularly sharp knife. “Me and Jesus,” he said. “So much alike, people often get us confused.” “Mock me all you want—I’m just saying.” Molly had on her Hurt Feelings Face. It may have fooled Max, but Jones knew it was only there to mask her Relentless Crusader. She was lobbying hard for Max to be on Jones’s side if they made it out of here alive. And she wasn’t done. “Yes, Grady Morant worked for Chair for a few years—after the U.S. left him to die in some torture chamber. He’s so evil, except what was he doing during those two years? Oh, he was saving lives . . .?” “I was practicing medicine without a license,” Jones pointed out. “You just gave Max something else to charge me with when we get home.” When, not if. Even though he wasn’t convinced that they weren’t in if territory, he’d used the word on purpose. The look Molly shot him was filled with gratitude. He gave her a smoldering blast of his best “Yeah, you can thank me later in private, baby” look, and, as he’d hoped she would, she laughed.

Mereka punya sebuah mimpi. Dan aku berbagi mimpi itu dengan mereka: mimpi tentang sebuah dunia yang tampak jelas di tengah-tengah semburan gas air mata dan reruntuhan yang berasap di kamp-kamp pengungsi. Sebuah dunia tempat seorang bocah sebelas tahun tak perlu belajar cara menggunakan sepucuk kalashnikov atau mesin peluncur roket untuk membela keluarganya. Sebuah dunia yang damai, adil, dan aman, tempat aku tak perlu mengatakan kepada seorang anak, "Pergilah ke sekolah," hanya untuk mengetahui bahwa sekolahnya telah dibom, atau mengatakan kepada seorang gadis, "Bantulah ibumu menyiapkan makan malam," hanya untuk melihatnya kembali kepadaku dan mengatakan bahwa ibu dan keluarganya telah dibunuh. Sebuah dunia tempat kami tak perlu lagi takut terkubur hidup-hidup di dalam puing-puing. Sebuah dunia tempat aku tak perlu lagi memperbaiki bagian-bagian tubuh yang patah hanya untuk melihatnya dipatahkan lagi, atau memeluk tubuh remuk seorang bocah dengan tanganku dan bertanya, "Mengapa?" atau mendengar orang-orang bertanya, "Berapa lama lagi?" Sebuah dunia tanpa penjara, tanpa penyiksaan, tanpa rasa sakit, tanpa kelaparan, dan tanpa kartu-kartu identitas pengungsi, tempat aku dapat berteduh di rumahku sendiri dan mendengarkan nyanyian ibuku seraya menutup mata di penghujung hari. Tempat itu adalah mimpi kami, Jerusalem kami.

There was a present on the front seat of Ethan's car, a Gap box tied with a white ribbon. "Happy birthday, Jenna," Ethan said, leaning over to kiss me, his lips cool from the iced chai he stopped for every morning. I opened the box and pulled out an orange sweater with a cream-colored stripe down the arms. "Thank you. I love it." "I know," he said, pulling away from the curb. "That's what you said when you handed it to me at the store and told me to get it for your birthday." "I'm sorry," I said, holding the sweater in my lap. I knew he was just teasing, but I wanted to be the kind of person who could enjoy surprises. I wanted to be as spontaneous and free as everyone else seemed to be and not feel all the time like if I didn't follow some kind of specific map of daily life, disaster would be right there waiting. "I just...really liked it." "And wanted to make sure you got it," he said, smiling. "So basically you're greedy." "Basically.

What do you remember most about what your pai put in his lamb chops?" "I think it was basically salt, pepper, and garlic." He squeezed his eyes shut and focused so hard that not dropping a kiss on his earnestly pursed mouth was the hardest thing. His eyes opened, bright with memory. "Of course. Mint." "That's perfect. Since we're only allowed only five tools, simple is good." "My mãe always made rice and potatoes with it. How about we make lamb chops and a biryani-style pilaf?" Ashna blinked. Since when was Rico such a foodie? He shrugged but his lips tugged to one side in his crooked smile. "What? I live in London. Of course Indian is my favorite cuisine." Tossing an onion at him, she asked him to start chopping, and put the rice to boil. Then she turned to the lamb chops. The automatic reflex to follow Baba's recipe to within an inch of its life rolled through her. But when she ignored it, the need to hyperventilate didn't follow. Next to her Rico was fully tuned in to her body language, dividing his focus between following the instructions she threw out and the job at hand. As he'd talked about his father's chops, she'd imagined exactly how she wanted them to taste. An overtone of garlic and lemon and an undertone of mint. The rice would be simple, in keeping with the Brazilian tradition, but she'd liven it up with fried onions, cashew nuts, whole black cardamom, cloves, bay leaves, and cinnamon stick. All she wanted was to create something that tasted like Rico's childhood, combined with their future together, and it felt like she was flying. Just like with her teas, she knew exactly what she wanted to taste and she knew exactly how to layer ingredients to coax out those flavors, those feelings. It was her and that alchemy and Rico's hands flying to follow instructions and help her make it happen. "There's another thing we have to make," she said. Rico raised a brow as he stirred rice into the spice-infused butter. "I want to make tea. A festive chai." He smiled at her, heat intensifying his eyes. Really? Talking about tea turned him on? Wasn't the universe just full of good news today.

... If I am correct... ... the secret to this sauce is honey and balsamic vinegar ." "Got it one, sir! Both ingredients have a mild sweetness that adds a layer of richness to the dish. The tartness of the vinegar ties it all together, ensuring the sweetness isn't too cloying and giving the overall dish a clean, pure aftertaste. The guide told me that Hokkaido bears really love their honey... ... so I tried all kinds of methods to add it to my recipe!" "Is that how he gave his sauce a rich, clean flavor powerful enough to cause the Gifting? Unbelievable! That's our Master Yukihira!" Something doesn't add up. A little honey and vinegar can't be enough to create that level of aftertaste. There has to be something else to it. But what? "...?! I got it! I know what you did! You caramelized the honey!" CARAMELIZATION Sugars oxidize when heated, giving them a golden brown color and a nutty flavor. Any food that contains sugar can be caramelized, making caramelization an important technique in everything from French cooking to dessert making. "I started out by heating the honey until it was good and caramelized. Then I added some balsamic vinegar to stretch it and give it a little thickness. Once that was done, I poured it over some diced onions and garlic that I'd sautéed in another pan, added some schisandra berries and then let it simmer. After it had reduced, I poured bear stock over it and seasoned it with a little salt... The result was a deep, rich sauce perfect for emphasizing the natural punch of my Bear-Meat Menchi Katsu!" "Oho! You musta come up with that idea while I was relaxing with my cup o' chai! Not bad, Yukihira-chin! Not bad at all! Don'tcha think?" "Y-yes, sir..." Plus, there is no debating how well honey pairs well with bear meat. The Chinese have long considered bear paws a great delicacy... ... because of the common belief that the mellow sweetness of the honey soaks into a bear's paw as it sticks it into beehives and licks the honey off of it. What a splendid idea pairing honey with bear meat, each accentuating the other... ... then using caramelization and balsamic vinegar to mellow it to just the right level. It's a masterful example of using both flavor subtraction and enhancement in the same dish!

Họ sống như vậy, họ và các bạn họ, trong những căn hộ nhỏ dễ thương chất đầy các thứ lủng củng, với những buổi đi dạo và những bộ phim, những bữa đại tiệc thân thiện, những dự án tuyệt vời của họ. Họ không bất hạnh. Có những niềm hạnh phúc sống, thoáng qua, mờ dần, làm bừng sáng những buổi ban ngày. Có những chiều, sau bữa ăn, họ chần chừ không đứng lên khỏi bàn; họ uống hết một chai vang, gặm những trái hồ đào, châm những điếu thuốc lá. Có những đêm, họ không sao ngủ được, và, nửa nằm nửa ngồi, gối kê sau lưng, một chiếc gạt tàn để giữa, họ nói đến tận sáng. Có những ngày, họ đi dạo, vừa đi vừa tán gẫu suốt nhiều giờ. Họ tự nhìn mình trong gương của các mặt hàng, mà mỉm cười. Họ thấy tất cả đều hoàn hảo; họ bước đi một cách tự do, các cử động của họ cởi mở, thời gian như không còn tác động tới họ. Họ chỉ cần hiện hữu ở đó, trên phố, một ngày lạnh khô, gió to, mặc ấm, vào lúc chiều rơi, đi về một nơi ở của bạn bè, không vội vã nhưng sải bước, để cho một cử chỉ nhỏ nhất của mình – châm một điếu thuốc, mua một gói hạt dẻ nóng, luồn lách trong đám nhốn nháo vừa ra khỏi nhà ga – cũng hiện ra như biểu hiện rõ ràng, tức khắc, của một niềm hạnh phúc không bao giờ cạn.

I’m very glad,” Jones continued fervently, sounding like a card-carrying Colin Firth impersonator. “So very glad. You can’t know how glad . . .” He cleared his throat. “I hate to be the bearer of more bad tidings, but your . . . friend was something of a criminal, the way I heard it. He had a price on his head—millions—from some druglord who wanted him dead. Chased him mercilessly, for years. I guess this Jones fellow used to work for him—it’s all very sordid, I’m afraid. And dangerous. He had to be on the move constantly. It was risky just to have a drink with Jones—you might’ve gotten killed in the crossfire. Of course, the big irony here is that the druglord died two weeks before Jones. He never knew it, but he was finally free.” As he looked at her with those eyes that she’d dreamed about for so many months, Molly understood. Jones was here, now, only because the druglord known as Chai, a dangerous and sadistic bastard who’d spent years hunting him, was finally dead. “It’s entirely possible that whoever’s taken over business for this druglord,” he continued, “would’ve gone after this Jones, too. Of course, he probably wouldn’t have searched to the ends of the earth for him . . . Although, when dealing with such dangerous types, it pays to be cautious, I suppose.” Message received. “Not that that’s anything Jones needs to worry about,” he added. “Considering he’s left his earthly cares behind. Still, I suspect it’s rather hot where he’s gone.” Yes, it certainly was hot in Kenya right now. Molly covered her mouth, pretending to sob instead of laugh. “Shhh,” Helen admonished him, thinking, of course, that he was referring to an unearthly heat. “Don’t say such a thing. She loved him.” She turned back to Molly. “This Jones is the man that you spoke of so many times?” Molly could see from the expression on Jones’s face that Helen had given her away. She might as well go big with the truth. She wipes her eyes with a handkerchief that Helen had at the ready, then met his gaze. “I loved him very much. I’ll always love him,” she told this man who’d traveled halfway around the world for her, who apparently had waited years for it to be safe enough for him to join her, who had actually thought that, once he arrived, she might send him away. If you don’t want me here—and I don’t blame you if you don’t—just say the word . . . “He was a good man,” Molly said, “with a good heart.” Her voice shook, because, dear Lord, there were now tears in his eyes, too. “He deserved forgiveness—I’m positive he’s in heaven.” “I don’t think it’s going to be that easy for him,” he whispered. “It shouldn’t be . . .” He cleared his throat, put his glasses back on. “I’m so sorry to have distressed you, Miss Anderson. And I haven’t even properly introduced myself. Where are my manners?” He held out his hand to her. “Leslie Pollard.” Even with his glasses on, she could see quite clearly that he’d far rather be kissing her. But that would have to wait for later, when he came to her tent . . . No, wait, Gina would be there. Molly would have to go to his. Later, she told him with her eyes, as she reached out and, for the first time in years, touched the hand of the man that she loved.

After midnight, I’ve set the cookies on the cooling rack and put on my cat pajamas, and I’m climbing into bed to read when there’s a knock at my window. I think it’s Chris, and I go to the window to check and see if I’ve locked it, but it’s not--it’s Peter! I push the window up. “Oh my God, Peter! What are you doing here?” I whisper, my heart pounding. “My dad’s home!” Peter climbs in. He’s wearing a navy beanie on his head and a thermal with a puffy vest. Taking off the hat, he grins and says, “Shh. You’re gonna wake him up.” I run to my door and lock it. “Peter! You can’t be in here!” I am equal parts panicky and excited. I don’t know if a boy has ever been in my room before, not since Josh, and that was ages ago. He’s already taking off his shoes. “Just let me stay for a few minutes.” I cross my arms because I’m not wearing a bra and say, “If it’s only a few minutes, why are you taking off your shoes?” He dodges this question. Plopping down on my bed, he says, “Hey, why aren’t you wearing your Amish bikini? It’s so hot.” I move to slap him upside the head, and he grabs my waist and hugs me to him. He buries his head in my stomach like a little boy. His voice muffled, he says, “I’m sorry all this is happening because of me.” I touch the top of his head; his hair feels soft and silky against my fingers. “It’s okay, Peter. I know it’s not your fault.” I glance at my moonbeam alarm clock. “You can stay for fifteen minutes, but then you have to go.” Peter nods and releases me. I sink down on the bed next to him and put my head on his shoulder. I hope the minutes go slow. “How was the party?” “Boring without you.” “Liar.” He laughs an easy kind of laugh. “What did you bake tonight?” “How do you know I baked?” Peter breathes me in. “You smell like sugar and butter.” “Chai sugar cookies with eggnog icing.” “Can I take some with me?” I nod, and we lean our backs against the wall. He slides his arm around me, safe and secure. “Twelve minutes left,” I say into his shoulder, and I feel rather than see him smile. “Then let’s make it good.” We start to kiss, and I’ve definitely never kissed a boy in my bed before. This is brand-new. I doubt I’ll ever be able to think of my bed the same way again. Between kisses he says, “How much time do I have left?” I glance over at my clock. “Seven minutes.” Maybe I should tack on an extra five… “Can we lie down, then?” he suggests. I shove him in the shoulder. “Peter!” “I just want to hold you for a little bit! If I was going to try to do more, I’d need more than seven minutes, trust me.

Every Day Take Your Daily Doses Black Cumin (Nigella sativa) (¼ tsp) As noted in the Appetite Suppression section, a systematic review and meta-analysis of randomized, controlled weight-loss trials found that about a quarter teaspoon of black cumin powder every day appears to reduce body mass index within a span of a couple of months. Note that black cumin is different from regular cumin, for which the dosing is different. (See below.) Garlic Powder (¼ tsp) Randomized, double-blind, placebo-controlled studies have found that as little as a daily quarter teaspoon of garlic powder can reduce body fat at a cost of perhaps two cents a day. Ground Ginger (1 tsp) or Cayenne Pepper (½ tsp) Randomized controlled trials have found that ¼ teaspoon to 1½ teaspoons a day of ground ginger significantly decreased body weight for just pennies a day. It can be as easy as stirring the ground spice into a cup of hot water. Note: Ginger may work better in the morning than evening. Chai tea is a tasty way to combine the green tea and ginger tweaks into a single beverage. Alternately, for BAT activation, you can add one raw jalapeño pepper or a half teaspoon of red pepper powder (or, presumably, crushed red pepper flakes) into your daily diet. To help beat the heat, you can very thinly slice or finely chop the jalapeño to reduce its bite to little prickles, or mix the red pepper into soup or the whole-food vegetable smoothie I featured in one of my cooking videos on NutritionFacts.org.4985 Nutritional Yeast (2 tsp) Two teaspoons of baker’s, brewer’s, or nutritional yeast contains roughly the amount of beta 1,3/1,6 glucans found in randomized, double-blind, placebo-controlled clinical trials to facilitate weight loss. Cumin (Cuminum cyminum) (½ tsp with lunch and dinner) Overweight women randomized to add a half teaspoon of cumin to their lunches and dinners beat out the control group by four more pounds and an extra inch off their waists. There is also evidence to support the use of the spice saffron, but a pinch a day would cost a dollar, whereas a teaspoon of cumin costs less than ten cents. Green Tea (3 cups) Drink three cups a day between meals (waiting at least an hour after a meal so as to not interfere with iron absorption). During meals, drink water, black coffee, or hibiscus tea mixed 6:1 with lemon verbena, but never exceed three cups of fluid an hour (important given my water preloading advice). Take advantage of the reinforcing effect of caffeine by drinking your green tea along with something healthy you wish you liked more, but don’t consume large amounts of caffeine within six hours of bedtime. Taking your tea without sweetener is best, but if you typically sweeten your tea with honey or sugar, try yacon syrup instead. Stay

«Ho qualcosa da discutere con voi due» disse Hagrid, sedendosi tra loro con aria insolitamente seria. «Cosa?» chiese Harry. «Hermione» disse Hagrid. «Perché?» disse Ron. «Perché non sta bene, ecco perché. È venuta qui a trovarmi tante volte da Natale. Si sente sola. Prima non ci parlavate, con lei, per via della Firebolt, adesso non ci parlate perché il suo gatto...» «...ha mangiato Crosta!» lo interruppe Ron furioso. «Perché il suo gatto ha fatto come fanno tutti i gatti» continuò Hagrid ostinato. «Ha pianto tante volte, sapete. È un brutto momento per lei. Troppi impegni, se volete saperlo, con tutto il lavoro che sta cercando di fare. Ma ha trovato lo stesso il tempo di aiutarmi con il caso di Fierobecco, sapete... ha trovato della roba davvero buona... credo che lui ha qualche possibilità adesso...» «Hagrid, avremmo dovuto aiutarti anche noi... scusa...» esordì Harry imbarazzato. «Non ti rimprovero mica!» disse Hagrid, respingendo le scuse di Harry. «Con tutto quello che c’hai avuto per la testa, ti ho visto che ti allenavi a Quidditch a tutte le ore del giorno e della notte... ma ve lo devo dire, credevo che a voi due vi importava di più della vostra amica che di una scopa o di un topo. Ecco». Harry e Ron si guardarono, entrambi a disagio. «Era davvero sconvolta, poverina, quando Black ti ha aggredito, Ron. Lei sì che ha il cuore al posto giusto, lei, e voi due che non ci parlate nemmeno...» «Se solo si sbarazzasse di quel gatto, io le parlerei ancora!» disse Ron arrabbiato, «ma lo difende sempre! È un criminale, e lei non vuole nemmeno sentirselo dire!» «Ah, be’, la gente a volte è un po’ stupida quando ci parli dei suoi animali» disse Hagrid saggiamente. Alle sue spalle, Fierobecco sputò qualche osso di furetto sul cuscino.

And the PRCS [Palestinian Red Crescent Society] had not lost just one hospital: thirteen clinics and nine hospitals all over Lebanon had been destroyed in this way. Only Gaza Hospital, for a reason I was to discover three years later, was still standing. At the height of the air raids, when the Palestinians found out that every single PRCS hospital and clinic was a bomb target, they put three Israeli soldiers captured in south Lebanon on the upper floors of Gaza Hospital, and radioed a message to the Israeli Army saying that any further military action on Gaza Hospital would result in Israeli lives being lost. That saved Gaza Hospital from further destruction.

Mother made sure her little kids were subjected to a strict routine. We were given a timetable which covered our every waking moment, copies of which were posted by our bedside, in the sitting room and in the kitchen. Story hour meant that mother would read us novels and short stories by Guy de Maupassant, Oscar Wilde and Edmondo de Amicis. Soon we graduated to Tolstoy, Gogol and Turgenev. She read them to us in Chinese and I never realised until much later that the writers wrote them in different European languages. Comics were absolutely forbidden and so were Enid Blyton adventures and pop music. . .Lee Cyn and I soon went to a primary school nearby. . .After mother’s rigorous timetable, school became fun and easy-going.

Presently Grandmother Jia appeared, seated, in solitary splendour, in a large palanquin carried by eight bearers. Li Wan, Xi-feng and Aunt Xue followed, each in a palanquin with four bearers. After them came Bao-chai and Dai-yu sharing a carriage with a splendid turquoise-coloured canopy trimmed with pearls. The carriage after them, in which Ying-chun, Tan-chun and Xi-chun sat, had vermilion-painted wheels and was shaded with a large embroidered umbrella. After them rode Grandmother Jia’s maids, Faithful, Parrot, Amber and Pearl; after them Lin Dai-yu’s maids, Nightingale, Snowgoose and Delicate; then Bao-chai’s maids, Oriole and Apricot; then Ying-chun’s maids, Chess and Tangerine; then Tan-chun’s maids, Scribe and Ebony; then Xi-chun’s maids, Picture and Landscape; then Aunt Xue’s maids, Providence and Prosper, sharing a carriage with Caltrop and Caltrop’s own maid, Advent; then Li Wan’s maids, Candida and Casta; then Xi-feng’s own maids, Patience, Felicity and Crimson, with two of Lady Wang’s maids, Golden and Suncloud, whom Xi-feng had agreed to take with her, in the carriage behind. In the carriage after them sat another couple of maids and a nurse holding Xi-feng’s little girl. Yet more carriages followed carrying the nannies and old women from the various apartments and the women whose duty it was to act as duennas when the ladies of the household went out of doors.

As he turned, he happened to catch sight of Dai-yu, who was sitting behind Bao-chai, smiling mockingly and stroking her cheek with her finger – which in sign-language means, ‘You are a great big liar and you ought to be ashamed of yourself.

The pseudo-private chai pe charcha between Obama and Modi, televised live through carefully placed cameras, drew directly from Simi Garewal’s shows, down to the white sofas. Like those shows, it succeeded in appearing to give the audience a glimpse into the intimate life of the great.

Are you afraid that you're hurting your national auto industry? - Environmental protection isn't a burden. It's innovation. Protecting a backward industry is no way to promote innovation. The government's role is to set standards and then ensure fair competition in the market. You win the market through fair competition.

चाय भी एक तरह सोशल नेटवर्क ही तो है

Drink this,” Ranee encourages, scooting her chair closer to Marin’s. “When I was young, and there was a problem in the family or village, we would all gather at someone’s home and have cup after cup of chai. After enough hours, the problem that seemed insurmountable was suddenly solved.

None of these points mean that students cannot be recognized and celebrated for their success. The key is to not hold it out as a “carrot” but, instead, to provide it as an unexpected “bonus” (Chai, 2009).

In that playground we played cricket during winter afternoons—the neighbourhood boys, irrespective of which school they went to. Someone would own the bat, someone would contribute the ball, and someone else would bring the stumps. Pads and gloves were a luxury and largely unnecessary. The umpiring would be done by someone who had done with batting for the day, even though his decisions would often be overruled by the ‘third umpire’—one of the neighbourhood ‘uncles’ closely following the game standing at the gate of his house.

He was a self-righteous know-it-all who had the breath of a dung beetle, a gray ponytail he barely pulled together from the bozo ring of hair clinging to his balding, freckled dome, and loved to drink, of all things, tea. Usually it was some sickly sweet-smelling herbal crap that was made in the hippie wasteland of Boulder, Colorado. The box was festooned with the image of a happy, dancing bear in a field of multicolored flowers and the tea had some idiotic name like Tai Chai. After work one evening, I snatched the box of tea bags from the break room and changed the recipe. I wasn't really worried that any other employees would use one of the tea bags because NO ONE DRINKS FUCKING TEA AT WORK, especially not the totally useless, noncaffeinated fairy tears reserved for old maids to sip while they watch Murder, She Wrote in bed with their legion of cats.

My brother laughed at my nostalgia, reminding me that I could still drive the car when I came home. He didn’t understand that it wasn’t just the driving I’d miss. That it was the tinfoil balls, the New York Times, and the broken speaker; the fingernail marks, the stray cassettes, and the smell of chai. Alone that night and parked in my driveway, I listened to Frank Sinatra with the moon roof slid back.

I love the smell of Chai Tea in the morning... (What should have been said in "Apocalypse Now")

audience looks on somberly, the woman, Chai Jing, displays a graph of brown-red peaks with occasional troughs. “This was the PM 2.5 curve for Beijing in January 2013, when there were 25 days of smog in that one month,” explains Ms. Chai, a former Chinese television reporter,

blouse walking on to a stage dimly lit in blue. As an audience looks on somberly, the woman, Chai Jing, displays a graph of brown-red peaks with occasional troughs. “This was the PM

Her sister had always teased her saying that people who drank tea were boring, but the ones who drank coffee were cool.

Your engagement ring, dummy.” "He had jammed it in the middle of the muffin, and I ate it." Tabby shook the glass in front of the screen making the purple contents slosh around. "Which is why I’m drinking prune juice." Becky’s hand froze, her mouth dropped open, and she slowly rotated her blonde head where the comb lay forgotten in the middle of her curls. She passed the test of friendship when she did not laugh. “If that is how you got engaged, I wonder what your wedding will be like.” Tabby

Impamvu tur' abakristo bintegenke nuko tutar' imbata nyazo za Kristo

women, in some parts of France, were barred from the chai, or winery, during harvesttime. Their presence, according to superstition, would turn the wine sour.