Chips Ahoy Quotes

If drunk were cookies, I’d be Famous Amos.” We laughed. “Chips Ahoy! would have been funnier,

I liked his attention. But I also felt like there was something sick and wrong about it. Like it might make me sick later. I thought of my grandmother, my father's mother. How when I used to visit her in Georgia she would always let me eat all the cookies and frozen egg rolls I wanted. "Go ahead, sweetheart, there's more," she would say. And it seemed okay because she was a grown-up, and I wanted all the Chips Ahoy! cookies in the bag. But I always ended up feeling extremely sick afterward. I looked at book, his eyes swollen with emotion.

I liked his attention. But I also felt like there was something sick and wrong about it. Like it might make me sick later. I thought of my grandmother, my father's mother. How when I used to visit her in Georgia she would always let me eat all the cookies and frozen egg rolls I wanted. "Go ahead, sweetheart, there's more," she would say. And it seemed okay because she was a grown-up, and I wanted all the Chips Ahoy! cookies in the bag. But I always ended up feeling extremely sick afterward. I looked at Bookman, his eyes swollen with emotion.

SOOOOOOOO… THESE ARE DISAPPOINTING.” Keefe took a second bite from a round Digestive biscuit and crinkled his nose. “Are they supposed to suck up all the spit in your mouth and turn it into a paste? Is that, like, something humans find delicious?” “Maybe you’re supposed to dunk them in milk?” Sophie suggested, trying not to spray crumbs as she struggled to swallow the bite she’d taken. They really did win the prize for Driest. Cookies. Ever. “Actually, I think you’re supposed to eat them with tea.” “You think?” Keefe asked, shaking his head and stuffing the rest of the Digestive into his mouth. “You’re failing me with your human knowledge, Foster.” “For the thousandth time, I grew up in the U.S., not the U.K.!” she reminded him. “We had Chips Ahoy! and Oreos and E.L. Fudges!” “Hm. Those do sound more fun than a Digestive,” Keefe conceded. “I’m sure you’d especially enjoy the E.L. Fudges,” Sophie told him. “They’re shaped like tiny elves.” Keefe dropped the package of Jaffa Cakes he’d been in the process of opening and scanned the beach in front of them. “Okay, where’s the nearest cliff? You need to teleport me somewhere to get some of those immediately.

After our date on Monday, I put the heart-eyes emoji next to his name in my contacts. I mean, the boy brought me flowers and a Storm comic, and since we didn’t have time to stay for dessert at the restaurant, he brought me a small pack of Chips Ahoy! to eat on the way back to school. He earned those heart eyes. He just sent a couple of texts to guarantee that he keeps them. Do your thing tonight, Princess. Wish I could be there. I probably couldn’t pay attention to your song tho I’d be staring at you too hard Corny? Yes. But it gets a smile out of me. Before I can respond, though, he adds: I’d be staring at that ass too but you know I probably ain’t supposed to admit that. I smirk. Why you admitting it now then? His answer? Cause I bet it made you smile Just for that, I’m adding a second heart-eyes emoji to his name.

The halo effect depends not on the ingredients themselves but on the eater, or more specifically, on the degree of control the eater has over his or her food. Before the 1800s, sugar itself separated rich from poor; now it is your state of mind while enjoying the sugar that separates the haves from the have-nots. For instance, Drewnowski’s absolute favorite dessert is a slice of coconut cream pie—not just any coconut cream pie, but the signature dessert by Seattle’s resident celebrity chef Tom Douglas. (“You have to share it,” he warns. “There’s a lot of sugar and cream in it, but it’s delicious.”) So he and his dinner companion savor the slice of pie, which happens to cost $8 (or the price of about two bags of Chips Ahoy! cookies). Nice sweets with a big price tag are meant to be appreciated like that. You eat a little at a time. Sensory-specific satiety, as we saw earlier, may compel you to eat more than you need, but chances are, if you’re making at least middle-class wages, you’re not wolfing it down to ease hunger. Nor are you eating sweets all the time. Sometimes you might have fruit; sometimes you might have a cappuccino. If you’re making at least middle-class wages, then you have the freedom and the money to decide how much to eat and when to eat it. That’s how even down-market foods can sometimes be elite in the right context. Lollipops at fashion shows and Coca-Cola-infused sauces in trendy restaurants aren’t demonized because the people who consume such items in those contexts have the power to choose something else entirely if they feel like it.

Get in here,” she ordered, waving her hand at him and moving inside. “If I knew you were coming, I’d have made cookies. Since I didn’t, you get Chips Ahoy or Oreos. I think I also have some Nilla Wafers.” Fuck, but it felt good to know some things didn’t change. “May have escaped you, darlin’, but I’m not eight anymore,” he muttered, coming in behind her and closing the door. She whirled on him. “I’m not either. I still like my cookies.

I wanted to maybe warn him that the Chips Ahoy was creating a situation down in sector twelve, but the fingering felt really good and my mouth was full of panties, so I let it happen.

That term of endearment brought back old, old memories. Robin’s mind flickered with images of herself as a tiny child, sitting in the Lazenbury’s kitchen, eating Chips Ahoy cookies and drinking apple juice, reading the comics out of the Sunday paper or watching ReBoot, Pirates of Dark Water, or Darkwing Duck on the wood-cabinet Magnavox.

Everyone on staff seemed to realize that _Chips Ahoy!_ was like the chest acne of children's television, best covered up in the hope of growing out of it soon.

«DEMOSTRACIÓN INTERPOLATIVA DEL HECHO DE QUE NO EXISTE UN LENGUAJE PRIVADO A veces resulta tentador imaginar que puede existir un lenguaje privado. Muchos de nosotros tenemos tendencia a filosofar, sin ser expertos en la materia, sobre la extraña privacidad de nuestros estados mentales, por ejemplo. Y a partir del hecho que cuando me duele la rodilla yo soy el único que lo siente es tentador sacar la conclusión de que para mí la palabra «dolor» tiene un significado interno subjetivo que solamente puedo entender yo. Esta línea de pensamiento se parece al terror que siente el fumador adolescente de marihuana a que su experiencia interior sea al mismo tiempo privada y no verificable, un síndrome que se conoce técnicamente como Solipsismo Cannábico. Mientras come galletas Chips Ahoy! y sigue con mucha atención un campeonato de golf por la tele, al fumador adolescente de marihuana se le ocurre la posibilidad aterradora de que, p. ej., lo que él percibe como el color verde y lo que el resto de la gente llama «color verde» puedan de hecho no ser la misma experiencia de color en absoluto: el hecho de que tanto él como otra persona digan que son verdes los carriles del campo de golf de Pebble Beach y la luz verde de un semáforo parece garantizar únicamente que existe una consistencia semejante en sus experiencias de los colores de los carriles de los campos de golf y de las luces verdes de los semáforos, no que la cualidad subjetiva real de esas experiencias de color sea la misma. Podría ser que lo que el fumador de marihuana experimenta como verde lo experimenten todos los demás como azul, y que lo que «queremos decir» con la palabra «azul» a lo que «quiere decir» él cuando dice «verde», etcétera, etcétera, hasta que da la línea de pensamiento se vuelve tan controvertida y agotadora que termina repantingado bajo un manto de migas de galleta y paralizado en su sillón. Lo que quiero decir con esto es que la idea de un lenguaje privado, igual que la idea de los colores privados y todas las demás presunciones solipsistas que este mismo reseñista ha sufrido en varias ocasiones, es al mismo tiempo producto de una ilusión y demostrablemente falsa.»

When I was growing up, the taste of pancakes meant the kind that my great-uncle made for me from Bisquick. If condensed cream of mushroom soup was the Great Assimilator, then this "instant" baking mix was the American Dream. With it, we could do anything. Biscuits, waffles, coffee cakes, muffins, dumplings, and the list continues to grow even now in a brightly lit test kitchen full of optimism. My great-uncle used Bisquick for only one purpose, which was to make pancakes, but he liked knowing that the possibilities, the sweet and the savory, were all in that cheery yellow box. Baby Harper wasn't a fat man, but he ate like a fat man. His idea of an afternoon snack was a stack of pancakes, piled three high. After dancing together, Baby Harper and I would go into his kitchen, where he would make the dream happen. He ate his pancakes with butter and Log Cabin syrup, and I ate my one pancake plain, each bite a fluffy amalgam of dried milk and vanillin. A chemical stand-in for vanilla extract, vanillin was the cheap perfume of all the instant, industrialized baked goods of my childhood. I recognized its signature note in all the cookies that DeAnne brought home from the supermarket: Nilla Wafers, Chips Ahoy!, Lorna Doones. I loved them all. They belonged, it seemed to me, to the same family, baked by the same faceless mother or grandmother in the back of our local Piggly Wiggly supermarket. The first time that I tasted pancakes made from scratch was in 1990, when Leo, a.k.a. the parsnip, made them for me. We had just begun dating, and homemade pancakes was the ace up his sleeve. He shook buttermilk. He melted butter. He grated lemon zest. There was even a spoonful of pure vanilla extract. I couldn't bring myself to call what he made for us "pancakes." There were no similarities between those delicate disks and what my great-uncle and I had shared so often in the middle of the afternoon.