Cocoa Life Quotes

Life is rarely about what happened; it's mostly about what we think happened.

There are two ways to look at life. The first view is that nothing stays the same and that nothing is inherently connected, and that the only driving force in anyone's life is entropy. The second is that everything pretty much stays the same (more or less) and that everything is completely connected, even if we don't realize it.

It was almost 3 a.m. before Connie got into bed. Sipping cocoa in the cold daylight and listening to the silence, only punctuated by the distant barking of dogs, she began to wonder what she had done. What if she had made a disastrous mistake?

I remember saying things, but I have no idea what was said. It was generally a friendly conversation.” —Associated Press reporter Jack Sullivan, attempting to recount a 3 A.M. exchange we had at a dinner party and inadvertently describing the past ten years of my life.

Though I obviously have no proof of this, the one aspect of life that seems clear to me is that good people do whatever they believe is the right thing to do. Being virtuous is hard, not easy. The idea of doing good things simply because you're good seems like a zero-sum game; I'm not even sure those actions would still qualify as 'good,' since they'd merely be a function of normal behavior. Regardless of what kind of god you believe in--a loving god, a vengeful god, a capricious god, a snooty beret-wearing French god, or whatever--one has to assume that you can't be penalized for doing the things you believe to be truly righteous and just. Certainly, this creates some pretty glaring problems: Hitler may have thought he was serving God. Stalin may have thought he was serving God (or something vaguely similar). I'm certain Osama bin Laden was positive he was serving God. It's not hard to fathom that all of those maniacs were certain that what they were doing was right. Meanwhile, I constantly do things that I know are wrong; they're not on the same scale as incinerating Jews or blowing up skyscrapers, but my motivations might be worse. I have looked directly into the eyes of a woman I loved and told her lies for no reason, except that those lies would allow me to continue having sex with another woman I cared about less. This act did not kill 20 million Russian peasants, but it might be more 'diabolical' in a literal sense. If I died and found out I was going to hell and Stalin was in heaven, I would note the irony, but I couldn't complain. I don't make the fucking rules.

...I've spent the last fifteen years of my life railing against the game of soccer, an exercise that has been lauded as "the sport of the future" since 1977. Thankfully, that future dystopia has never come.

Real people are actively trying to live like fake people, so real people are no less fake. Every comparison becomes impractical. This is why the impractical has become totally acceptable; impracticality almost seems cool.

Everyone who loves pro basketball assumes it's a little fixed. We all think the annual draft lottery is probably rigged, we all accept that the league aggressively wants big market teams to advance deep into the playoffs, and we all concede that certain marquee players are going to get preferential treatment for no valid reason. The outcomes of games aren't predeteremined or scripted but there are definitely dark forces who play with our reality. There are faceless puppet masters who pull strings and manipulate the purity of justice. It's not necessarily a full-on conspiracy, but it's certainly not fair. And that's why the NBA remains the only game that matters: Pro basketball is exactly like life.

The idea was flawed, of course," he said irritably. "Innately and fatally flawed. It depended on two of the human race's greatest myths: the possibility of permanence, and the simplicity of human nature. Both of which are all well and good in literature, but the purest fantasy outside the covers of a book. Our story should have stopped that night with the cold cocoa, the night we moved in: and they all lived happily ever after, the end. Inconveniently, however, real life demanded that we keep on living.

We all convince ourselves of things like this- not necessarily about Say Anything, but about any fictionalized portrayals of romance that happen to hit us in the right place, at the right time.

My feelings about politics and literature and mathematics and the rest of life’s minutiae can only be described through a labyrinthine of six-sided questions, but everything that actually matters can be explained by Lindsey fucking Buckingham and Stevie fucking Nicks in four fucking minutes.

And all I could do while I listened to this dude tell me how punk rock saved his life was think, Wow. Why did my friend waste all that time going to chemotherapy? I guess we should have just played him a bunch of shitty Black Flag records.

The main problem with mass media is that it makes it impossible to fall in love with any acumen of normalcy. There is no 'normal' because everybody is being twisted by the same sources simultaneously.

If Daddy was a color, he would be a forest green—thick, lush, calm, whispering refreshing wisdom only few could hear. If Michael was a color, he would be bark brown—cocoa, mocha, chocolate, the color of earth. Quiet, supportive, but strong. A softness that love grows from. Together, they are the tree I lean on when I’m weary. The tree I swing from. The tree of life when surrounded by death.

This was real life cocoa. The kind you gave someone you loved because you couldn't think of anything else to do and both of you were a mess. It was the kind you stirred while your gut was knotted and your mouth was dry and you were thinking seriously of crying, but you were too much of a male for that kind of display. It was the kind you made with all the love you hadn't expressed and might well not have the voice or the chance to speak of.

I learned that opening myself to my own love and to life’s tough loveliness not only was the most delicious, amazing thing on earth but also was quantum. It would radiate out to a cold, hungry world. Beautiful moments heal, as do real cocoa, Pete Seeger, a walk on old fire roads.

I kept my arms around Joi and my face buried deep in her hair while I waited for Peter Pan to slip through the window. I thought I needed him to tell me what I should do. But he never showed up. He left me alone with a girl who smelled of jasmine and cocoa butter. And before I fell asleep, I finally realized that was more than enough.

I wake up, I feel the inescapable oppression of the sunlight pouring through my bedroom window, and I am struck by the fact that I am alone. And that everyone is alone. And that everything I understood seven hours ago has already changed, and that I have to learn everything again.

Snow is...a beautiful reminder of life and all its quirks. It makes me pause. Think. Stay still. Even my mind takes the hint. It makes me feel giddy. Like a kid. I bring my hot cocoa to the window and simply sit and reminisce...It brings me back to days of school cancellations and snow igloos and King of the Mountain games in my childhood neighborhood...That for this one moment in time, I’m not an adult with all the headaches that can accompany that responsibility, but instead, I’m still the girl in pigtails with the handmade hat and mittens, just waiting to build her next snowman.

[…] the lady, her eye catching sight of an advertisement of somebody’s cocoa, said ‘Shocking!’ and turned the other way. Really, there was some excuse for her. One notices, even in England, the home of the proprieties, that the lady who drinks cocoa appears, according to the poster, to require very little else in this world; a yard or so of art muslin at the most. On the Continent she dispenses, so far as one can judge, with every other necessity of life. Not only is cocoa food and drink to her, it should be clothes also, according to the idea of the cocoa manufacturer.

Opening myself to my own love and to life's tough loveliness not only was the most delicious, amazing thing on earth but also was quantum. It would radiate out to a cold, hungry world. Beautiful moments heal, as do real cocoa, Pete Seeger, a walk on old fire roads. All I ever wanted since I arrived here on earth were the same things I needed as a baby, to go from cold to warm, lonely to held, the vessel to the giver, empty to full. You can change the world with a hot bath, if you sink into it from a place of knowing you are worth profound care, even when you're dirty and rattled. Who knew?

Personally, I like to think my brother is having a college experience like they do in the movies. I don't mean the big fraternity party kind of movie. More like the movie where the guy meets a smart girl who wears a lot of sweaters and drinks cocoa. They talk about books and issues and kiss in the rain. I think something like that would be very good for him, especially if the girl were unconventionally beautiful. They are the best kind of girls, I think. I personally find "super models" strange. I don't know why this is.

The Three Little Pigs” is not the story that is fucking people up. Stories like "Say Anything" are fucking people up. We don’t need to worry about people unconsciously “absorbing” archaic secret messages when they’re six years old; we need to worry about all the entertaining messages people are consciously accepting when they’re twenty-six. They’re the ones that get us, because they’re the ones we try to turn into life.

How can someone who's stood by you your whole life – who helped you empty the contents of the kitchen bin onto the floor when you were seventeen because you accidentally threw away a piece of hash the size of a cocoa nib, or who accompanied you, when she was eighty years old, to the Southbank Cinema on Mother's Day to watch hardcore gay and lesbian sex films because no one else would go with you (ditto a Sparks concert at the Royal Festival Hall) – how can that person, who you've been through so much with and who is now lying in front of you with snow-white hair, pale-grey eyes, soft pink skin and worry lines, not be beautiful?

Italian researchers, for another example, have demonstrated that in elderly individuals suffering from mild cognitive impairment, those who consumed the highest level of flavonoids from cocoa and chocolate improved their insulin sensitivity and blood pressure significantly.

Later on, towards the middle of my life, I grew more and more opposed to alcoholic drinks: I, an opponent of vegetarianism, who have experienced what vegetarianism is, — just as Wagner, who converted me back to meat, experienced it, — cannot with sufficient earnestness advise all more spiritual natures to abstain absolutely from alcohol. Water answers the purpose. . . . I have a predilection in favour of those places where in all directions one has opportunities of drinking from running brooks. In vino Veritas: it seems that here once more I am at variance with the rest of the world about the concept 'Truth' — with me spirit moves on the face of the waters. . . . Here are a few more indications as to my morality. A heavy meal is digested more easily than an inadequate one. The first principle of a good digestion is that the stomach should become active as a whole. A man ought, therefore, to know the size of his stomach. For the same reasons all those interminable meals, which I call interrupted sacrificial feasts, and which are to be had at any table d'hôte, are strongly to be deprecated. Nothing should be eaten between meals, coffee should be given up — coffee makes one gloomy. Tea is beneficial only in the morning. It should be taken in small quantities, but very strong. It may be very harmful, and indispose you for the whole day, if it be taken the least bit too weak. Everybody has his own standard in this matter, often between the narrowest and most delicate limits. In an enervating climate tea is not a good beverage with which to start the day: an hour before taking it an excellent thing is to drink a cup of thick cocoa, feed from oil. Remain seated as little as possible, put no trust in any thought that is not born in the open, to the accompaniment of free bodily motion — nor in one in which even the muscles do not celebrate a feast. All prejudices take their origin in the intestines. A sedentary life, as I have already said elsewhere, is the real sin against the Holy Spirit.

Touch the stone,' said Beliah, 'and you will touch "reality", or what the ignorant of all ages think "reality" is. That kind of truth will kill you, man. You won't see morning! I have kept you all your life from such things as remorse, terror, pity. Touch the stone, and those same angels will change you into an old poor pathetic deluded dying creature. Hubert, a nurse has to shave you, your hand shakes so much. You know that don't you? You dribble at every orifice, Hubert. You've begun to smell this past year or two...' He suddenly howled as if I had actually touched the stone,'YOU WILL BE RAVAGED IN FIRES OF GRACE!' I heard Nurse McGregor in the next ward. 'Good evening,' came her cheerful voice to the looney who had strangled his sweetheart and then buried her in his garden. 'Is it cocoa tonight, or tea, or milk?" Beliah was weeping. Outside the eaves dripped. The whole earth was drenched with the grief of Beliah. He wept inside me. I felt his marvellous tears on my face.

I thought of Atargatis, the First, frightening and beautiful. The mermaid goddess who lived on in the soul of every woman who'd ever fallen in love with the ocean. I thought of Sebastian, my little mermaid queen, how happy he was the day of the parade, just getting the chance to express himself, to be himself. I thought of Vanessa, the story about how she and her girlfriends became feminist killjoys to get a women's literature core in their school, the way she'd accepted me this summer without question, gently pushed me out of my self-imposed shell. Of her mother, Mrs. James, how she'd grabbed that bullhorn at the parade and paved the way for Sebastian's joy. I thought of Lemon, so wise, so comfortable in her own skin, full of enough love to raise a daughter as a single mom and still have room for me, for her friends, for everyone whose lives she touched with her art. I thought of Kirby, her fierce loyalty, her patience and grace, her energy, what a good friend and sister she'd become, even when I'd tried to shut her out. I thought of all the new things I wanted to share with her now, all the things I hoped she'd share with me. I thought of my mother, a woman I'd never known, but one whose ultimate sacrifice gave me life. I thought of Granna, stepping in to raise her six granddaughters when my mom died, never once making us feel like a burden or a curse. She'd managed the cocoa estate with her son, personally saw to the comforts of every resort guest, and still had time to tell us bedtime stories, always reminding us how much she treasured us. I thought of my sisters. Juliette, Martine, and Hazel, their adventures to faraway lands, new experiences. Gabrielle with her island-hopping, her ultimate choice to follow her heart home. And Natalie, my twin. My mirror image, my dream sharer. I knew I hadn't been fair to her this summer—she'd saved my life, done the best she could. And I wanted to thank her for that, because as long as it had taken me to realize it, I was thankful. Thankful for her. Thankful to be alive. To breathe.

What happened?” Violet asked Jay, when Mike went to join the girls in the kitchen, giving them a moment alone in front of the fire. Jay shook his head, his expression dark. “You tell me. One minute you were leaning on me, and the next you passed out. It freaked the shit out of me.” “Claire actually screamed,” Chelsea added, rejoining them. She sat down on a wooden chair across from Violet. “I can’t believe you didn’t hear her. I’m with Jay though-it was pretty scary. You’re lucky he caught you before you hit the ground.” Violet cringed. She glanced up at Jay, humiliated. “You…caught me?” He nodded, and she could tell from the look on his face that he was enjoying this part. A lot. “You’re welcome,” he said with a completely straight face. She looked at him again and rolled her eyes, stubbornly refusing to thank him after he’d already so clearly patted himself on the back. Megan came back in, carrying a mug of hot chocolate, and Claire trailed behind her. “Be careful,” Megan warned quietly, handing it to Violet. “It’s kind of hot.” Their fingertips brushed as the mug exchanged hands. Violet locked eyes with the younger girl. “Thank you.” She imparted as much meaning as she could in the two simple words and hoped that it was gesture enough, even if only for herself. She felt bad for the things she’d suspected her of doing. Megan pulled her hand away and glanced down nervously. “You’re welcome.” Her voice was timid and hesitant. “So she gives you hot chocolate and you thank her. I save your life and get nothing. That’s messed up,” Jay complained. Violet smirked at him over the top of her hot cocoa. “Hers tastes better,” she teased, blowing on the steaming liquid and then taking a sip. “Besides, I think you’ve already thanked yourself.

My hand lingers in spite of itself; a hovering dragonfly above a cluster of dainties. A Plexiglas tray with a lid protects them; the name of each piece is lettered on the lid in fine, cursive script. The names are entrancing: Bitter orange cracknell. Apricot marzipan roll. Cerisette russe. White rum truffle. Manon blanc. Nipples of Venus. I feel myself flushing beneath the mask. How could anyone order something with a name like that? And yet they look wonderful, plumply white in the light of my torch, tipped with darker chocolate. I take one from the top of the tray. I hold it beneath my nose; it smells of cream and vanilla. No one will know. I realize that I have not eaten chocolate since I was a boy, more years ago than I can remember, and even then it was a cheap grade of chocolat à croquer, fifteen percent cocoa solids- twenty for the dark- with a sticky aftertaste of fat and sugar. Once or twice I bought Süchard from the supermarket, but at five times the price of the other, it was a luxury I could seldom afford. This is different altogether; the brief resistance of the chocolate shell as it meets the lips, the soft truffle inside.... There are layers of flavor like the bouquet of a fine wine, a slight bitterness, a richness like ground coffee; warmth brings the flavor to life, and it fills my nostrils, a taste succubus that has me moaning.

Once she was caffeinated and showered, she was a whole new person. That person would take a second cup of coffee to the big armchair and pull out her planner and pencil box. She would decide what to eat and how she was going to exercise. She would make a shopping list. She would feel like her life was controlled and organized and heading in the right direction. It was the most satisfying part of her day. Today she had a book club meeting, after which her plan was to come home and read until bedtime. She laid out some extra-fluffy pajama pants and socks in preparation. She made a note to get popcorn. She made a note to get mini marshmallows to go in her cocoa. And then she made a note to get cocoa. And milk.

A little later Anastasia was sitting before her bedroom fire writing. It has a magic of its own—the bedroom fire. Not such a one as night by night warms hothouse bedrooms of the rich, but that which burns but once or twice a year. How the coals glow between the bars, how the red light shimmers on the black-lead bricks, how the posset steams upon the hob! Milk or tea, cocoa or coffee, poor commonplace liquids, are they not transmuted in the alembic of a bedroom fire, till they become nepenthe for a heartache or a philtre for romance? Ah, the romance of it, when youth forestalls to-morrow’s conquest, when middle life forgets that yesterday is past for ever, when even querulous old age thinks it may still have its “honour and its toil”!

Men, she thought, were one of the world’s few sure comforts, like a fire on a cold October night, like cocoa, like broken-in slippers. Their clumsy affections, their bristly faces, and their willingness to do what needed to be done—cook an omelet, change lightbulbs, make with hugging—sometimes almost made being a woman fun. She wished she were not so aware of the vast gulf between what the men in her life thought she was worth and her actual value. She had, it seemed to her, always asked and expected too much and given too little. She seemed almost to have a perverse impulse to make anyone who cared about her regret it, to find the thing that would most appall those people and then do that until they had to run away as a matter of self-preservation.

There is no quick and easy way to make the life of God the life we lead. It takes years of sacred reading, years of listening to all of life, years of learning to listen through the filter of what we have read. A generation of Pop Tarts and instant cocoa and TV dinners and computer calculations and Xerox copies does not prepare us for the slow and tedious task of listening and learning, over and over, day after day, until we can finally hear the people we love and love the people we've learned to dislike and grow to understand how holiness is here and now for us. But someday, in thirty years and thirty days perhaps, we may have listened enough to be ready to gather the yield that comes from years of learning Christ in time, or at least, in the words of the Rule of Benedict, to have made "a good beginning.

In the Middle Ages, sugar was a rare luxury in Europe. It was imported from the Middle East at prohibitive prices and used sparingly as a secret ingredient in delicacies and snake-oil medicines. After large sugar plantations were established in America, ever-increasing amounts of sugar began to reach Europe. The price of sugar dropped and Europe developed an insatiable sweet tooth. Entrepreneurs met this need by producing huge quantities of sweets: cakes, cookies, chocolate, candy, and sweetened beverages such as cocoa, coffee and tea. The annual sugar intake of the average Englishman rose from near zero in the early seventeenth century to around eighteen pounds in the early nineteenth century. However, growing cane and extracting its sugar was a labour-intensive business. Few people wanted to work long hours in malaria-infested sugar fields under a tropical sun. Contract labourers would have produced a commodity too expensive for mass consumption. Sensitive to market forces, and greedy for profits and economic growth, European plantation owners switched to slaves. From the sixteenth to the nineteenth centuries, about 10 million African slaves were imported to America. About 70 per cent of them worked on the sugar plantations. Labour conditions were abominable. Most slaves lived a short and miserable life, and millions more died during wars waged to capture slaves or during the long voyage from inner Africa to the shores of America. All this so that Europeans could enjoy their sweet tea and candy – and sugar barons could enjoy huge profits. The slave trade was not

As for the Economy, this new embodiment as I called it of Fate or the Gods, this global power that governs the lives of Chinese workers in village factories, Brazilian miners, children working cocoa plantations in West Africa, sex workers in Mumbai, real estate salesmen in Connecticut, sheep-farmers in Scotland or on the Darling Downs, disembodied voices in call centres in Bangalore, workers in the hospitality industry in Cancun or Venice or Fiji, keeping them fatefully interconnected, in its mysterious way, by laws that do exist, the experts assure us, though they cannot agree on what they are- it is too impersonal, too implacable for us to live comfortably with, or even to catch hold of and defy. When we were in the hands of the Gods, we had stories that made these distant beings human and brought them close. They got angry, they took our part or turned violently against us. They fell in love with us and behaved badly. They had their own problems and fought with one another, and like us were sometimes foolish. But their interest in us was personal. They watched over us and were concerned though in moments of willfulness or boredom they might also torment us as “wanton boys” do flies. We had our ways of obtaining their help as intermediaries. We could deal with them. The Economy is impersonal. It lacks manageable dimensions. We have discovered no mythology to account for its moods. Our only source of information about it, the Media and their swarm of commentators, bring us “reports,” but these do not help: a possible breakdown in the system, a new crisis, the descent of Greece, or Ireland or Portugal, like Jove’s eagle, of the IMF. We are kept in a state of permanent low-level anxiety broken only by outbreaks of alarm.

Overall look: Soft and delicate   Hair: Most often blonde or golden grey   Skintone: Light, ivory to soft beige, peachy tones. Very little contrast between hair and skin   Eyes: Blue, blue-green, aqua, light green IF you are a Light Spring you should avoid dark and dusty colors, which would make you look pale, tired and even pathetic. Spring women who need to look strong, for example chairing a meeting, can do so by wearing mid-tone grey or light navy, not deeper shades. If you are a Light Spring and you wear too much contrast, say a light blouse and dark jacket, or a dress with lots of bold colors against a white background, you ‘disappear’ because our eye is drawn to the colors you are wearing. See your Light Spring palette opposite. Your neutrals can be worn singly or mixed with others in a print or weave. The ivory, camel and blue-greys are good investment shades that will work with any others in your palette. Your best pinks will be warm—see the peaches, corals and apricots—but also rose pink. Never go as far as fuchsia, which is too strong and would drain all the life from your skin. Periwinkle blue toned with a light blue blouse is a smart, striking alternative to navy and white for work. Why wear black in the evening when you will sparkle in violet (also, warm pink and emerald turquoise will turn heads)? For leisure wear, team camel with clear bright red or khaki with salmon.   Make-Up Tips Foundation: Ivory, porcelain Lipstick: Peach, salmon, coral, clear red Blush: Salmon, peach Eyeshadow for blue eyes: Highlighter Champagne, melon, apricot, soft pink Contour Soft grey, violet, teal blue, soft blues, cocoa Eyeshadow for blue-green and aqua eyes: Highlighter Apricot, lemon, champagne Contour Cocoa or honey brown, spruce or moss green, teal blue Eyeshadow for green eyes: Highlighter Pale aqua, apricot, champagne Contour Cocoa or honey brown, teal blue, violet, spruce.

HEART OF TEA DEVOTION Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And, while the bubbling and loud hissing urn Throws up a steamy column and the cups That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful ev ning in. WILLIAM COWPER Perhaps the idea of a tea party takes you back to childhood. Do you remember dressing up and putting on your best manners as you sipped pretend tea out of tiny cups and shared pretend delicacies with your friends, your parents, or your teddy bears? Were you lucky enough to know adults who cared enough to share tea parties with you? And are you lucky enough to have a little person with whom you could share a tea party today? Is there a little girl inside you who longs for a lovely time of childish imagination and "so big" manners? It could be that the mention of teatime brings quieter memories-cups of amber liquid sipped in peaceful solitude on a big porch, or friendly confidences shared over steaming cups. So many of my own special times of closeness-with my husband, my children, my friends-have begun with putting a kettle on to boil and pulling out a tea tray. But even if you don't care for tea-if you prefer coffee or cocoa or lemonade or ice water, or if you like chunky mugs better than gleaming silver or delicate china, or if you find the idea of traditional tea too formal and a bit intimidating-there's still room for you at the tea table, and I think you would love it there! I have shared tea with so many people-from business executives to book club ladies to five-year-old boys. And I have found that few can resist a tea party when it is served with the right spirit. You see, it's not tea itself that speaks to the soul with such a satisfying message-although I must confess that I adore the warmth and fragrance of a cup of Earl Grey or Red Zinger. And it's not the teacups themselves that bring such a message of beauty and serenity and friendship-although my teacups do bring much pleasure. It's not the tea, in other words, that makes teatime special, it's the spirit of the tea party. It's what happens when women or men or children make a place in their life for the

Emissions of carbon dioxide reasonable commercial For those who do not know each other with the phrase "carbon footprint" and its consequences or is questionable, which is headed "reasonable conversion" is a fast lens here. Statements are described by the British coal climatic believe. "..The GC installed (fuel emissions) The issue has directly or indirectly affected by a company or work activities, products," only in relation to the application, especially to introduce a special procedure for the efforts of B. fight against carbon crank function What is important? Carbon dioxide ", uh, (on screen), the main fuel emissions" and the main result of global warming, improve a process that determines the atmosphere in the air in the heat as greenhouse gases greenhouse, carbon dioxide is reduced by the environment, methane, nitrous oxide and chlorofluorocarbons (CFCs more typically classified as). The consequences are disastrous in the sense of life on the planet. The exchange is described at a reasonable price in Wikipedia as "...geared a social movement and market-based procedures, especially the objectives of the development of international guidelines and improve local sustainability." The activity is for the price "reasonable effort" as well as social and environmental criteria as part of the same in the direction of production. It focuses exclusively on exports under the auspices of the acquisition of the world's nations to coffee most international destinations, cocoa, sugar, tea, vegetables, wine, specially designed, refreshing fruits, bananas, chocolate and simple. In 2007 trade, the conversion of skilled gross sales serious enough alone suffered due the supermarket was in the direction of approximately US $ 3.62 billion to improve (2.39 million), rich environment and 47% within 12 months of the calendar year. Fair trade is often providing 1-20% of gross sales in their classification of medicines in Europe and North America, the United States. ..Properly Faith in the plan ... cursed interventions towards closing in failure "vice president Cato Industries, appointed to inquire into the meaning of fair trade Brink Lindsey 2003 '. "Sensible changes direction Lindsay inaccurate provides guidance to the market in a heart that continues to change a design style and price of the unit complies without success. It is based very difficult, and you must deliver or later although costs Rule implementation and reduces the cost if you have a little time in the mirror. You'll be able to afford the really wide range plan alternatives to products and expenditures price to pay here. With the efficient configuration package offered in the interpretation question fraction "which is a collaboration with the Carbon Fund worldwide, and acceptable substitute?" In the statement, which tend to be small, and more? They allow you to search for carbon dioxide transport and delivery. All vehicles are responsible dioxide pollution, but they are the worst offenders? Aviation. Quota of the EU said that the greenhouse gas jet fuel greenhouse on the basis of 87% since 1990 years Boeing Company, Boeing said more than 5 747 liters of fuel burns kilometer. Paul Charles, spokesman for Virgin Atlantic, said flight CO² gas burned in different periods of rule. For example: (. The United Kingdom) Jorge Chavez airport to fly only in the vast world of Peru to London Heathrow with British Family Islands 6.314 miles (10162 km) works with about 31,570 liters of kerosene, which produces changes in only 358 for the incredible carbon. Delivery. John Vidal, Environment Editor parents argue that research on the oil company BP and researchers from the Department of Physics and the environment in Germany Wising said that about once a year before the transport height of 600 to 800 million tons. This is simply nothing more than twice in Colombia and more than all African nations spend together.

what I do know now, now that this moment I have craved has arrived, is that it’s easier to fall asleep with you in my life. And to wake up. And to love. I want to cook for you when hunger has blackened your mood. Any kind of hunger: hunger for life, hunger for love, hunger for light, sea, travel, reading and sleep too. I want to rub cream into your hands when you’ve touched too many rough stones. In my dreams you are a rescuer of stones, capable of seeing through layers of stone and detecting the rivers of the heart that flow underneath. I want to watch you as you walk along a sandy path, turn and wait for me. I want all the little things and the big things too. I want to have arguments with you and explode into laughter halfway through; I want to pour cocoa into your favorite mug on a cold day; and after partying with wonderful friends I want to hold the passenger door open while you climb happily into the car. I want to hold you at night and feel you press your small bottom against my warm tummy. I want to do a thousand little and big things with you, with us—you, me, together, you as a part of me and me as a part of you.

The kitchen’s the coziest place that I know; The kettle is singing, the stove’s aglow, And there in the twilight, how jolly to see The cocoa and animals waiting for me.

I like that my closet is filled (to the brim) with my clothes and shoes and that I don’t have to save half the space for anyone else’s clothes and shoes. (I especially like this.) I like that I can eat cold pizza for breakfast and cereal for dinner if I choose to. I like that I can flip the two meals without concern that someone won’t like my random tastes. I really like that I can use my kitchen cabinets for storage space rather than for dishes or canned foods. I like that I don’t own a garlic press, nor do I know how to use one. I like that I have no need to know that right now. I like that I choose my own bedtime, my own alarm clock setting, my own home décor, my own vacation spots, my own TV channels, my own meals, my own life. I like that I’m only thinking and planning for one. I like that I have multiple remote controls and no clue what they go to, but I’m afraid to toss them out because they could be connected to a device that I might someday want to use again . . . and I control them all. I like that I can sit on my balcony on a cool autumn night with a blanket and a cup of hot cocoa and talk to God for hours, because I don’t have anywhere else to be or anyone else to be with. I like that my heart belongs to Him and is safe with Him. I like that He is the only entity I feel the need to consult with before making big life decisions . . . and I like that I have the luxury of a deeply intimate walk with Him, because He has my undivided attention and undistracted devotion. I’m pretty sure God really likes that too. So, after giving it all very careful consideration . . . I don’t think I’m merely settling for my life. I think I’ve chosen it.

The steam from their cups of cocoa clouds the window, like breath on glass, which in the end is all that separates the living from the dead.

said to expect such thoughts when I returned home, and that those thoughts would fade with time. I sure hoped she was right. I still had a shock every time I looked in the mirror, a pleasant shock mind you, but nevertheless a shock. Even though my life had immeasurably changed for the better, I was still having trouble coming to terms with the change itself. I had been told time and time again that this was normal, but that didn’t make it any easier to experience. I suppose I had been depressed before the accident. I looked around my cottage, surprised that this had been my taste. The curtains were hideous, and everything was dark. I suppose I had been trying to hide away from the world. Still, my job wouldn’t have helped. I had been the marketing manager for a local small art gallery. The boss had been a screaming banshee, and that was a polite description for her. She had been impossible to deal with and had a regular staff turnover. I had been there years longer than any other employee. Looking back, I wondered how I had taken her verbal abuse and yelling for years, but I suppose I had been used to being bullied since school. I shook myself. That was all behind me now, and my only connection with that was a desire to work in some way to help people who had been bullied. There was altogether way too much bullying in the world. Now I had enough money to buy a nice place, but first things first. I was going to concentrate on starting my business. I would simply buy some bright new cushions to make the place look a little better and make sure all the curtains were open. I’d buy some nice smelling incense and an oil burner, and burn lavender oil. I was craving nice fragrances, after being accustomed to the antiseptic smell of the hospital, a smell I am sure I will never forget.

Joanie’s treatment of me wore me down, so I started to gravitate toward her cousin Robin, who was alpha like Joanie but in an entirely different direction. Robin was a full-on flower child and lesbian, a beauty with cocoa-brown skin, hazel eyes, and natural hair down her back. In fitted Levi’s jean suits and boys’ shoes, she turned people’s heads with her braless breasts pointed out like little missiles.

together in town, each one on a separate little strip of paper. Then, we rolled up all the little strips and placed them inside our “fun jar.” Now, every Friday afternoon, we simply pull an activity from the fun jar and do it. Sometimes we’ll visit a museum, while other times we’ll play in the park or visit a highly rated ice cream parlor across town. That time is reserved just for us. Truth be told, the fun jar idea doesn’t always work as smoothly as I’d like. It’s hard for me to muster up the energy to head to the playground when New York’s temperatures fall below freezing. On those days, a cup of hot cocoa and a couple of chapters of Harry Potter sound way more inviting for us both. What’s important, though, is that I’ve made it a priority in my weekly schedule to live up to my values. Having this time in my schedule allows me to be the dad that I envision myself to be.

Some of the best sources of insoluble fiber are berries, beans, lentils, okra, spinach, cocoa, sweet potatoes, whole grains (which we’ll talk about momentarily), apples, walnuts, and almonds.

There is much that is unknown about Francesco Bianco (or Francesco Bianchi, according to some accounts), but he was an Italian immigrant who anglicised his name as Francis White. Joining seventeenth-century London’s frenzy for luxury goods, he set up White’s Chocolate Shop, selling both coffee and hot drinking chocolate (or cocoa). Instead of locating the business alongside rivals in the City of London itself, he opted for the up-and-coming neighbourhood of St James’s. This was a risky venture: the area was fairly peripheral to London at the time, then still recovering from the Great Fire of 1666, while St James’s still overlooked wide-open pig fields to the north, bound by the street Pigadillo – now called Piccadilly.

A mug of hot chocolate appeared beside her, along with a handful of shortbread. Nesta chuckled. 'Thank you.' She sipped from her drink, nearly sighing at the richness of the cocoa. 'I'd like to try a fire,' she said quietly. 'A small one.' Instantly, the House had a tiny blaze going in the fireplace. A log popped, and Nesta straightened, stomach twisting. It was a fire. Not her father's neck. ... Another log cracked and Nesta flinched. But she remained sitting there. Staring at that carved rose. Would she live the rest of her life like Emerie, always glancing over a shoulder for the shadow of the past to haunt her? Did she appear as Emerie had this afternoon, terrified and pained? She owed herself more than that. Emerie, too, deserved more. A chance to live a life without fear and dread. So Nesta could try. Right now. She'd face this fire. Another log cracked. Nesta ground her teeth. Breathe. Inhale for six, hold, exhale for six. She did just that. This is a fire. It reminds you of your father, of something horrible happening, but this is not him, and while you are feeling uncomfortable, you can get through it. Nesta focused on her breathing. Made herself unclench each of her too-tight muscles, starting with her face and working all the way down to her toes. All while she told herself over and over, This is a fire. It makes you uncomfortable. This is why you react as you do. You can breathe through this. Work through this. Her body didn't loosen, but she was able to sit there. Endure the fire until it dimmed to embers, and then went out entirely. She didn't know why she found herself on the verge of tears as the cinders smouldered. Didn't know why the rush of pride that filled her chest made her want to laugh and whoop and dance around the room. She hadn't done anything more than sit by a fire, but... she had sat. Stayed. She had not failed. She had faced it and survived. She might not have saved the world or led armies, but she had made this small, initial step. Nesta wiped at her eyes...

What will make him good and wholesome and kind?" Anna asked aloud. "Chocolate?" Lily said, finishing off the bottle of rum. Anna dropped in a palmful of dark cocoa powder. She added the leaves from three sprigs of rosemary because it was her favorite herb and because its woodsy scent would hopefully make him a lover of the outdoors. If she was making the most absurd recipe ever, why not go big with her additions? So she added a pinch of cinnamon because the season called for it, and then she sprinkled in cumin to give him a spicy, smoky edge. Anna added a cashew-size glob of purple royal icing to the mix to make him loyal, then poured in a teaspoon of vanilla extract. She dipped a tablespoon into the sparkling, golden sugar. When she leveled it with her finger, warmth spread up her arm until it reached her head, where it tugged her lips into a smile. She added the special ingredient and shoved her hand into the dough to incorporate everything. Rather than olive oil, Anna poured canola oil into the bowl because he needed to be able to withstand the heat and not break down when life became too hot or too complicated.

NASA engineers and technicians at the Cape were pushing themselves so hard in the final weeks people had to be ordered home to rest. It was a grueling time and yet the sort of interlude of adrenal exhilaration that men remember all their lives. It was an interlude of the dedication of body and soul to a cause such as men usually experience only during war. Well … this was war, even though no one had spelled it out in just that way. Without knowing it, they were caught up in the primordial spirit of single combat. Just days from now one of the lads would be up on top of the rocket for real. Everyone felt he had the life of the astronaut, whichever was chosen (only a few knew), in his hands. The MA–1 explosion here at the Cape nine months ago had been a chilling experience, even for veterans of flight test. The seven astronauts had been assembled for the event, partly to give them confidence in the new system. And their gullets had been stuck up toward the sky like everybody else’s, when the whole assembly blew to bits over their heads. In a few days one of those very lads would be lying on top of a rocket (albeit a Redstone, not an Atlas) when the candle was lit. Just about everybody here in NASA had seen the boys close up. NASA was like a family that way. Ever since the end of the Second World War the phrase “government bureaucracy” had invariably provoked sniggers. But a bureaucracy was nothing more than a machine for communal work, after all, and in those grueling and gorgeous weeks of the spring of 1961 the men and women of NASA’s Space Task Group for Project Mercury knew that bureaucracy, when coupled with a spiritual motivation, in this case true patriotism and profound concern for the life of the single-combat warrior himself—bureaucracy, poor gross hideously ridiculed twentieth-century bureaucracy, could take on the aura, even the ecstasy, of communion. The passion that now animated NASA spread out even into the surrounding community of Cocoa Beach. The grisliest down-home alligator-poaching crackers manning the gasoline pumps on Route A1A would say to the tourists, as the No-Knock flowed, “Well, that Atlas vehicle’s given us more fits than a June bug on a porch bulb, but we got real confidence in that Redstone, and I think we’re gonna make it.” Everyone who felt the spirit of NASA at that time wanted to be part of it. It took on a religious dimension that engineers, no less than pilots, would resist putting into words. But all felt it.

Mix together a frozen banana, a few tablespoons of coconut flakes, two Medjool dates, and 2 teaspoons of cocoa powder—and just like that, you have a creamy chocolate ice cream.

The Watchers have been protecting you to the best of our ability all your life, and have been watching for your birth for approximately 1500 years." Then he added pleasantly, "Would you like some cocoa?

In 2019 I tried to commit suicide and obviously failed. I wrote Day Return to Cocoa Yard during the rebuilding of my life, and quite honestly it was an integral course of bricks.

I bury myself in the comfort offered by my bar of white vanilla and olive oil chocolate, enjoying every luxurious morsel. This isn't strictly pure chocolate as it's made with cocoa butter rather than cocoa solids (these things matter to the aficionado) but it's so great that Clive is allowed to keep it in his repertoire. It's like a grown-up version of a Milky Bar---but I'd never dare say that within earshot of Clive. I let its velvety texture melt slowly on my tongue and let out a long, steady exhalation of breath. Joy is returning to my life.

In that moment I realised if I wanted an adventurous life I was going to have to create it.

rule of thumb for patients craving sweet: Start with a big glass of water. Wait fifteen minutes. If you are still wanting sweet, have fat first in the form of a heaping teaspoon of coconut oil with cinnamon, a few macadamia nuts, a hard-boiled egg, or a piece of jerky. Wait another fifteen minutes. If you are still craving sweet, then perhaps go for it (and by that we mean a piece of dark chocolate [85 percent cocoa or higher] or ¼ cup of dark berries). Then go for a walk so as not to start a binge. Exercise regulates the sweet tooth by releasing endorphins. But most important, find the sweetness in your life—with nature, loved ones, or within yourself—not within a bag of M&M’s. For more ideas about this, the book Nourishing Wisdom by Marc David has been a classic in the emotional nutrition world for over fifteen years.

Store-bought spices are often sprayed with preservatives to extend shelf life, and yet they lose potency over time. Purchase spices whole and grinds small amounts at a time. Preserve them in airtight glass jars to keep them fresh. Pantry Whole mung beans Split mung beans, also called yellow dal or moong dal Basmati rice Ghee, or grass-fed unsalted butter to make your own Extra-virgin olive oil Coconut oil Apple cider vinegar Tamari (a Japanese variety of soy sauce that is gluten-free and preservative-free) Almonds, cashews, pumpkin seeds, sunflower seeds Shredded coconut Cocoa powder Raw honey Maple syrup Jaggery or Sucanat Fresh produce Lemons, limes, citrus, in season Apples, berries, seasonal fruits Root vegetables, like carrots, sweet potatoes, turnips, according to season Leafy greens, in season Seasonal favorites like avocado, broccoli, pumpkin Fresh peas and green beans Fresh cilantro, parsley, other herbs Spices/herbs Spring: Ground ginger, cinnamon, turmeric, black pepper, cayenne, or red pepper flakes Summer: Ground coriander, turmeric, fennel seeds, mint, dill Autumn: Ground ginger, cinnamon, cardamom, whole nutmeg, fenugreek Winter: Ground ginger, cinnamon, cloves, turmeric, fenugreek General: Mustard seeds (brown), pink or sea salt, whole peppercorns Miscellaneous Whole-milk plain yogurt Dates

As I look at the young faces, the questions in their eyes are the measure of a vast gulf between the children who eat chocolate on their way to school in North America and those who have no school at all, who must, from childhood, work to survive. An I feel the profound irony before me: the children who struggle to produce the small delights of life in the world I come from have never known such pleasure, and most likely, they never will. It's a measure of the separation in our worlds, a distance now so staggeringly vast...the distance between the hand that picks the cocoa and the hand that reaches for the chocolate bar.

Schwieger ordered the submarine to the bottom so his crew could dine in peace. “And now,” said Zentner, “there was fresh fish, fried in butter, grilled in butter, sautéed in butter, all that we could eat.” These fish and their residual odors, however, could only have worsened the single most unpleasant aspect of U-boat life: the air within the boat. First there was the basal reek of three dozen men who never bathed, wore leather clothes that did not breathe, and shared one small lavatory. The toilet from time to time imparted to the boat the scent of a cholera hospital and could be flushed only when the U-boat was on the surface or at shallow depths, lest the undersea pressure blow material back into the vessel. This tended to happen to novice officers and crew, and was called a “U-boat baptism.” The odor of diesel fuel infiltrated all corners of the boat, ensuring that every cup of cocoa and piece of bread tasted of oil. Then came the fragrances that emanated from the kitchen long after meals were cooked, most notably that close cousin to male body odor, day-old fried onions. All this was made worse by a phenomenon unique to submarines that occurred while they were submerged. U-boats carried only limited amounts of oxygen, in cylinders, which injected air into the boat in a ratio that varied depending on the number of men aboard. Expended air was circulated over a potassium compound to cleanse it of carbonic acid, then reinjected into the boat’s atmosphere. Off-duty crew were encouraged to sleep because sleeping men consumed less oxygen. When deep underwater, the boat developed an interior atmosphere akin to that of a tropical swamp. The air became humid and dense to an unpleasant degree, this caused by the fact that heat generated by the men and by the still-hot diesel engines and the boat’s electrical apparatus warmed the hull. As the boat descended through ever colder waters, the contrast between the warm interior and cold exterior caused condensation, which soaked clothing and bred colonies of mold. Submarine crews called it “U-boat sweat.” It drew oil from the atmosphere and deposited it in coffee and soup, leaving a miniature oil slick. The longer the boat stayed submerged, the worse conditions became. Temperatures within could rise to over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. “You can have no conception of the atmosphere that is evolved by degrees under these circumstances,” wrote one commander, Paul Koenig, “nor of the hellish temperature which brews within the shell of steel.

Since she was ten, the most powerfully loaded word in Dora's house, in her vocabulary, had been opportunity. And from what little she knew or cared about history, it seemed to her that until 1989 the word, the concept, had not existed. Life before the change was all about cigarettes and salted bread rolls for breakfast, maybe a cup of cocoa in a milk house on the way to work or school. It was a dun-colored existence. If a person was ambitious, he or she joined the Party to get ahead, but most people kept their mouths shut and their heads down. They pursued hobbies like photography or tennis; or maybe they climbed mountains or kept a garden and traded whatever extra they had for something they didn't have; or maybe, if they were overly ambitious, they carried whatever extras they could round up to the co-op or the weekly market, and they sold it for a bit of change.