Coconut Love Quotes

Somewhere, far, far away, there's a shitty island. An island without a name. An island not worth giving a name. A shitty island with a shitty shape. On this shitty island grow palm trees that also have shitty shapes. And the palm trees produce coconuts that give off a shitty smell. Shitty monkeys live in the trees, and they love to eat these shitty-smelling coconuts, after which they shit the world's foulest shit. The shit falls on the ground and builds up shitty mounds, making the shitty palm trees that grown on them even shittier. It's an endless cycle.

Eighteen luscuios scrumpitous flavors, Chocolate,Lime and Cherry Coffee,Pumpkin, Fudge-Banana, Caramel Cream and boysenberry. Rocky Road and Toasted Almond, Butterscotch,Vanilla Dip, Butter Brinkle, Apple Ripple,Coconut,and Mocha Chip, Brandy Peach and Lemon Custard. Each scoop lovely.smooth and round. Tallest cream cone in town lying there on the ground.

I miss the way he used to kiss my shoulder whenever it was bare and he was nearby. I miss how he cleared his throat before he took a sip of water and scratched his left arm with his right hand when he was nervous. I miss how he tucked my hair behind my ear when it came loose and took my temperature when I was sick or when he was bored. I miss his glasses on my nightstand. I miss watching him take Sunday afternoon naps on my couch, with the newspaper resting on his stomach like a blanket. How his hands stayed clasped, fingers intertwined, while he slept. I miss the cadence of his speech and the stupidity of his puns. I miss playing doctor when we made love, and even when we didn't. I miss his smell, like fresh laundry and honey (because of his shampoo) at his place. Fresh laundry and coconut (because of my shampoo) at mine. I miss that he used to force me to listen to French rap and would sing along in a horrible accent. I miss that he always said "I love you" when he hung up the phone with his sister, never shy or embarassed, regardless of who else was around. I miss that his ideal Friday night included a DVD, eating Chinese food right out of the carton, and cuddling on top of my duvet cover. I miss that he reread books from his childhood and then from mine. I miss that he was the only man that I have ever farted on, and with, freely. I miss that he understood that the holidays were hard for me and that he wanted me to never feel lonely.

When I'm in pain I want everyone I love on the island with me, sitting around the fire, getting drunk on coconut milk, banging out a plan.

What's this new shampoo you're wearing?" "I stole it from Margot. It's juicy pear. Nice, right?" "It's all right, I guess. But can you go back to the one you used to wear? The coconut one? I love the smell of that one." A dreamy look crosses his face, like evening fog settling over a city.

Jemu watched his father disappear. He didn't throw the coconut and he didn't cry. Never again would he know love for another human being that wasn't adulterated by another, contradictory emotion.

She smells like coconut and the tears of every boy who will never have a chance with her.

I had a dream about you last night. You were at my door. We had forgotten what we used to fight about. So, I let you in and we made coconut pancakes like it was the very first time.

Love is like a cocoon—like a coconut shell with the outer hardened husk that protects us from all external harms because of its high resistance to abrasion and the soft white inside core, full of flesh that envelops us with its softened, fragrant nutrients.

In his bachelor's heart of hearts, he loved pie with an intensity that alarmed him. Yet, when he was offered seconds, he usually refused. "Wouldn't you like another piece of this nice coconut pie, Father?" he might be asked. "No, I don't believe I'd care for anymore," he'd say. An outright lie!

Well in two months, it'd be sunbathing time. That made me smile. I enjoyed lying in the sun in a little bikini, timing myself carefully so I didn't burn. I loved the smell of coconut oil. And I don't want to hear any lectures about how bad tanning is for you. That's my vice. Everybody gets one.

And Josh wanted to tell her what he knew: that love might look like a shore but turn out to be a desert island, where you roamed alone, talking to yourself, trying to crack open coconuts with your shoe. So thirsty you drank the salt water. So hungry you ate the sand.

I wish I could tell you about the South Pacific. The way it actually was. The endless ocean. The infinite specks of coral we called islands. Coconut palms nodding gracefully toward the ocean. Reefs upon which waves broke into spray, and inner lagoons, lovely beyond description. I wish I could tell you about the sweating jungle, the full moon rising behind the volcanoes, and the waiting. The waiting. The timeless, repetitive waiting.

Do you know the story of the monkeys of the shitty island?" I asked Nobory Wataya. He shook his head, with no sign of interest. "Never heard of it". "Somewhere, far, far away, there's a shitty island. An island without a name. An island not worth giving a name. A shitty island with shitty shape. On this shitty island grow palm trees that also have shitty shapes. And the palm trees produce coconuts that give off a shitty smell. Shitty monkeys live in the trees, and they love to eat these shitty-smelling coconuts,after which they shit the world's foulest shit. The shit falls on the ground and builds up shitty mounds, making the shitty palm trees that grow on them even shittier. It's an endless cycle." I drank the rest of my coffee. "As I sat here looking at you," I continued, " I suddenly remembered the story of this shitty island. What I'm trying to say is this. A certain kind of shittiness, a certain kind of stagnation, a certain kind of darkness, goes on propagating itself by its own power in its own self-contained cycle. And once it passed a certain point, no one can stop it -even if the person himself want to stop it.

I think careful cooking is love, don’t you? The loveliest thing you can cook for someone who’s close to you is about as nice a valentine as you can give. —JULIA CHILD

They visited him in saris, clumping gracelessly through red mud and long grass ... and introduced themselves as Mrs. Pillai, Mrs. Eapen and Mrs. Rajagopalan. Velutha introduced himself and his paralyzed brother Kuttappen (although he was fast asleep). He greeted them with the utmost courtesy. He addressed them all as Kochamma [an honorific title for a woman] and gave them fresh coconut water to drink. He chatted to them about the weather. The river. The fact that in his opinion coconut trees were getting shorter by the year. As were the ladies in Ayemenem. He introduced them to his surly hen. He showed them his carpentry tools, and whittled them each a little wooden spoon. It is only now, these years later, that Rahel with adult hindsight recognized the sweetness of that gesture. A grown man entertaining three raccoons, treating them like real ladies. Instinctively colluding in the conspiracy of their fiction, taking care not to decimate it with adult carelessness. Or affection. [emphasis mine] It is after all so easy to shatter a story. To break a chain of thought. To ruin a fragment of a dream being carried around carefully like a piece of porcelain. To let it be, to travel with it, as Velutha did, is much the harder thing to do.

Eve,” I exhale, burrowing my nose behind her ear. “I want to take you to be my wife.” Kiss. “I want to have you and hold you.” Kiss. “From this day forward, for better, for worse.” Kiss. “For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health.” Kiss. “Until death do us part.” Kiss. “I’m so sorry for what I’m about to do. Forgive me, baby. I love you so fucking much.” I fall asleep with my face buried in her coconut-scented hair, wishing things could be different, but knowing that come morning, I’ll be shattering her life, and mine.

He still loved her, loved her more for her wrinkles because they could not defeat his need for her. Or his love. His young lust had turned to love and then his love had aged back into lust. It was a circle. It was a miracle. It was the alchemy of flesh. They ate only what they caught from the sea - wahoo, barracuda, and mahi mahi, and they ate what they picked from the trees - papaya, banana, and coconut. Don't forget cerveza from the bodega. They did not run, they walked. They needed nothing but themselves. This was them: They were.

I hate New York.” It almost makes me recoil, the way he’s said this. Bold, sans serif. No caps, but italics for the It’s not a harmless, pedestrian “I hate this song” or “I hate those chocolate balls rolled in shredded coconut.” It’s not one of those small, meaningless hatreds that shear the word of its meaning.

When you love someone, Schätzchen, you are never alone.

Never dream of Charlie Dimmock, while relaxing on a hammock. And don’t compare coconuts of love, when there’s a monkey swinging high above.

Ole boy’s melanin was so popping I bet he sweats coconut oil.

She thought of him now and made him last forever.

think careful cooking is love, don’t you? The loveliest thing you can cook for someone who’s close to you is about as nice a valentine as you can give. —JULIA CHILD

She had recognised him before he could remember himself.

Mother I had a beautiful house in Shingdi a vegetable garden Vines of bitter gourd lettuce English spinach and tousled coconut trees Coconuts fell on my darling husbands head One day we made love under the tree Now I was pregnant just like my orchard full of fruits with the love child Oh I ran as hard as I could from the shadow These were shadows of time shadows of the past ...

We are born, we live, if we are lucky we love, then we die. That is the way, not something to mourn. Only mourn those who haven’t lived, who haven’t found love. They deserve your sadness, not us.

Luella had been Lou's favorite grandma. Some grandmas took their grandchildren to parks, or bought them books and dolls, or shared their special stories. Her grandma shared her recipes. She taught Lou how to check when a roast turkey was done, chop veggies without cutting off a finger, and bake a coconut cake grown men swooned over. A fog of comforting smells had perpetually blanketed her kitchen- an expression of her love so strong you could taste it. Lou caught the culinary bug during those early days and loved that she was named after her grandma, even if Lou believed she'd never make food quite as delicious.

Even through the smell of rain and exhaust, I catch the scent of her shampoo, which smells like coconuts and summer, and it sends a jolt of excitement through my veins. Oh man, I’ve got it bad for this girl.

It hurts more to see those we love sad about something inevitable. We are born, we live, if we are lucky we love, then we die. That is the way, not something to mourn. Only mourn those who haven’t lived, who haven’t found love. They deserve your sadness, not us.

Josh wanted to tell her what he knew: that love might look like a shore but turn out to be a desert island, where you roamed alone, talking to yourself, trying to crack open coconuts with your shoe. So thirsty you drank the salt water. So hungry you ate the sand.

Every moment for all the generations was leading to you here on my lap, your head against your granddaddy’s chest, already four years old. Hair smelling like coconut oil. Something beneath that, though. Little-girl sweat—almost sour, but then just when I think that’s what it is, it turns, sweetens somehow. Makes me want to sit here forever breathing in your scalp. When did your arms get so long? Your feet so big? These footie pajamas with reindeer all over them remind me of the ones your mama used to wear. She used to fall asleep on my lap just like this. Back at the other house. Oh time time time time. Where’d you go where’d you go? My legs hurt tonight. Another place too—deep in my back somewhere, there’s a dull, aching pain. I try not to think about it. Old people used to always say, You only as old as you feel. Here I am closer to fifty than forty, but I feel older than that most days. Feel like the world is trying to pull me down back into it. Like God went ahead and said, I’ve changed my mind about you, Po’Boy. A bath with Epsom salts helps some evenings. Ginger tea keeps Sabe’s good cooking in my belly. Sitting here holding you at the end of the day—that’s . . . well, I’m not going to lie and say this isn’t the best thing that ever happened to my life because it is. Look at you laughing in your sleep. Got me wondering what you’re dreaming about. What’s making you laugh like that? Tell your granddaddy what’s playing in your pretty brown head, my little Melody. Name like a song. Like you were born and it was cause for the world to sing. You know how much your old granddaddy loves when you sing him silly songs? Sabe says she’s gonna have to get some earplugs if she has to hear one more verse of “Elmo’s World” or that song about how to grow a garden. But me, I can listen to your voice forever. Can’t hear you singing enough.

Much of Chinese society still expected its women to hold themselves in a sedate manner, lower their eyelids in response to men's stares, and restrict their smile to a faint curve of the lips which did not expose their teeth. They were not meant to use hand gestures at all. If they contravened any of these canons of behavior they would be considered 'flirtatious." Under Mao, flirting with./bre/gners was an unspeakable crime. I was furious at the innuendo against me. It had been my Communist parents who had given me a liberal upbringing. They had regarded the restrictions on women as precisely the sort of thing a Communist revolution should put an end to. But now oppression of women joined hands with political repression, and served resentment and petty jealousy. One day, a Pakistani ship arrived. The Pakistani military attache came down from Peking. Long ordered us all to spring-clean the club from top to bottom, and laid on a banquet, for which he asked me to be his interpreter, which made some of the other students extremely envious. A few days later the Pakistanis gave a farewell dinner on their ship, and I was invited. The military attache had been to Sichuan, and they had prepared a special Sichuan dish for me. Long was delighted by the invitation, as was I. But despite a personal appeal from the captain and even a threat from Long to bar future students, my teachers said that no one was allowed on board a foreign ship. "Who would take the responsibility if someone sailed away on the ship?" they asked. I was told to say I was busy that evening. As far as I knew, I was turning down the only chance I would ever have of a trip out to sea, a foreign meal, a proper conversation in English, and an experience of the outside world. Even so, I could not silence the whispers. Ming asked pointedly, "Why do foreigners like her so much?" as though there was something suspicious in that. The report filed on me at the end of the trip said my behavior was 'politically dubious." In this lovely port, with its sunshine, sea breezes, and coconut trees, every occasion that should have been joyous was turned into misery. I had a good friend in the group who tried to cheer me up by putting my distress into perspective. Of course, what I encountered was no more than minor unpleasantness compared with what victims of jealousy suffered in the earlier years of the Cultural Revolution. But the thought that this was what my life at its best would be like depressed me even more. This friend was the son of a colleague of my father's. The other students from cities were also friendly to me. It was easy to distinguish them from the students of peasant backgrounds, who provided most of the student officials.

Everyone deserves a little pampering when they're sick. I'm sure you'd do the same." "Of course. I'd bring you mountains of cheese and frozen custard and coffee with too much cream and sugar." "And stacks of eighties teen movies?" "The very best ones." "See? You'd spoil me, too.

He'd been living a lie since he arrived. He'd pretended to be a local, yet had loathed everything about Milwaukee. Now Al knew differently. He didn't want to be anything else but himself: a cheese curd-loving, festival-going, Brew Crew fan who adored the most incredible chef in the city.

Lou loved watching Al savor every bite. She mentally vowed to make him an amazing meal just to see him enjoy it. Maybe her Cuban pork with black beans and cilantro rice. That was a great summer feast- complete with mojitos and mojo sauce. If he savored a burger with such fervor, she he'd swoon over her cooking.

Tea seeped in a silver pot embossed with the seal of the Philipse family, a lion emerging from a coronet, with its tongue sticking out of its mouth. A delicious hint of citrus combined with coconut emerged as his cup was filled three-quarters. The wisps of steam rose and curled in the sunlight coming through the window.

We passed the Irish club, and the florist’s with its small stiff pink-and-white carnations in a bucket, and the drapers called ‘Elvina’s’, which displayed in its window Bear Brand stockings and knife-pleated skirts like cloth concertinas and pasty-shaped hats on false heads. We passed the confectioner’s – or failed to pass it; the window attracted Karina. She balled her hands into her pockets, and leant back, her feet apart; she looked rooted, immovable. The cakes were stacked on decks of sloping shelves, set out on pink doilies whitened by falls of icing sugar. There were vanilla slices, their airy tiers of pastry glued together with confectioners’ custard, fat and lolling like a yellow tongue. There were bubbling jam puffs and ballooning Eccles cakes, slashed to show their plump currant insides. There were jam tarts the size of traffic lights; there were whinberry pies oozing juice like black blood. ‘Look at them buns,’ Karina would say. ‘Look.’ I would turn sideways and see her intent face. Sometimes the tip of her tongue would appear, and slide slowly upwards towards her flat nose. There were sponge buns shaped like fat mushrooms, topped with pink icing and half a glace cherry. There were coconut pyramids, and low square house-shaped chocolate buns, finished with a big roll of chocolate-wrapped marzipan which was solid as the barrel of a cannon.

Dairy-free yogurts are readily available at most grocery stores, but they often contain unwelcome additives. Using a dehydrator or yogurt machine is a simple way to make coconut milk yogurt at home with ease and totally control what goes into it. We love ours with fresh berries and granola (see here). You can use this as a base for anything that calls for yogurt, whether frozen yogurt or savory dips.

While Lou loved the raucous music, loud voices, and chaotic movement of a dinner rush, the calm of prep-work soothed her soul and gave her time to think. Some people did downward dog, some burned incense in front of a Buddha statue, some prayed the rosary; Lou chopped the vegetables into tiny squares, filleted fish, and reduced veal stock. Her meditation smelled better, and even if she didn't find a solution, at least she got to eat.

Peter and I were downstairs alone, the last two people to be picked up. We were sitting on the couch. I kept texting my dad, Where are uuuuuu? Peter was playing a game on his phone. And then, out of nowhere, he said, “Your hair smells like coconuts.” We weren’t even sitting that close. I said, “Really? You can smell it from there?” He scooted closer and took a sniff, nodding. “Yeah, it reminds me of Hawaii or something.” “Thanks!” I said. I wasn’t positive it was a compliment, but it seemed like enough of one to say thanks. “I’ve been switching between this coconut one and my sister’s baby shampoo, to do an experiment on which makes my hair softer--” Then Peter Kavinsky leaned right in and kissed me, and I was stunned. I’d never thought of him any kind of way before that kiss. He was too pretty, too smooth. Not my type of boy at all. But after he kissed me, he was all I could think about for months after.

Tatiasha, my wife, I got cookies from you and Janie, anxious medical advice from Gordon Pasha (tell him you gave me a gallon of silver nitrate), some sharp sticks from Harry (nearly cried). I’m saddling up, I’m good to go. From you I got a letter that I could tell you wrote very late at night. It was filled with the sorts of things a wife of twenty-seven years should not write to her far-away and desperate husband, though this husband was glad and grateful to read and re-read them. Tom Richter saw the care package you sent with the preacher cookies and said, “Wow, man. You must still be doing something right.” I leveled a long look at him and said, “It’s good to know nothing’s changed in the army in twenty years.” Imagine what he might have said had he been privy to the fervent sentiments in your letter. No, I have not eaten any poison berries, or poison mushrooms, or poison anything. The U.S. Army feeds its men. Have you seen a C-ration? Franks and beans, beefsteak, crackers, fruit, cheese, peanut butter, coffee, cocoa, sacks of sugar(!). It’s enough to make a Soviet blockade girl cry. We’re going out on a little scoping mission early tomorrow morning. I’ll call when I come back. I tried to call you today, but the phone lines were jammed. It’s unbelievable. No wonder Ant only called once a year. I would’ve liked to hear your voice though: you know, one word from you before battle, that sort of thing . . . Preacher cookies, by the way, BIG success among war-weary soldiers. Say hi to the kids. Stop teaching Janie back flip dives. Do you remember what you’re supposed to do now? Kiss the palm of your hand and press it against your heart.   Alexander   P.S. I’m getting off the boat at Coconut Grove. It’s six and you’re not on the dock. I finish up, and start walking home, thinking you’re tied up making dinner, and then I see you and Ant hurrying down the promenade. He is running and you’re running after him. You’re wearing a yellow dress. He jumps on me, and you stop shyly, and I say to you, come on, tadpole, show me what you got, and you laugh and run and jump into my arms. Such a good memory. I love you, babe.

1/2 cup plain flour 1 cup caster sugar 3/4 cup desiccated coconut 4 eggs vanilla 125 g butter, melted 1/2 cup flaked almonds 1 cup milk Grease a deep pie dish and preheat the oven to 180 degrees. Put all the ingredients except half the almonds and the milk in a bowl and mix well, then add the milk slowly and beat until you get a cake batter. Pour it into the pie dish, top with the with rest of the almonds. Bake for about 35 minutes. It miraculously turns itself into a spongy sort of layered coconut cake, lovely with stewed fruit and cream.

Rayna does not get sick on planes. Also, Rayna does not stop talking on planes. By the time we land at Okaloosa Regional Airport, I’m wondering if I’ve spoken as many words in my entire life as she did on the plane. With no layovers, it was the longest forty-five minutes of my whole freaking existence. I can tell Rachel’s nerves are also fringed. She orders an SUV limo-Rachel never does anything small-to pick us up and insists that Rayna try the complimentary champagne. I’m fairly certain it’s the first alcoholic beverage Rayna’s ever had, and by the time we reach the hotel on the beach, I’m all the way certain. As Rayna snores in the seat across from me, Rachel checks us into the hotel and has our bags taken to our room. “Do you want to head over to the Gulfarium now?” she asks. “Or, uh, rest up a bit and wait for Rayna to wake up?” This is an important decision. Personally, I’m not tired at all and would love to see a liquored-up Rayna negotiate the stairs at the Gulfarium. But I’d feel a certain guilt if she hit her hard head on a wooden rail or something and then we’d have to pay the Gulfarium for the damages her thick skull would surely cause. Plus, I’d have to suffer a reproving look from Dr. Milligan, which might actually hurt my feelings because he reminds me a bit of my dad. So I decide to do the right thing. “Let’s rest for a while and let her snap out of it. I’ll call Dr. Milligan and let him know we’ve checked in.” Two hours later, Sleeping Beast wakes up and we head to see Dr. Milligan. Rayna is particularly grouchy when hungover-can you even get hungover from drinking champagne?-so she’s not terribly inclined to be nice to the security guard who lets us in. She mutters something under her breath-thank God she doesn’t have a real voice-and pushes past him like the spoiled Royalty she is. I’m just about aggravated beyond redemption-until we see Dr. Milligan in a new exhibit of stingrays. He coos and murmurs as if they’re a litter of puppies in the tank begging to play with him. When he notices our arrival he smiles, and it feels like a coconut slushy on a sweltering day and it almost makes up for the crap I’ve been put through these past few days.

coconut sunblock, a five-year-old showing you the spot where his front tooth used to be, a home-cooked meal, when your love kisses that exact spot on your neck, a grandmother’s handwriting, a job well done, the kindness of strangers, the human spirit, an Appaloosa horse, the ritual of your faith, laughing until you pee your pants a little, holiday dessert tables, first birthday parties, a perfect cup of coffee with a view. What’s good will always be good, and one of the most awful, beautiful things about the hard seasons is that unless we experience hardship, we’ll never truly appreciate and remember the good that was always good.

Diana” was the first thing out of her mouth. “I’m dying,” the too familiar voice on the other end moaned. I snorted, locking the front door behind me as I held the phone up to my face with my shoulder. “You’re pregnant. You’re not dying.” “But it feels like I am,” the person who rarely ever complained whined. We’d been best friends our entire lives, and I could only count on one hand the number of times I’d heard her grumble about something that wasn’t her family. I’d had the title of being the whiner in our epic love affair that had survived more shit than I was willing to remember right then. I held up a finger when Louie tipped his head toward the kitchen as if asking if I was going to get started on dinner or not. “Well, nobody told you to get pregnant with the Hulk’s baby. What did you expect? He’s probably going to come out the size of a toddler.” The laugh that burst out of her made me laugh too. This fierce feeling of missing her reminded me it had been months since we’d last seen each other. “Shut up.” “You can’t avoid the truth forever.” Her husband was huge. I didn’t understand why she wouldn’t expect her unborn baby to be a giant too. “Ugh.” A long sigh came through the receiver in resignation. “I don’t know what I was thinking—” “You weren’t thinking.” She ignored me. “We’re never having another one. I can’t sleep. I have to pee every two minutes. I’m the size of Mars—” “The last time I saw you”—which had been two months ago—“you were the size of Mars. The baby is probably the size of Mars now. I’d probably say you’re about the size of Uranus.” She ignored me again. “Everything makes me cry and I itch. I itch so bad.” “Do I… want to know where you’re itching?” “Nasty. My stomach. Aiden’s been rubbing coconut oil on me every hour he’s here.” I tried to imagine her six-foot-five-inch, Hercules-sized husband doing that to Van, but my imagination wasn’t that great. “Is he doing okay?” I asked, knowing off our past conversations that while he’d been over the moon with her pregnancy, he’d also turned into mother hen supreme. It made me feel better knowing that she wasn’t living in a different state all by herself with no one else for support. Some people in life got lucky and found someone great, the rest of us either took a long time… or not ever. “He’s worried I’m going to fall down the stairs when he isn’t around, and he’s talking about getting a one-story house so that I can put him out of his misery.” “You know you can come stay with us if you want.” She made a noise. “I’m just offering, bitch. If you don’t want to be alone when he starts traveling more for games, you can stay here as long as you need. Louie doesn’t sleep in his room half the time anyway, and we have a one-story house. You could sleep with me if you really wanted to. It’ll be like we’re fourteen all over again.” She sighed. “I would. I really would, but I couldn’t leave Aiden.” And I couldn’t leave the boys for longer than a couple of weeks, but she knew that. Well, she also knew I couldn’t not work for that long, too. “Maybe you can get one of those I’ve-fallen-and-I-can’t-get-up—” Vanessa let out another loud laugh. “You jerk.” “What? You could.” There was a pause. “I don’t even know why I bother with you half the time.” “Because you love me?” “I don’t know why.” “Tia,” Louie hissed, rubbing his belly like he was seriously starving. “Hey, Lou and Josh are making it seem like they haven’t eaten all day. I’m scared they might start nibbling on my hand soon. Let me feed them, and I’ll call you back, okay?” Van didn’t miss a beat. “Sure, Di. Give them a hug from me and call me back whenever. I’m on the couch, and I’m not going anywhere except the bathroom.” “Okay. I won’t call Parks and Wildlife to let them know there’s a beached whale—” “Goddammit, Diana—” I laughed. “Love you. I’ll call you back. Bye!” “Vanny has a whale?” Lou asked.

Anything good on the trucks?" "Some beautiful lake salmon, fresh asparagus, and new potatoes." "New enough their skin is peeling?" "Yes." "I know what we're going to do today!" Lou felt the excitement surge. This was why she loved cooking: getting amazing fresh ingredients and making something extraordinary. Luella's traditional French menu didn't leave much room for creativity, so the daily special had become Lou's canvas, where she was limited only by her imagination and whims. "We'll keep it a simple spring dinner. Roast the potatoes in butter, salt, and pepper. Maybe some thyme or tarragon, too. We'll top the salmon fillets with hollandaise and roast the asparagus.

I love you for the million kindnesses in your heart, your infectious enthusiasm, your search for the perfect deep-fried cheese curds. I love that you take apart a recipe, look at the parts, then put it back together better than before. I love that my first memory of you is the smell of vanilla, coconut, and bacon. I love that you wear Crocs in the kitchen and heels when we go on dates. I want to fill a wall with magnets for all our special memories. I want to carve the Thanksgiving turkey using your hand-painted carving set every year for the next fifty. I want to cook with you, laugh with you, make love to you, and most of all, I want to spend the rest of my life with you.

My dad used to say that love is creation, and when I developed this whiskey, I did it with someone very special in mind. The first thing you’ll notice is the smell of coconut. That’s because she’s used coconut oil in her hair since we were kids. You’ll also smell honey because her eyes turn the color of wildflower honey when she’s happy. And cinnamon because she’s exciting but warm. There are sweet notes of vanilla, caramel, and butterscotch because all those colors can be found in her curls when she’s in the sun. But there is also a hit of pink peppercorn and black coffee because she’s more than sweetness. She has an edge and depth. The light smokiness throughout is in reference to her mysteriousness.

How can you say anything other than Ratatouille is Pixar's best movie? Your a chef, for Christ's sake," Sue said. Lou smiled at Sue's accusatory tone. She needed this distraction. Harley rolled his eyes and said, "You're letting your biases show, Sue. Up uses music better- like a character. The opening fifteen minutes is some of the best filmmaking- ever. And who doesn't love a good squirrel joke?" "But Ratatouille brings it all back to food." Sue waved a carrot in the air to emphasize her point. "They made you want to eat food cooked by a rat! I'd eat the food; it looked magnificent. That rat cooked what he loved; what tasted good. Like I've been telling Lou, we should cook food from the heart, not just the cookbook.

sometimes I wonder if Mary breastfed Jesus. if she cried out when he bit her or if she sobbed when he would not latch. and sometimes I wonder if this is all too vulgar to ask in a church full of men without milk stains on their shirts or coconut oil on their breasts preaching from pulpits off limits to the Mother of God. but then I think of feeding Jesus, birthing Jesus, the expulsion of blood and smell of sweat, the salt of a mother’s tears onto the soft head of the Salt of the Earth, feeling lonely and tired hungry annoyed overwhelmed loving and I think, if the vulgarity of birth is not honestly preached by men who carry power but not burden, who carry privilege but not labor, who carry authority but not submission, then it should not be preached at all. because the real scandal of the Birth of God lies in the cracked nipples of a fourteen year old and not in the sermons of ministers who say women are too delicate to lead.

Brady sits next to me at the lunch table and he brings a lunchbox every day. One time his mom packed him a piece of coconut cake. He doesn’t like coconut cake, so he told me I could have it. It was so good. I went home and told my mom how good it was, but she still hasn’t bought me coconut cake. Sometimes Brady’s mom writes notes and puts them inside of his lunchbox. He reads them all to us and he laughs because he thinks they’re dumb. I never laugh, though. I don’t think the notes are dumb. One time I saw one of the notes he threw in the trash and I picked it up. It said, “Dear Brady. I love you! Have a great day at school!” I tore the top of the note off that had Brady’s name on it and I kept it. I pretended my mother wrote it for me and sometimes I would read it. But that was a long time ago and I lost the note recently. That’s why I wanted to go to school today because if Brady had another note from his mom, I wanted to steal it and pretend it was for me again. I wonder how it would feel to have someone say those words to me. I love you! No one has ever said that to me.

With the heady scent of yeast in the air, it quickly becomes clear that Langer's hasn't changed at all. The black-and-white-checked linoleum floor, the tin ceiling, the heavy brass cash register, all still here. The curved-front glass cases with their wood counter, filled with the same offerings: the butter cookies of various shapes and toppings, four kinds of rugelach, mandel bread, black-and-white cookies, and brilliant-yellow smiley face cookies. Cupcakes, chocolate or vanilla, with either chocolate or vanilla frosting piled on thick. Brownies, with or without nuts. Cheesecake squares. Coconut macaroons. Four kinds of Danish. The foil loaf pans of the bread pudding made from the day-old challahs. And on the glass shelves behind the counter, the breads. Challahs, round with raisins and braided either plain or with sesame. Rye, with and without caraway seeds. Onion kuchen, sort of strange almost-pizza-like bread that my dad loves, and the smaller, puffier onion rolls that I prefer. Cloverleaf rolls. Babkas. The wood-topped cafe tables with their white chairs, still filled with the little gossipy ladies from the neighborhood, who come in for their mandel bread and rugelach, for their Friday challah and Sunday babka, and take a moment to share a Danish or apple dumpling and brag about grandchildren.

The real life of the East is agony to watch and horror to share. One of the three greatest joys in life is swimming naked in clean tropical sea. We need a root of personal experience from which to grow our understanding. Each new experience plants another root; the smallest root will serve. The lethargy of compounded discomfort and boredom is the trademark of the genuine horror journey. That state of grace which can rightly be called happiness, when body and mind rejoice together. This occurs, as a divine surprise, in travel; this is why I will never finish traveling. Loving is a habit like another and requires something nearby for daily practice. I loved the cat, the cat appeared to love me. As for me, the name Surinam was enough. I had to see a place with a name like that. Stinking with rancid coconut butter, the local Elizabeth Arden skin cream. You define your own horror journey, according to your taste. My definition of what makes a journey wholly or partially horrible is boredom. Add discomfort, fatigue, strain in large amounts to get the purest-quality horror, but the kernel is boredom. Bali- a museum island, boringly exquisite, filled with poor beautiful people being stared at by rich beautiful people. No sight is better calculated to turn anyone off travel than the departure lounge of a big airport.

The good news was that he wasn't sixteen anymore and he had this, his art. His food. And if this dinner continued to go the way it was going, if Mrs. Raje stood by her word and gave DJ the contract for her son's fund-raising dinner next month based on tonight's success... well, then they'd be fine. Mrs. Raje had been more impressed thus far. Everything from the steamed momos to the dum biryani had turned out just so. The mayor of San Francisco had even asked to speak to DJ after tasting the California blue crab with bitter coconut cream and tucked DJ's card into his wallet. Only dessert remained, and dessert was DJ's crowning glory, his true love. With sugar he could make love to taste buds, make adult humans sob. The reason Mina Raje had given him, a foreigner and a newbie, a shot at tonight was his Arabica bean gelato with dark caramel. DJ had created the dessert for her after spending a week researching her. Not just her favorite restaurants, but where she shopped, how she wore her clothes, what made her laugh, even the perfume she wore and how much. The taste buds drew from who you were. How you reacted to taste as a sense was a culmination of how you processed the world, the most primal form of how you interacted with your environment. It was DJ's greatest strength and weakness, needing to know what exact note of flavor unfurled a person. His need to find that chord and strum it was bone deep.

Is that an orchid?" I asked, pointing to a particularly unattractive small brown plant. "Maxillaria tenuifolia," said Sonali. "One of my favorites. This little brown orchid is a species. Not as spectacular as a hybrid, but very satisfying nonetheless. Its charms are quite powerful. Come closer and smell it." I leaned over the ugly brown plant. "Coconut pie! How is that possible?" "Wonderful, isn't it? She doesn't need bright, flashy colors or spectacular sprays of flowers. Her pollinators, the moths, come out at night. She uses her coconut scent to guide and entice the little moth in much the way we use perfume to entice men in nightclubs and cafés." Sonali winked at me. "You can learn much about how an orchid is pollinated by the way it looks. White, pink, and pale-green flowers usually get pollinated at night, since those colors are easily seen under moonlight. The little moth sneaks up on the flower in the middle of the night like a lover. He lands on her, pollinates her, and then leaves. We've all had that experience, yes?" "Yes," I said, thinking of Exley. "Brightly colored orchids, on the other hand, are pollinated by butterflies and birds. Butterflies prefer red and orange. Bees love orange and yellow all the way through to ultraviolet." "Just like certain men like certain color clothing," I said. "Yes, colored petals are the clothing of flowers. The insect must find a way through those petals to get what he wants, like a man brushing his hand through the layers of a woman's skirt.

Saturday is birthday cake day. During the week, the panadería is all strong coffee and pan dulce. But on weekends, it's sprinkle cookies and pink cake. By ten or eleven this morning, we'll get the first rush of mothers picking up yellow boxes in between buying balloons and paper streamers. In the back kitchen, my father hums along with the radio as he shapes the pastry rounds of ojos de buey, the centers giving off the smell of orange and coconut. It may be so early the birds haven't even started up yet, but with enough of my mother's coffee and Mariachi Los Camperos, my father is as awake as if it were afternoon. While he fills the bakery cases, my mother does the delicate work of hollowing out the piñata cakes, and when her back is turned, I rake my fingers through the sprinkle canisters. During open hours, most of my work is filling bakery boxes and ringing up customers (when it's busy) or washing dishes and windexing the glass cases (when it's not). But on birthday cake days, we're busy enough that I get to slide sheet cakes from the oven and cover them in pink frosting and tiny round nonpareils, like they're giant circus-animal cookies. I get to press hundreds-and-thousands into the galletas de grajea, the round, rainbow-sprinkle-covered cookies that were my favorite when I was five. My mother finishes hollowing two cake halves, fills them with candy- green, yellow, and pink this time- and puts them back together. Her piñatas are half our Saturday cake orders, both birthday girls and grandfathers delighting at the moment of seeing M&M's or gummy worms spill out. She covers them with sugar-paste ruffles or coconut to look like the tiny paper flags on a piñata, or frosting and a million rainbow sprinkles.

Mondays are for baklava, which she learned to make by watching her parents. Her mother said that a baklava-maker should have sensitive, supple hands, so she was in charge of opening and unpeeling the paper-thin layers of dough and placing them in a stack in the tray. Her father was in charge of pastry-brushing each layer of dough with a coat of drawn butter. It was systematic yet graceful: her mother carefully unpeeling each layer and placing them in the tray where Sirine's father painted them. It was important to move quickly so that the unbuttered layers didn't dry out and start to fall apart. This was one of the ways that Sirine learned how her parents loved each other- their concerted movements like a dance; they swam together through the round arcs of her mother's arms and her father's tender strokes. Sirine was proud when they let her paint a layer, prouder when she was able to pick up one of the translucent sheets and transport it to the tray- light as raw silk, fragile as a veil. On Tuesday morning, however, Sirine has overslept. She's late to work and won't have enough time to finish preparing the baklava before starting breakfast. She could skip a day of the desserts and serve the customers ice cream and figs or coconut cookies and butter cake from the Iranian Shusha Bakery two doors down. But the baklava is important- it cheers the students up. They close their eyes when they bite into its crackling layers, all lightness and scent of orange blossoms. And Sirine feels unsettled when she tries to begin breakfast without preparing the baklava first; she can't find her place in things. So finally she shoves the breakfast ingredients aside and pulls out the baklava tray with no idea of how she'll find the time to finish it, just thinking: sugar, cinnamon, chopped walnuts, clarified butter, filo dough....

You know those statistics people are always spouting off, about teenage boys thinking about sex every seven seconds? Is that really true?” “Nope. And I just want to point out that you’re the one who keeps bringing up sex. I think teenage girls might be more obsessed than boys.” “Maybe,” I say, and his eyes widen, all excited. Hastily I add, “I mean, I’m definitely curious about it. It’s definitely a thought. But I don’t see myself doing it anytime soon. With anybody. Including you.” I can tell Peter is embarrassed, the way he rushes to say, “Okay, okay, I got it. Let’s just change the subject.” Under his breath he mutters, “I didn’t even want to talk about it in the first place.” It’s sweet that he’s embarrassed. I didn’t think he would be, with all his experience. I tug on his sweater sleeve. “At some point, when I’m ready, if I’m ready, I’ll let you know.” And then I pull him toward me and press my lips against his softly. His mouth opens, and so does mine, and I think, I could kiss this boy for hours. Mid-kiss, he says, “Wait, so we’re never having sex? Like ever?” “I didn’t say never. But not now. I mean, not until I’m really, really sure. Okay?” He lets out a laugh. “Sure. You’re the one driving this bus. You have been from the start. I’m still catching up.” He snuggles closer and sniffs my hair. “What’s this new shampoo you’re wearing?” “I stole it from Margot. It’s juicy pear. Nice, right?” “It’s all right, I guess. But can you go back to the one you used to wear? The coconut one? I love the smell of that one.” A dreamy look crosses his face, like evening fog settling over a city. “If I feel like it,” I say, which makes him pout. I’m already thinking I should buy a bottle of the coconut hair mask, too, but I like to keep him on his toes. Like he said, “I’m the one driving this bus. Peter pulls me against him so he’s curved around my back like shelter. I let my head rest on his shoulder, rest my arms on his kneecaps. This is nice. This is cozy. Just me and him, just for a while, apart from the rest of the world.

She was floating, arms outspread, water lapping her body, breathing in a summery fragrance of salt and coconut. There was a pleasantly satisfied breakfast taste in her mouth of bacon and coffee and possibly croissants. She lifted her chin and the morning sun shone so brightly on the water, she had to squint through spangles of light to see her feet in front of her. Her toenails were each painted a different color. Red. Gold. Purple. Funny. The nail polish hadn’t been applied very well. Blobby and messy. Someone else was floating in the water right next to her. Someone she liked a lot, who made her laugh, with toenails painted the same way. The other person waggled multicolored toes at her companionably, and she was filled with sleepy contentment. Somewhere in the distance, a man’s voice shouted, “Marco?” and a chorus of children’s voices cried back, “Polo!” The man called out again, “Marco, Marco, Marco?” and the voices answered, “Polo, Polo, Polo!” A child laughed; a long, gurgling giggle, like a stream of soap bubbles. A voice said quietly and insistently in her ear, “Alice?” and she tipped back her head and let the cool water slide silently over her face. Tiny dots of light danced before her eyes. Was it a dream or a memory? “I don’t know!” said a frightened voice. “I didn’t see it happen!” No need to get your knickers in a knot. The dream or memory or whatever it was dissolved and vanished like a reflection on water, and instead fragments of thought began to drift through her head, as if she were waking up from a long, deep sleep, late on a Sunday morning. Is cream cheese considered a soft cheese? It’s not a hard cheese. It’s not . . . . . . hard at all. So, logically, you would think . . . . . . something. Something logical. Lavender is lovely. Logically lovely. Must prune back the lavender! I can smell lavender. No, I can’t. Yes, I can. That’s when she noticed the pain in her head for the first time. It hurt on one side, a lot, as if someone had given her a good solid thwack with a baseball bat. Her thoughts sharpened. What was this pain in the head all about?

Moreover, Nancy Sinatra was afflicted, as the overwhelming majority of Americans were, with monolingualism. Lana’s richer, more textured version of “Bang Bang” layered English with French and Vietnamese. Bang bang, je ne l’oublierai pas went the last line of the French version, which was echoed by Pham Duy’s Vietnamese version, We will never forget. In the pantheon of classic pop songs from Saigon, this tricolor rendition was one of the most memorable, masterfully weaving together love and violence in the enigmatic story of two lovers who, regardless of having known each other since childhood, or because of knowing each other since childhood, shoot each other down. Bang bang was the sound of memory’s pistol firing into our heads, for we could not forget love, we could not forget war, we could not forget lovers, we could not forget enemies, we could not forget home, and we could not forget Saigon. We could not forget the caramel flavor of iced coffee with coarse sugar; the bowls of noodle soup eaten while squatting on the sidewalk; the strumming of a friend’s guitar while we swayed on hammocks under coconut trees; the football matches played barefoot and shirtless in alleys, squares, parks, and meadows; the pearl chokers of morning mist draped around the mountains; the labial moistness of oysters shucked on a gritty beach; the whisper of a dewy lover saying the most seductive words in our language, anh oi; the rattle of rice being threshed; the workingmen who slept in their cyclos on the streets, kept warm only by the memories of their families; the refugees who slept on every sidewalk of every city; the slow burning of patient mosquito coils; the sweetness and firmness of a mango plucked fresh from its tree; the girls who refused to talk to us and who we only pined for more; the men who had died or disappeared; the streets and homes blown away by bombshells; the streams where we swam naked and laughing; the secret grove where we spied on the nymphs who bathed and splashed with the innocence of the birds; the shadows cast by candlelight on the walls of wattled huts; the atonal tinkle of cowbells on mud roads and country paths; the barking of a hungry dog in an abandoned village; the appetizing reek of the fresh durian one wept to eat; the sight and sound of orphans howling by the dead bodies of their mothers and fathers; the stickiness of one’s shirt by afternoon, the stickiness of one’s lover by the end of lovemaking, the stickiness of our situations; the frantic squealing of pigs running for their lives as villagers gave chase; the hills afire with sunset; the crowned head of dawn rising from the sheets of the sea; the hot grasp of our mother’s hand; and while the list could go on and on and on, the point was simply this: the most important thing we could never forget was that we could never forget.

… The most important contribution you can make now is taking pride in your treasured home state. Because nobody else is. Study and cherish her history, even if you have to do it on your own time. I did. Don’t know what they’re teaching today, but when I was a kid, American history was the exact same every year: Christopher Columbus, Plymouth Rock, Pilgrims, Thomas Paine, John Hancock, Sons of Liberty, tea party. I’m thinking, ‘Okay, we have to start somewhere— we’ll get to Florida soon enough.’…Boston Massacre, Crispus Attucks, Paul Revere, the North Church, ‘Redcoats are coming,’ one if by land, two if by sea, three makes a crowd, and I’m sitting in a tiny desk, rolling my eyes at the ceiling. Hello! Did we order the wrong books? Were these supposed to go to Massachusetts?…Then things showed hope, moving south now: Washington crosses the Delaware, down through original colonies, Carolinas, Georgia. Finally! Here we go! Florida’s next! Wait. What’s this? No more pages in the book. School’s out? Then I had to wait all summer, and the first day back the next grade: Christopher Columbus, Plymouth Rock…Know who the first modern Floridians were? Seminoles! Only unconquered group in the country! These are your peeps, the rugged stock you come from. Not genetically descended, but bound by geographical experience like a subtropical Ellis Island. Because who’s really from Florida? Not the flamingos, or even the Seminoles for that matter. They arrived when the government began rounding up tribes, but the Seminoles said, ‘Naw, we prefer waterfront,’ and the white man chased them but got freaked out in the Everglades and let ’em have slot machines…I see you glancing over at the cupcakes and ice cream, so I’ll limit my remaining remarks to distilled wisdom: “Respect your parents. And respect them even more after you find out they were wrong about a bunch of stuff. Their love and hard work got you to the point where you could realize this. “Don’t make fun of people who are different. Unless they have more money and influence. Then you must. “If someone isn’t kind to animals, ignore anything they have to say. “Your best teachers are sacrificing their comfort to ensure yours; show gratitude. Your worst are jealous of your future; rub it in. “Don’t talk to strangers, don’t play with matches, don’t eat the yellow snow, don’t pull your uncle’s finger. “Skip down the street when you’re happy. It’s one of those carefree little things we lose as we get older. If you skip as an adult, people talk, but I don’t mind. “Don’t follow the leader. “Don’t try to be different—that will make you different. “Don’t try to be popular. If you’re already popular, you’ve peaked too soon. “Always walk away from a fight. Then ambush. “Read everything. Doubt everything. Appreciate everything. “When you’re feeling down, make a silly noise. “Go fly a kite—seriously. “Always say ‘thank you,’ don’t forget to floss, put the lime in the coconut. “Each new year of school, look for the kid nobody’s talking to— and talk to him. “Look forward to the wonderment of growing up, raising a family and driving by the gas station where the popular kids now work. “Cherish freedom of religion: Protect it from religion. “Remember that a smile is your umbrella. It’s also your sixteen-in-one reversible ratchet set. “ ‘I am rubber, you are glue’ carries no weight in a knife fight. “Hang on to your dreams with everything you’ve got. Because the best life is when your dreams come true. The second-best is when they don’t but you never stop chasing them. So never let the authority jade your youthful enthusiasm. Stay excited about dinosaurs, keep looking up at the stars, become an archaeologist, classical pianist, police officer or veterinarian. And, above all else, question everything I’ve just said. Now get out there, class of 2020, and take back our state!

As much as Milly loved seeing Asa on that tractor, a part of her dreaded the days he came to mow, not only because her father made her go out to him with cookies and lemonade and watched her closely the entire time, but also because on those nights, Bett and Twiss would trick her into talking about Asa, and Milly would fall for their tricks. Milly understood Twiss's reasons for teasing her- Twiss didn't want to lose her- but she never understood Bett's. Bett would start innocently enough. "I heard Milly was talking to someone in the meadow the other day. I heard she baked him a red velvet cake shaped like a heart." "I heard she did more than that," Twiss would say. "With Mr. Peterson." "She likes them old, yep, she does." "Wrinkly," Bett would say. "Hairy." "Pruney!" When Milly could no longer stand the teasing, she'd pull her blanket over her head and say, "It wasn't Mr. Peterson I was talking to, it was Asa! And it wasn't red velvet cake, it was butter cookies! They weren't shaped like hearts, either!" And then the laughter would come, and Milly would know she'd been fooled into giving up another part of herself that she preferred to keep secret. The night she first told them about how much she admired Asa's work ethic (when she really just meant him), Bett and Twiss had made fun of her, and of Asa's slight stutter. "M-M-May I eat one of your cookies?" "Y-Y-Yes, you may." "M-M-May I love you like coconut flakes?" "L-L-Love me like coconut flakes, you may." They laughed when they said the word "love," but that was the word Milly had begun to think about- the possibility of it- whenever she was with Asa and, even more often, when she was without him. The word was with her when she pinned clothes to the line, or scrubbed the linoleum, or baked a pie. Sometimes, when no one was looking, she'd trace an A into a well of flour or hold a mop as though she were holding Asa's hand.

Just about every kid in America wished they could be Kyle Keeley. Especially when he zoomed across their TV screens as a flaming squirrel in a holiday commercial for Squirrel Squad Six, the hysterically crazy new Lemoncello video game. Kyle’s friends Akimi Hughes and Sierra Russell were also in that commercial. They thumbed controllers and tried to blast Kyle out of the sky. He dodged every rubber band, coconut custard pie, mud clod, and wadded-up sock ball they flung his way. It was awesome. In the commercial for Mr. Lemoncello’s See Ya, Wouldn’t Want to Be Ya board game, Kyle starred as the yellow pawn. His head became the bubble tip at the top of the playing piece. Kyle’s buddy Miguel Fernandez was the green pawn. Kyle and Miguel slid around the life-size game like hockey pucks. When Miguel landed on the same square as Kyle, that meant Kyle’s pawn had to be bumped back to the starting line. “See ya!” shouted Miguel. “Wouldn’t want to be ya!” Kyle was yanked up off the ground by a hidden cable and hurled backward, soaring above the board. It was also awesome. But Kyle’s absolute favorite starring role was in the commercial for Mr. Lemoncello’s You Seriously Can’t Say That game, where the object was to get your teammates to guess the word on your card without using any of the forbidden words listed on the same card. Akimi, Sierra, Miguel, and the perpetually perky Haley Daley sat on a circular couch and played the guessers. Kyle stood in front of them as the clue giver. “Salsa,” said Kyle. “Nachos!” said Akimi. A buzzer sounded. Akimi’s guess was wrong. Kyle tried again. “Horseradish sauce!” “Something nobody ever eats,” said Haley. Another buzzer. Kyle goofed up and said one of the forbidden words: “Ketchup!” SPLAT! Fifty gallons of syrupy, goopy tomato sauce slimed him from above. It oozed down his face and dribbled off his ears. Everybody laughed. So Kyle, who loved being the class clown almost as much as he loved playing (and winning) Mr. Lemoncello’s wacky games, went ahead and read the whole list of banned words as quickly as he could. “Mustard-mayonnaise-pickle-relish.” SQUOOSH! He was drenched by buckets of yellow glop, white sludge, and chunky green gunk. The slop slid along his sleeves, trickled into his pants, and puddled on the floor. His four friends busted a gut laughing at Kyle, who was soaked in more “condiments” (the word on his card) than a mile-

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.

FAB FOUR FISH POCKETS If you tend to stay away from preparing seafood, start with this easy-to-make recipe. Makes 2 servings 4 to 6 ounces fish of choice (salmon, halibut, sole) 1 to 2 cups chopped vegetables of choice (zucchini, summer squash, asparagus, broccolini) 1 tablespoon aromatic of choice (garlic, onion, shallot, chives) 1 tablespoon minced fresh or dried herb of choice (parsley, thyme, sage, herbes de Provence, cilantro) 1 tablespoon fat of choice (olive oil, melted coconut oil, melted butter)

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.

TRAVEL CHECKLIST 1. SMOOTHIE: protein packets (1.5 per day), a shaker bottle, and a zip-top bag of chia seeds 2. MINI FAT PACKS: nut butters, coconut butter, and coconut oil 3. BRIDGE SNACKS: individual nut packs, chopped veggies, and approved bars (Bulletproof or Primal Kitchen) 4. SLEEP: earplugs, eye mask, and lavender essential oil 5. SKIN: calendula oil, lip balm, and hydration spray

Mix 1 scoop of chocolate protein powder with 1 cup unsweetened almond milk. 2. Add 1 tablespoon MCT oil or coconut oil and 1 tablespoon chia seeds. 3. Shake it up, then refrigerate. After

After a great deal of culinary soul-searching I picked the almond apricot pound cake with Amaretto, a black chocolate espresso cake with a burnt-orange frosting, and the beloved sweet potato cake with rum-soaked raisins. I could either make it in a Bundt pan with a spiked glaze or I could make it in three layers with a cream-cheese frosting. In the end I settled on the latter because I knew my cream cheese was one of my greatest strengths (the secret being to substitute fiori di Sicilia for the vanilla). It made me slightly crazy to think of leaving out the lemon cake with lemon-curd frosting- everyone died over that cake- but the frosting was very wet and the layers had a tendency to slide when transported. I loved the little lime-soaked coconut cakes but so many people took issue with coconut. A genoise was perfect for showing off, but if I wasn't there to serve it myself, I couldn't trust that it would be completely understood and I didn't think there would be any point in sending a container of syrup on the side with written instructions. And what about the sticky toffee pudding with its stewed dates and caramel sauce? That was as much a cake as anything else if you were willing to expand your boundaries little. I wasn't sure about the chocolate. It was my best chocolate cake but I didn't absolutely love chocolate. Still, I knew other people did. I felt I needed an almond cake and this one worked in the apricots, but I wasn't so sure about not having a frosting. Would it seem too plain? And the sweet potato cake, I had to have that. That was the cake from which everything had started. I had to make a commitment. I had to bake.

Masters are under no cosmic compulsion to limit their residence.” My companion glanced at me quizzically. “The Himalayas in India and Tibet have no monopoly on saints. What one does not trouble to find within will not be discovered by transporting the body hither and yon. As soon as the devotee is willing to go even to the ends of the earth for spiritual enlightenment, his guru appears nearby.” I silently agreed, recalling my prayer in the Benares hermitage, followed by the meeting with Sri Yukteswar in a crowded lane. “Are you able to have a little room where you can close the door and be alone?” “Yes.” I reflected that this saint descended from the general to the particular with disconcerting speed. “That is your cave.” The yogi bestowed on me a gaze of illumination which I have never forgotten. “That is your sacred mountain. That is where you will find the kingdom of God.” His simple words instantaneously banished my life-long obsession for the Himalayas. In a burning paddy field I awoke from the monticolous dreams of eternal snows. “Young sir, your divine thirst is laudable. I feel great love for you.” Ram Gopal took my hand and led me to a quaint hamlet. The adobe houses were covered with coconut leaves and adorned with rustic entrances. The saint seated me on the umbrageous bamboo platform of his small cottage. After giving me sweetened lime juice and a piece of rock candy, he entered his patio and assumed the lotus posture. In about four hours, I opened my meditative eyes and saw that the moonlit figure of the yogi was still motionless. As I was sternly reminding my stomach that man does not live by bread alone, Ram Gopal approached me. “I see you are famished; food will be ready soon.” A fire was kindled under a clay oven on the patio; rice and dal were quickly served on large banana leaves. My host courteously refused my aid in all cooking chores. ‘The guest is God,’ a Hindu proverb, has commanded devout observance from time immemorial. In my later world travels, I was charmed to see that a similar respect for visitors is manifested in rural sections of many countries. The city dweller finds the keen edge of hospitality blunted by superabundance of strange faces.

The cyclone ends. The sun returns; the lofty coconut trees lift up their plumes again; man does likewise. The great anguish is over; joy has returned; the sea smiles like a child.

But recently I'd been crafting some truly surprising and yummy combinations---elderflower limeade with clover blossoms, coconut water with rose syrup and candied rose petals, a strawberry-basil concoction sprinkled with marigold petals. I loved dreaming up unique combinations and then creating them. A few ingredients and a wooden stick. It was simple, local, and environmentally friendly. Not to mention delicious.

Well, at least I will have time to say goodbye to my customers." Ramón gave Julieta a quizzical look. "I get they will be upset with the changes, but they will still be glad that you are the chef." "You still don't get it Ramón, do you? Yes, I will be here. But many of my customers will no longer support the place if it's a corporate chain. Of course, you will get new customers, tourists from out of state and residents of the beach towns who think coming to Barrio Logan is some type of Mexican Disneyland, where they can buy churros and take selfies in front of Chicano murals. But many locals will avoid us like ICE. And there will be protesters, including members of my own family and my friends. I can guarantee that." Ramón's throat tightened. "Julieta, you are from the community. And I'm no gringo---I'm Mexican, too." "You're a coconut, Ramón. You may be technically Mexican, but you are not part of this community.

The Sun Also Rises takes place mostly in Paris and a little in Spain. Tons of wine, Pernod, villagers' wine... but the food is spare like the writing: a suckling pig, a roasted chicken, shrimp, bread and olive oil. Simple food, uncomplicated tastes." I chewed my lip. "That's it. Let's stay with simple food. Hemingway loved Spain, so let's drift toward those flavors, but no spice. And we can make them mix and match like tapas. Tyler will have flexibility." It felt good to collaborate with Jane. We listed fruits and vegetables that we could blend into smoothies. We then listed different flours to give the meals more taste, texture, and nutrients, like the coconut and almond flours I'd used for Jane's potpies and Peter's cake. We decided to alter the egg dishes and quiches that I'd been making for her into cleaner, simpler hashes and scrambles. We developed vegetable dishes----poached, roasted, fresh and lightly seasoned.

They are all unique and lovingly constructed. There's one for a chocolate ganache tart striped with hazelnut and praline, a honey cake with orange marmalade filling, coconut cream-filled doughnuts with meringues in the center.

Anjali is Guyanese, and her braid looks like a thick rope that lays heavy against her back, curly baby hairs tamed by coconut oil. Michaela is Haitian and likes to mimic her parents’ French accents on the school bus (Take zee twash out! she says, as we clutch our sides in laughter), and Naz’s family is from the Ivory Coast—I mean, we’re practically cousins, she says to Michaela. Our teachers snap at Sophie to STOP TALKING NOW, but call her Mae’s name. Sophie, who is Filipino, clamps a hand over her big-ass mouth, which is never closed—she loves to gossip and flirt with the boys we call “Spanish”—while Mae, who is Chinese and polite to teachers, at least to their faces, jolts from the bookshelf where she’s stealthily shuffling novels from their alphabetical spots, in order to disrupt our English class two periods later.

I pulled her to me and wrapped her in my arms. Inhaling deep, I took in the smell that would forever remind me of this summer—faded floral perfume, coconut suntan lotion, and the beach. I wanted to bottle the scent and call it Valentina.

Elena came up with the idea of a fusion elote, taking her beloved Mexican street corn and adding Pakistani and Filipino twists to match with Adeena's and my respective backgrounds. Not only did Jae gave us his mother's recipe for the oksusu cha, or Korean corn tea, but he'd also volunteered to handle all elote duties: slathering the corn with thick, creamy coconut milk before rolling it in a fragrant spice mix that included amchur powder and red chili powder, grilling it, then squeezing calamansi over the corn before sprinkling it with your choice of kesong puti or cotija cheese. It was a simple yet laborious task, but he seemed to enjoy himself ( I wasn't one for gender stereotypes, but what was with guys and grills?) and I'd caught him sneaking more than one smoky, salty treat as he worked. The benefit of being the cook. Meanwhile, I arranged the sweet offerings I'd prepared: mais ube sandwich cookies, mais kon keso bars, and two types of ice candy--- mais kon yelo and ginataang mais. Corn as a dessert ingredient may seem strange to some people, but Filipinos absolutely love and embrace corn in all its salty-sweet possibilities. My first offering sandwiched ube buttercream between corn cookies, the purple yam's subtle vanilla-like sweetness pairing well with the salty-sweet corn. Cheese and corn are a popular savory pairing, but guess what? It makes one of my absolute favorite Filipino ice cream flavors as well, and I channeled that classic combo into a cheesecake bar with a corn cookie crust. Mais kon yelo, literally corn with ice, is a Filipino dessert consisting of shaved ice with corn, sugar, and milk, while ginataang mais, a simple porridge made with coconut milk, glutinous rice, and sweet corn, is usually served warm for breakfast or meryenda. My take on these simple, refreshing snacks utilized those same flavors in a portable, easy-to-eat ice pop bag. However, if you wanted to try the traditional versions, you could just pop down a few booths over to Tita Rosie's Kitchen, the restaurant run by my paternal aunt and grandmother. While my aunt, Tita Rosie, handled the savory side of the menu, offering small cups of corn soup and paper cones full of cornick, or corn nuts flavored with salt and garlic, my grandmother, Lola Flor, reigned over the sweets. The aforementioned mais kon yelo and ginataang mais were the desserts on offer, in addition to maja blanca, a simple corn and coconut pudding. Truly a gluten-free sweet tooth's paradise.

The Emperor is a hardy, strong card that requires a hearty, strong spell to channel his energies. This dish, Emperor Tofu, is a spell dedicated to the powerful, fiery leadership qualities of the Emperor. Feast on it when you need to be fearless and to make a stand. •​As you prepare this meal, focus on channeling Emperor energy—intelligence, courage, masculine yang-vibes. Imagine yourself taking a stand, fighting to win, and succeeding. Continue the visualizations throughout your meal and into your cleanup process. This is best eaten the night before a big action, though leftovers can be snacked on at any point in the following days. If your need for raw, Mars energy is so powerful that you are craving some meat between your teeth, substitute the tofu for something bloodier. First, take a half-teaspoon of ground coriander (sacred to Aries, the Emperor’s ruling sign), a half-teaspoon of black pepper (same), a teaspoon of salt (purification), a pinch of cloves (to keep people from talking shit about you), a quarter-teaspoon of cinnamon (protection), a quarter-teaspoon of cardamom (sacred to Mars, the Emperor’s ruling planet), a quarter-teaspoon of cayenne (Aries), and a half-teaspoon of turmeric (good health). Mix it together and set it aside. Next, sauté an onion (Mars) and a jalapeño (protection from negativity) in coconut oil over high, fiery heat for three minutes. Then add a tablespoon of fresh grated ginger (to move your plan along), three cloves of garlic (protection), and your pile of spices; cook for another minute. Throw in a can of coconut milk and a block of tofu that you’ve drained, pressed, and cut up into chunks. Cover and simmer for twenty minutes. Before serving, add some fresh, shredded basil leaves (sacred to Aries) and a squirt of lime (to attract love and support). Voilà!

1/10 I think I have made a friend. A woman named Malun. She came by today with some lovely little coconut shell drinking cups for us, a few cooking pots, & a full bilum bag of yams & smoked fish. She speaks several local languages but only a small bit of pidgin so we mostly flapped our arms and laughed. She is older, past childbearing, head shaved like all married women here, muscular & stern until she breaks into giggles which seem against her strong will. By the end of the visit she was trying on my shoes.

West Coast" For a second there I thought you disappeared It rains a lot this time of year And we both go together if one falls down I talk out loud like you're still around No, no And I miss you I'm goin' back home to the West Coast I wish you would've put yourself in my suitcase I love you Standin' all alone in a black coat I miss you I'm goin' back home to the West Coast And if you shake her hard enough she will appear Tonight I think I'll be stayin' here And you never did like this town I talk out loud like you're still around No, no And I miss you I'm goin' back home to the West Coast I wish you would've put yourself in my suitcase I love you Standin' all alone in a black coat I miss you I'm goin' back home to the West Coast Come on, everybody La la la la, la la la la-la La la la la, la la la la-la So pack up the bags to beat back the clock Do I let her sleep or should I wake her up? You said We both go together if one falls down Yeah, right, heh I talk out loud like you're still around Oh, no, no And I miss you I'm goin' back home to the West Coast I wish you would've put yourself in my suitcase I love you Standin' all alone in a black coat I miss you I'm goin' back home to the West Coast Goin' back home to the West Coast Goin' back home to the West Coast

Let's start with ice cream and go from there." "You're gonna love it." Holly nodded. "All their ingredients are fresh, and they make the most delicious, wackiest flavors you've ever heard of." Clearly she'd forgotten that Lindsey had come from D.C. "Like what?" "Honey lavender. Sweet corn raspberry. Toasted coconut fudge. Lemon fig....blueberry pie... marshmallow peach... salted caramel chocolate chunk...

May 4, 2006 Blog Entry #1 There once was a girl who took everything for granted.
 She had friends.
She had good friends—friends who saw her geeky exterior but loved her anyway, friends who had known her since before she knew herself. But she wanted more.
She had people who loved her. She had a huge house on a hill. A bedroom as big as a studio apartment. But she still wasn't satisfied. She moved to the ends of the earth … Long Island, New York. She thought it would be exciting. And for a little while it was. But she soon found that life in the “city” wasn’t everything she hoped for. Before long, all the shops and landmarks were meaningless, and she realized that all the parties in the world meant nothing—especially if she didn't have the people to share them with. She decided to make a distress call. She lined up coconuts. H–E–L–P She spent one and a half years on her “deserted island.” Then, a moving truck finally answered her call. But little did she know that she was returning to her home as a different person. She was returning with lessons of contentment that would stick with her forever. Lessons of gratitude, integrity, faith, and love. Exposure to things and ideas she would have never seen in Snellville, Georgia. How she could be and how her life could be… She drove back down only to find that she wasn't the only one who had changed.

Jemu watched his father disappear. He didn’t throw the coconut and he didn’t cry. Never again would he know love for a human being that wasn’t adulterated by another, contradictory emotion.

People I haven't seen in a while often comment on all the weight I've lost. I love telling them my secret: first and foremost, I eat lots of fat. Saturated fat, such as lard, butter, coconut oil, ghee, red palm oil, and olive oil.

Elvis Pie Named for the famous crooner’s love of peanut butter and bananas, this decadent dessert is as filling as it is delicious. Serve in small slices, and top with shredded coconut for even more fun.   Difficulty Level: 1 Preparation Time: 30 minutes Yields: 12 servings   Ingredients          8 oz. chocolate cookies          4 Tblsp butter, melted          4 oz. semisweet chocolate chips          2 bananas, sliced thinly          1 cup heavy cream          8 oz. cream cheese          1 cup creamy peanut butter          1 cup powdered sugar          14 oz. sweetened condensed milk          1 tsp vanilla extract          1 tsp lemon juice   1.        In a food processor, grind cookies into fine crumbs. 2.       Combine melted butter and cookie crumbs in a small bowl, and stir with a fork to mix well. 3.       Press mixture into the bottom and 1” up the sides of 9” pie tin. 4.      In a small saucepan over low heat, melt the chocolate chips, stirring often to prevent burning. 5.       Pour melted chocolate over bottom of cookie crust and spread to the edges using a spatula. 6.       Layer banana slices over the melted chocolate. 7.       Place pan in the refrigerator to chill. 8.      Meanwhile, beat heavy cream until stiff peaks form. 9.       Chill in refrigerator until ready to use. 10.    Beat together the cream cheese and peanut butter until light and fluffy. 11.     Stir in powdered sugar until fully incorporated. 12.    Mix in the sweetened condensed milk, vanilla extract, and lemon juice until filling is smooth. 13.    Fold the whipped cream into the filling mixture. 14.   Pour the filling into the prepared pie pan, smoothing top. 15.    Refrigerate for at least 3 hours, preferably overnight. 16.    Serve chilled.

I’m getting off the boat at Coconut Grove. It’s six and you’re not on the dock. I finish up, and start walking home, thinking you’re tied up making dinner, and then I see you and Ant hurrying down the promenade. He is running and you’re running after him. You’re wearing a yellow dress. He jumps on me, and you stop shyly, and I say to you, come on, tadpole, show me what you got, and you laugh and run and jump into my arms. Such a good memory. I love you, babe.

Everyone loves banana bread! This banana bread recipe cooks up moist and delicious. It also makes a great bread for a nut butter sandwich. Ingredients 1/2 cup butter or unrefined coconut oil 3/4 tsp celtic sea salt 6 eggs, preferably pasture-raised 1 1/2 tsp vanilla extract 1/2 tsp almond extract 1/2 cup honey 3/4 cup coconut flour 1 large or 2 small ripe bananas, mashed Directions Melt butter or coconut oil in a small saucepan over low heat. Turn off heat and allow to cool slightly. Meanwhile, combine the eggs, salt, vanilla extract, and almond extract in a large bowl. If using an immersion blender, pulse a few times to combine. Otherwise, mix to combine with a whisk or mixer. Add the honey to the butter (or coconut oil) and stir slightly. Pour this mixture into the wet ingredients and blend well with immersion blender or mixer. Measure out the coconut flour. Since coconut flour clumps, it will need to be sifted if you are not using an immersion blender. Pour the coconut flour into the bowl with the wet ingredients. Use an immersion blender or mixer to thoroughly combine all ingredients, making sure there are no lumps. (Since coconut flour does not contain gluten, there is no worry of over-mixing the batter). Add mashed banana and mix to combine. Using butter or coconut oil, generously grease one large (9”X5”) loaf pan or two small (7.5”X3.75”) loaf pans. Pour the batter into the loaf pan(s). Bake in a 325 degrees F oven until a toothpick inserted in the middle comes out clean. This will take 50-60 minutes for two loaves. Remove from oven and cool. Delicious with a pat of butter and a big glass of raw milk or milk kefir!

Well, his head of security certainly did a good job. I love coconut, strawberry jam, and pina colada. So, yay to that intrusive bastard.

Jerry turns right and jostles through a crowd onto Casco Viejo, where the smell of fried plantains and sweet coconut lingers on the warm night air. He heads us down a narrow street of elegant colonial buildings tucked inside the centuries-old city walls. Everywhere, we pass bars and brothels open to restless newcomers seeking another raucous night.

He steps aside. As I pass him, I catch a whiff of coconut. Mmm, I love that scent.

What about fermented dairy? Why no love for kefir, yogurt, and other fermented dairy products? Let’s look more closely at these foods. As we know, fermentation transforms our food and in many cases makes it easier to digest. This is particularly true with dairy products, where fermentation will remove most lactose. In fact, most hard cheeses, kefir, and yogurt are generally well tolerated by lactose-intolerant individuals. There are also some studies suggesting that kefir, yogurt, and other fermented dairy products may have health benefits. However, these studies were largely fraught with methodological limitations or were overtly paid for by the dairy industry. So what are we supposed to make of corporate-sponsored research that is essentially a form of marketing and only being published because it makes the food look good and the conclusions are carefully guarded to protect the product? From my perspective, why take any risk when you can find delicious fermented nondairy yogurt and kefir? In particular, I love a coconut milk kefir that’s available in Canada. No matter what you choose, make sure to pay attention to the sugar content, which is one of the big issues with all commercial products of this sort. Also, it should be noted that water kefir has absolutely nothing to do with milk and is much more similar to kombucha.

All you need is friends, family, laughter, and hope. And love. So much love.

love potion The cherry-vanilla combination in this cocktail is somewhat reminiscent of childhood, but given that those flavors are mixed with sake and prosecco here, this drink is very grown-up. Finishing off the cocktail’s highball with chocolate sugar is a stroke of genius, if I do say so myself; the pitch-perfect end result is practically dessert. TIME: 5 MINUTES SERVES: 1 2 tablespoons coconut sugar 1½ teaspoons unsweetened cacao powder ½ ounce Vanilla Syrup 1½ ounces sake 3 ounces cherry juice Prosecco On a small round plate, mix the coconut sugar and cacao powder until fully combined. Using a sponge or paper towel, moisten the highball glass rim with a bit of vanilla syrup. Dip the rim in the chocolate coconut sugar, without twisting. Make sure the rim is thoroughly coated. Fill the rimmed glass three-quarters full with ice. Add the sake, cherry juice, and vanilla syrup. Top with prosecco. Stir briefly with a barspoon. Serve and enjoy.

All the children loved Ezhilarasi’s stall, and they visited her every day. They cherished the woven ball the most since it lasted even after the coconut leaves had dried.

Giovanni, in love with her unabashed feminine strength and her reconciliation of love and revolution. I spent nearly every waking moment around Nikki, and I loved her dearly. But sibling relationships are often fraught with petty tortures. I hadn’t wanted to hurt her. But I had. At the time, I couldn’t understand my mother’s anger. I mean this wasn’t really a woman I was punching. This was Nikki. She could take it. Years would pass before I understood how that blow connected to my mom’s past. My mother came to the United States at the age of three. She was born in Lowe River in the tiny parish of Trelawny, Jamaica, hours away from the tourist traps that line the coast. Its swaths of deep brush and arable land made it great for farming but less appealing for honeymoons and hedonism. Lowe River was quiet, and remote, and it was home for my mother, her older brother Ralph, and my grandparents. My maternal great-grandfather Mas Fred, as he was known, would plant a coconut tree at his home in Mount Horeb, a neighboring area, for each of his kids and grandkids when they were born. My mom always bragged that hers was the tallest and strongest of the bunch. The land that Mas Fred and his wife, Miss Ros, tended had been cared for by our ancestors for generations. And it was home for my mom until her parents earned enough money to bring the family to the States to fulfill my grandfather’s dream of a theology degree from an American university. When my mom first landed in the Bronx, she was just a small child, but she was a survivor and learned quickly. She studied the other kids at school like an anthropologist, trying desperately to fit in. She started with the way she spoke. She diligently listened to the radio from the time she was old enough to turn it on and mimicked what she heard. She’d always pull back enough in her interactions with her classmates to give herself room to quietly observe them, so that when she got home she could practice imitating their accents, their idiosyncrasies, their style. Words like irie became cool. Constable became policeman. Easy-nuh became chill out. The melodic, swooping movement of her Jamaican patois was quickly replaced by the more stable cadences of American English. She jumped into the melting pot with both feet. Joy Thomas entered American University in Washington, D.C., in 1968, a year when she and her adopted homeland were both experiencing

Lemons, coconut water, and vegetables such as celery and spinach provide bioavailable forms of potassium, sodium, and chloride that mean everything when it comes to keeping our systems strong so we can fight off the Unforgiving Four and other invaders.

Without a steady flow of foods like melons, coconut water, fresh orange juice, and dates in the diet, it’s far too likely that burnout will occur of multiple body functions that are working overtime to combat the Unforgiving Four.

Bang bang was the sound of memory’s pistol firing into our heads, for we could not forget love, we could not forget war, we could not forget lovers, we could not forget enemies, we could not forget home, and we could not forget Saigon. We could not forget the caramel flavor of iced coffee with coarse sugar; the bowls of noodle soup eaten while squatting on the sidewalk; the strumming of a friend’s guitar while we swayed on hammocks under coconut trees; the football matches played barefoot and shirtless in alleys, squares, parks, and meadows; the pearl chokers of morning mist draped around the mountains; the labial moistness of oysters shucked on a gritty beach; the whisper of a dewy lover saying the most seductive words in our language, anh oi; the rattle of rice being threshed; the workingmen who slept in their cyclos on the streets, kept warm only by the memories of their families; the refugees who slept on every sidewalk of every city; the slow burning of patient mosquito coils; the sweetness and firmness of a mango plucked fresh from its tree; the girls who refused to talk to us and who we only pined for more; the men who had died or disappeared; the streets and homes blown away by bombshells; the streams where we swam naked and laughing; the secret grove where we spied on the nymphs who bathed and splashed with the innocence of the birds; the shadows cast by candlelight on the walls of wattled huts; the atonal tinkle of cowbells on mud roads and country paths; the barking of a hungry dog in an abandoned village; the appetizing reek of the fresh durian one wept to eat; the sight and sound of orphans howling by the dead bodies of their mothers and fathers; the stickiness of one’s shirt by afternoon, the stickiness of one’s lover by the end of lovemaking, the stickiness of our situations; the frantic squealing of pigs running for their lives as villagers gave chase; the hills afire with sunset; the crowned head of dawn rising from the sheets of the sea; the hot grasp of our mother’s hand; and while the list could go on and on and on, the point was simply this: the most important thing we could never forget was that we could never forget.