Fries And Ketchup Quotes

Blood may be thicker than water, but it's certainly not as thick as ketchup. Nor does it go as well with French fries.

Surround yourself with people who are the ketchup to your french fries-they make you a better version of yourself. Yes french fries are amazing on their own, but combined with ketchup they are a force. Spend time with people who bring out your true flavors, but don’t overpower you.

Brooke stared in surprise. “You brought me lunch?” “I was in the neighborhood.” She checked out the label on the bag. “DMK is twenty minutes from here.” “I was in that neighborhood, and now I’m here,” he said in exasperation. “Seriously, woman, you are impossible to feed.” He strode over and set the bag on her desk. “One cheeseburger with spicy chipotle ketchup and a side of sweet potato fries—chosen specifically for a certain spicy and sweet girl I know—and a green dill pickle for your eyes. So there.” He crossed his arms over his chest. Brooke studied him. “You seem very ornery right now.” “As a matter of fact, I am.” “Why?” “I don’t know,” he huffed. “Just . . . eat your Brooke Burger. Stop asking so many questions. Sometimes a guy just wants to buy a girl lunch. Any objections to that? Good. Enjoy your Sunday, Ms. Parker.” He strode out of her office, gone as quickly as he’d appeared. Brooke stared at the doorway and blinked.

Agent Jones switched to the big screen and a grainy video of MoMo sitting at his enormous desk, a swivel-hipped Elvis clock ticking behind his bewigged head. 'Death to the capitalist pigs! Death to your cinnamon bun-smelling malls! Death to your power walking and automatic car windows and I'm With Stupid T-shirts! The Republic of ChaCha will never bend to your side-of-fries -drive -through-please-oh-would-you-like-ketchup-with-that corruption! MoMo B. ChaCha defies you and all you stand for, and one day, you will crumble into the sea and we will pick up the pieces and make them into sand art.

Nana’s oven-baked fried chicken cut off the bone (with plenty of ketchup) was a huge hit. So were Thanksgiving turkey bathed in gravy and Nana’s Passover brisket

So I pulled a gun on him and demanded his wallet.” The soda in my mouth becomes the soda in my nose. “You had a gun?” I cough and sputter into my napkin. Mom’s eyes go round and she pressed her finger to her lips, mouthing, “Shhh!” “Where did you get a gun?” I hiss. “Oliver lent it to me. He was always looking out for me. Told me to shoot first and run. He said the asking-questions-later part was for the police.” She grins at my expression. “Does that earn me cool points?” I swirl a fry in the mound of ketchup on my plate. “You want cool points for pulling a gun on my father?” I say it with all the appropriate disdain and condescension it deserves, but deep down, we both know she gets mega cool points for it. “Psh.” She waves her hand. “I didn’t even know whether or not it would fire. And anyway, he didn’t hand me his wallet. He propositioned me instead.” “Okay. Ew.” “Not like that, you brat.

The world is big, but our time here is small and precious. Life is meant to be lived, not solved. And love … well, it’s like a white T-shirt with french fries and ketchup. It’s messy, but worth the risk.

You're probably wondering what you did in a past life to get stuck with us." Catherine says this as she drowns a fry in ketchup, her many rings glinting as she works her fingers. "Gee, thanks," Brendan murmurs. She gives him a look. "Don't be so sensitive. You know I adore you." I lower my mostly uneaten burger. "Of course not. Just glad for anyone who wants to be my friend." "Hey, Jacinda!" Nathan calls from his table, half rising. He waves and jerks his head, beckoning me over. Catherine's smile slips. She reaches for another fry, avoiding my gaze. "You've got plenty of people willing to be your friend. Go on. Sit with Nathan. He's a decent guy-unfortunate pink shirt and all.

a god eater? I mean, Reyes was a god and I liked to nibble on him, but what an odd thing to call someone. Unless I was drunk when I hit an all-night drive-through and ordered chicken McGodlets – with fries, of course – I’d never eaten a god in my life. Still, I bet they’d be good with ketchup.

Slow down, and enjoy that stuff if it’s possible. Kathy doesn’t care what time I leave, only what time I clock out, and she knows sometimes I sleep here when I’m locked out, or have friends over. Everything’s cool as long as I clock out on time.” She swallowed that big bite she’d rammed in, and said, “Okay. Jeez, I’m so hungry, this stuff is good.” Ketchup for your fries, miss? I can recommend it—it’s my main source of vitamin C.” She smiled. “Sure. What does Kathy do if you clock out late?” Well, a couple times I’ve fallen asleep and done it, and gotten off with a warning. Eventually, though, if I made a habit of it, I’d disappear in the middle of the night, and never be seen again, and the only clues the police would have would be a few orange hairs and some enormous shoe prints. But for a few weeks afterward, all over the country, the Quarter Pounders would taste just a little bit more like Lightsburg, Ohio.

It was the way he put ketchup on his plate so I could eat his fries. The way I automatically pulled the tomatoes off my burgers and slid them onto his plate. It was the fact that I went to him first whenever something happened I wanted to share. And the way we made each other’s coffee exactly as we drank it. Love is in the details. It’s in the everyday. It’s the way you treat someone when they aren’t even looking and the way they fill your head when you’re apart.

You do fried rat?” said Glod. “Best damn fried rat in the city,” said Gimlet. “Okay. Give me four fried rats.” “And some dwarf bread,” said Imp. “And some coke,” said Lias, patiently. “You mean rat heads or rat legs?” “No. Four fried rats.” “And some coke.” “You want ketchup on those rats?” “No.” “You sure?” “No ketchup.” “And some coke.

Sometimes things you think are adding value actually subtract from it. Too much ketchup can ruin the fries. Value is about balance.

After he leaves, we both kill a few minutes drowning our fries and the conversation in ketchup.

Harry’s mouth fell open. The dishes in front of him were now piled with food. He had never seen so many things he liked to eat on one table: roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and, for some strange reason, peppermint humbugs. The Dursleys had never exactly starved Harry, but he’d never been allowed to eat as much as he liked. Dudley had always taken anything that Harry really wanted, even if it made him sick. Harry piled his plate with a bit of everything except the peppermints and began to eat. It was all delicious. “That does look good,” said the ghost in the ruff sadly, watching Harry cut up his steak.

All Carolina folk are crazy for mayonnaise, mayonnaise is as ambrosia to them, the food of their tarheeled gods. Mayonnaise comforts them, causes the vowels to slide more musically along their slow tongues, appeasing their grease-conditioned taste buds while transporting those buds to a place higher than lard could ever hope to fly. Yellow as summer sunlight, soft as young thighs, smooth as a Baptist preacher's rant, falsely innocent as a magician's handkerchief, mayonnaise will cloak a lettuce leaf, some shreds of cabbage, a few hunks of cold potato in the simplest splendor, restyling their dull character, making them lively and attractive again, granting them the capacity to delight the gullet if not the heart. Fried oysters, leftover roast, peanut butter: rare are the rations that fail to become instantly more scintillating from contact with this inanimate seductress, this goopy glory-monger, this alchemist in a jar. The mystery of mayonnaise-and others besides Dickie Goldwire have surely puzzled over this_is how egg yolks, vegetable oil, vinegar (wine's angry brother), salt, sugar (earth's primal grain-energy), lemon juice, water, and, naturally, a pinch of the ol' calcium disodium EDTA could be combined in such a way as to produce a condiment so versatile, satisfying, and outright majestic that mustard, ketchup, and their ilk must bow down before it (though, a at two bucks a jar, mayonnaise certainly doesn't put on airs)or else slink away in disgrace. Who but the French could have wrought this gastronomic miracle? Mayonnaise is France's gift to the New World's muddled palate, a boon that combines humanity's ancient instinctive craving for the cellular warmth of pure fat with the modern, romantic fondness for complex flavors: mayo (as the lazy call it) may appear mild and prosaic, but behind its creamy veil it fairly seethes with tangy disposition. Cholesterol aside, it projects the luster that we astro-orphans have identified with well-being ever since we fell from the stars.

She took off her red pants, the shade of ketchup, to reveal softly tanned legs, like two French fries. But when she brought up price, I knew she was too good to be true. She was definitely NOT off the dollar menu.

They were adept at making meals even their friends found disgusting. Later, these meals would be the ones Deming missed the most: fried rice and salami showered with garlic powder from a big plastic bottle, instant noodles steeped in ketchup topped with American cheese and Tabasco.

Lunch had been at a McDonald’s in Santa Barbara. It had been so clean. It had smelled like food. It had sounded happy and alive. In the bathroom, the toilet flushed. Water ran in the sink. He had passed a trash can on the way back to his table and stopped just to look at it. It was full of food. Leftover burgers, the last few fries, smears of ketchup on cardboard. He’d had to hold back tears when he saw it. “Candy bar?” Vicky asked, and held a Snickers out to him. At that moment they slowed to turn off the highway and head cautiously, carefully, through recently bulldozed streets, toward the town plaza. That’s where the McDonald’s was. His McDonald’s. A candy bar. People had killed for less.

Dell pulled out his cell phone, speed-dialed a number, and put the phone on speaker. A woman answered with a professionally irritated tone: “What do you need now?” “Jade,” Dell said. “Nope, it’s the Easter Bunny. And your keys are on your desk.” Dell shook his head. “Now darlin’, I don’t always call you just because I’ve lost my keys.” “I’m sorry, you’re right. You wallet’s on your desk, too. As for your little black book, you’re on your own with that one, Dr. Flirt. I’m at lunch.” Dell sighed. “What did we say about you and the whole power-play thing?” “That it’s good for your ego to have at least one woman in your life that you can’t flash a smile at and have them drop their panties?” Dell grinned. “I really like it when you say ‘panties.’ And for the record, I knew where my keys and wallet were.” “No you didn’t.” “Okay, I didn’t, but that’s not why I’m calling. Can you bring burgers and fries for me and Brady? Oh, and Adam, too, or he’ll bitch like a little girl.” “You mean ‘Jade, will you pretty please bring us burgers and fries?’” “Yes,” Dell said, nodding. “That. And Cokes.” He looked at Brady, who nodded. “And don’t forget the ketchup.” “You forgot the nice words.” “Oh, I’m sorry,” Dell said. “You look fantastic today, I especially love the attitude and sarcasm you’re wearing.” Jade’s voice went saccharine sweet. “So some low-fat chicken salads, no dressing, and ice water to go, then?” “Fine,” Dell said, and sighed. “Can we please have burgers and fries?" “You forgot the ‘Thank you, Goddess Jade,’ but we’ll work on that. Later, boss.

I had it in middle school, with this girl Raya,” Vera replied. “It was kind of fucked up.” My shoulders tensed. I pushed a fry around in the dregs of my ketchup. “Why do you think that?” I asked. “Um, it was really intense, I think. Too intense. And the whole thing kind of blew up. It actually really hurt. I still think about her sometimes.” “I’m sorry,” I said. “Yeah.” Vera nodded. “Thanks. It’s a lot to promise, you know? That you’re gonna be in the same friendship for your whole life.” “We do that romantically, though,” Candace said. “I mean, that’s the basic idea, if you believe in marriage and stuff.” “Yeah, but that feels different,” Vera argued. “You go into a romantic relationship knowing it can completely combust and leave you wrecked. You basically sign up for that. I feel like friends don’t talk about that happening.

It's weird not being in our subculture of two any more. There was Jen's culture, her little habits and ways of doing things; the collection of stuff she'd already learnt she loved before we met me. Chorizo and Jonathan Franken and long walks and the Eagles (her dad). Seeing the Christmas lights. Taylor Swift, frying pans in the dishwasher, the works absolutely, arsewipe, heaven. Tracy Chapman and prawn jalfrezi and Muriel Spark and HP sauce in bacon sandwiches. And then there was my culture. Steve Martin and Aston Villa and New York and E.T. Chicken bhuna, strange-looking cats and always having squash or cans of soft drinks in the house. The Cure. Pink Floyd. Kanye West, friend eggs, ten hours' sleep, ketchup in bacon sandwiches. Never missing dental check-ups. Sister Sledge (my mum). Watching TV even if the weather is nice. Cadbury's Caramel. John and Paul and George and Ringo. And then we met and fell in love and we introduced each other to all of it, like children showing each other their favourite toys. The instinct never goes - look at my fire engine, look at my vinyl collection. Look at all these things I've chosen to represent who I am. It was fun to find out about each other's self-made cultures and make our own hybrid in the years of eating, watching, reading, listening, sleeping and living together. Our culture was tea drink from very large mugs. And looking forward to the Glastonbury ticket day and the new season of Game of Thrones and taking the piss out of ourselves for being just like everyone else. Our culture was over-tipping in restaurants because we both used to work in the service industry, salty popcorn at the cinema and afternoon naps. Side-by-side morning sex. Home-made Manhattans. Barmade Manhattans (much better). Otis Redding's "Cigarettes and Coffee" (our song). Discovering a new song we both loved and listening to it over and over again until we couldn't listen to it any more. Period dramas on a Sunday night. That one perfect vibrator that finished her off in seconds when we were in a rush. Gravy. David Hockney. Truffle crisps. Can you believe it? I still can't believe it. A smell indisputably reminiscent of bums. On a crisp. And yet we couldn't get enough of them together - stuffing them in our gobs, her hand on my chest, me trying not to get crumbs in her hair as we watched Sense and Sensibility (1995). But I'm not a member of that club anymore. No one is. It's been disbanded, dissolved, the domain is no longer valid. So what do I do with all its stuff? Where so I put it all? Where do I take all my new discoveries now I'm no longer a tribe of two? And if I start a new sub-genre of love with someone else, am I allowed to bring in all the things I loved from the last one? Or would that be weird? Why do I find this so hard?

You Are What You Eat Take food for example. We all assume that our craving or disgust is due to something about the food itself - as opposed to being an often arbitrary response preprogrammed by our culture. We understand that Australians prefer cricket to baseball, or that the French somehow find Gerard Depardieu sexy, but how hungry would you have to be before you would consider plucking a moth from the night air and popping it, frantic and dusty, into your mouth? Flap, crunch, ooze. You could wash it down with some saliva beer.How does a plate of sheep brain's sound? Broiled puppy with gravy? May we interest you in pig ears or shrimp heads? Perhaps a deep-fried songbird that you chew up, bones, beak, and all? A game of cricket on a field of grass is one thing, but pan-fried crickets over lemongrass? That's revolting. Or is it? If lamb chops are fine, what makes lamb brains horrible? A pig's shoulder, haunch, and belly are damn fine eatin', but the ears, snout, and feet are gross? How is lobster so different from grasshopper? Who distinguishes delectable from disgusting, and what's their rationale? And what about all the expectations? Grind up those leftover pig parts, stuff 'em in an intestine, and you've got yourself respectable sausage or hot dogs. You may think bacon and eggs just go together, like French fries and ketchup or salt and pepper. But the combination of bacon and eggs for breakfast was dreamed up about a hundred years aqo by an advertising hired to sell more bacon, and the Dutch eat their fries with mayonnaise, not ketchup. Think it's rational to be grossed out by eating bugs? Think again. A hundred grams of dehydrated cricket contains 1,550 milligrams of iron, 340 milligrams of calcium, and 25 milligrams of zinc - three minerals often missing in the diets of the chronic poor. Insects are richer in minerals and healthy fats than beef or pork. Freaked out by the exoskeleton, antennae, and the way too many legs? Then stick to the Turf and forget the Surf because shrimps, crabs, and lobsters are all anthropods, just like grasshoppers. And they eat the nastiest of what sinks to the bottom of the ocean, so don't talk about bugs' disgusting diets. Anyway, you may have bug parts stuck between your teeth right now. The Food and Drug Administration tells its inspectors to ignore insect parts in black pepper unless they find more than 475 of them per 50 grams, on average. A fact sheet from Ohio State University estimates that Americans unknowingly eat an average of between one and two pounds of insects per year. An Italian professor recently published Ecological Implications of Mini-livestock: Potential of Insects, Rodents, Frogs and Snails. (Minicowpokes sold separately.) Writing in Slate.com, William Saletan tells us about a company by the name of Sunrise Land Shrimp. The company's logo: "Mmm. That's good Land Shrimp!" Three guesses what Land Shrimp is. (20-21)

Sex is the union of two things. Any two things whether concave or convex or in any combination or number in order to provide more joy for all or any concerned with the one proviso that no little stranger appear as the result of hetero high jinks. So life not death is the Big O. Write that down, Whittaker. Tattoo it on your fat ass. Drop the news into that frying pan of a brain of yours sizzling with greasy dreams of murder to be served up like McDonald's French fries with real blood for ketchup.

Corn is what feeds the steer that becomes the steak. Corn feeds the chicken and the pig, the turkey, and the lamb, the catfish and the tilapia and, increasingly, even the salmon, a carnivore by nature that the fish farmers are reengineering to tolerate corn. The eggs are made of corn. The milk and cheese and yogurt, which once came from dairy cows that grazed on grass, now typically comes from Holsteins that spend their working lives indoors tethered to machines, eating corn. Head over to the processed foods and you find ever more intricate manifestations of corn. A chicken nugget, for example, piles up corn upon corn: what chicken it contains consists of corn, of course, but so do most of a nugget's other constituents, including the modified corn starch that glues the things together, the corn flour in the batter that coats it, and the corn oil in which it gets fried. Much less obviously, the leavenings and lecithin, the mono-, di-, and triglycerides, the attractive gold coloring, and even the citric acid that keeps the nugget "fresh" can all be derived from corn. To wash down your chicken nuggets with virtually any soft drink in the supermarket is to have some corn with your corn. Since the 1980s virtually all the sodas and most of the fruit drinks sold in the supermarket have been sweetened with high-fructose corn syrup (HFCS) -- after water, corn sweetener is their principal ingredient. Grab a beer for you beverage instead and you'd still be drinking corn, in the form of alcohol fermented from glucose refined from corn. Read the ingredients on the label of any processed food and, provided you know the chemical names it travels under, corn is what you will find. For modified or unmodified starch, for glucose syrup and maltodextrin, for crystalline fructose and ascorbic acid, for lecithin and dextrose, lactic acid and lysine, for maltose and HFCS, for MSG and polyols, for the caramel color and xanthan gum, read: corn. Corn is in the coffee whitener and Cheez Whiz, the frozen yogurt and TV dinner, the canned fruit and ketchup and candies, the soups and snacks and cake mixes, the frosting and candies, the soups and snacks and cake mixes, the frosting and gravy and frozen waffles, the syrups and hot sauces, the mayonnaise and mustard, the hot dogs and the bologna, the margarine and shortening, the salad dressings and the relishes and even the vitamins. (Yes, it's in the Twinkie, too.) There are some forty-five thousand items in the average American supermarket and more than a quarter of them now contain corn. This goes for the nonfood items as well: Everything from the toothpaste and cosmetics to the disposable diapers, trash bags, cleansers, charcoal briquettes, matches, and batteries, right down to the shine on the cover of the magazine that catches your eye by the checkout: corn. Even in Produce on a day when there's ostensibly no corn for sale, you'll nevertheless find plenty of corn: in the vegetable wax that gives the cucumbers their sheen, in the pesticide responsible for the produce's perfection, even in the coating on the cardboard it was shipped in. Indeed, the supermarket itself -- the wallboard and joint compound, the linoleum and fiberglass and adhesives out of which the building itself has been built -- is in no small measure a manifestation of corn.

Life will break your heart in a thousand ways, but there's still music and there's still dancing. There's still coffee and toast. There's still kissing and there are still late dinners on busy sidewalks. Twinkly lights, novels, old movies, soft blankets, black-and-white photos, French braids, salty hot french fries dipped in mayo and ketchup. We're still falling in love. We're still learning to forgive. We're still watching our kids learn and grow and stretch into their next selves. We're still watching the sun as it rises and as it sets, still watching the moon wax and wane. We're still trying, still hoping, still getting it wrong and getting it right.

The time the first Europeans arrived in the New World, farmers there were harvesting more than a hundred kinds of edible plants–potatoes, tomatoes, sunflowers, marrows, aubergines, avocados, a whole slew of beans and squashes, sweet potatoes, peanuts, cashews, pineapples, papaya, guava, yams, manioc (or cassava), pumpkins, vanilla, four types of chilli pepper and chocolate, among rather a lot else–not a bad haul. It has been estimated that 60 per cent of all the crops grown in the world today originated in the Americas. These foods weren’t just incorporated into foreign cuisines. They effectively became the foreign cuisines. Imagine Italian food without tomatoes, Greek food without aubergines, Thai and Indonesian foods without peanut sauce, curries without chillies, hamburgers without French fries or ketchup, African food without cassava. There was scarcely a dinner table in the world in any land to east or west that wasn’t drastically improved by the foods of the Americas.

So who else?” “Who else what?” With his mouth full, he says, “Who else got letters?” “Um, that’s really private.” I shake my head at him, like Wow, how rude. “What? I’m just curious.” Peter dips another fry into my little ramekin of ketchup. Smirking, he says, “Come on, don’t be shy. You can tell me. I know I’m number one, obviously. But I want to hear who else made the cut.” He’s practically flexing, he’s so sure of himself. Fine, if he wants to know so bad, I’ll tell him. “Josh, you--” “Obviously.” “Kenny.” Peter snorts. “Kenny? Who’s he?” I prop my elbows up on the table and rest my chin on my hands. “A boy I met at church camp. He was the best swimmer of the whole boys’ side. He saved a drowning kid once. He swam out to the middle of the lake before the lifeguards even noticed anything was wrong.” “So what’d he say when he got the letter?” “Nothing. It was sent back return to sender.” “Okay, who’s next?” I take a bite of sandwich. “Lucas Krapf.” “He’s gay,” Peter says. “He’s not gay!” “Dude, quit dreaming. The kid is gay. He wore an ascot to school yesterday.” “I’m sure he was wearing it ironically. Besides, wearing an ascot doesn’t make someone gay.” I give him a look like Wow, so homophobic. “Hey, don’t give me that look,” he objects. “My favorite uncle’s gay as hell. I bet you fifty bucks that if I showed my uncle Eddie a picture of Lucas, he’d confirm it in half a second.” “Just because Lucas appreciates fashion, that doesn’t make him gay.” Peter opens his mouth to argue but I lift up a hand to quiet him. “All it means is he’s more of a city guy in the midst of all this…this boring suburbia. I bet you he ends up going to NYU or some other place in New York. He could be a TV actor. He’s got that look, you know. Svelte with fine-boned features. Very sensitive features. He looks like…like an angel.” “So what did Angel Boy say about the letter, then?” “Nothing…I’m sure because he’s a gentleman and didn’t want to embarrass me by bringing it up.” I give him a meaningful look. Unlike some people is what I’m saying with my eyes. Peter rolls his eyes. “All right, all right. Whatever, I don’t care.

The crispy crunch of the savory parmesan wings. The thick and smooth Ankake sauce. And under those lies the tender and springy chicken meat that floods the mouth with its umami-laden juices with each bite! Even the delicate aftertaste unique to the Satsuma Jidori has been vividly enhanced! You would think by adding powerfully flavored ingredients like cheese and pork jowl that the overall taste would become heavy and cloying, but that isn't the case at all! The answer to that is in the Ankake sauce. I seasoned that Jidori stock with one special secret ingredient. "Yukihira, quit stalling! What the heck is that ingredient? Tell me! Now!" "It's ketchup. I used good ol' tomato ketchup to make that Ankake sauce... ... into a special house-blend sweet n' sour sauce!" "Ketchup?!" Sweet n' sour sauce is used in a lot of dishes, from obvious ones like sweet n' sour pork, to regional varieties ofTenshinhan crab omelet over rice, and even seafood dishes like deep-fried cod! It's especially handy for Chinese cooking, which commonly makes use of a variety of oils. It's perfect for alleviating the thick oiliness of some dishes, giving them a fresh and tangy flavor. So by adding the tart acidity of tomato-based ketchup to make my Ankake sauce... ... it wipes out the cloying greasiness of both the Parmesan cheese and the pork jowl, leaving only their rich flavors behind. Not only that, it also brings out the Satsuma Jidori's renowned delicate aftertaste!" "The base broth of the sauce is from a stock I made from the Jidori's carcass, so of course it will pair well with the wing meat. And to top it all off, Parmesan cheese and tomatoes are a great match for each other!" "Oh... oh, now I see! That's how you managed to keep from smothering the Jidori's unique flavor! Tomatoes are one big lump of the umami component glutamic acid! Add the inosinic acid from the Jidori and the Guanylic acid from the shiitake mushrooms, and you have three umami compounds all magnifying each other! The techniques for emphasizing the unique and delicious flavors of a Jidori... the three-way umami-component magnification effect... the synergy between ketchup and cheese... the texture contrast between the crispy cheese wings and the smooth Ankake sauce... all of those rest squarely on the foundation of the tomato's tart acidity!

I roughly dip a fry into my ketchup repeatedly, imaging maiming the slutty pixie

¿Qué problema estás solucionando? ¿Cuál es el problema? ¿Los clientes tienen dudas? ¿Tú tienes dudas? ¿Hay algo que no está suficientemente claro? ¿Había algo que fuera posible antes y que ahora no lo es? En ocasiones, al formularte estas preguntas descubrirás que estás intentando solucionar un problema imaginado. Es en ese momento cuando debes parar y volverte a plantear qué demonios estás haciendo. ¿Sirve para algo esto? ¿Estás haciendo algo útil o simplemente estás haciendo algo? Es muy fácil confundir entusiasmo con utilidad. En ocasiones está bien jugar un poco y desarrollar algo bonito. Pero al final tendrás que detenerte y preguntarte a ti mismo si además es útil. Lo bonito pasa, lo útil no. ¿Estás aportando valor? Aportar alguna cosa es fácil. Aportar valor es más complicado. ¿Eso en lo que estás trabajando logra que tu producto sea más apreciado por tus clientes? ¿Podrán obtener algún beneficio añadido que antes no tenían? En algunos casos, aunque tú creas que alguna cosa aporta valor, en realidad lo resta. Demasiado ketchup puede arruinar unas patatas fritas. El valor es una cuestión de equilibrio. ¿Implicará un cambio de comportamiento? ¿Logrará lo que sea en lo que estés trabajando cambiar algo? No incorpores nada que no tenga un impacto real sobre cómo la gente utiliza tus productos.

You were a fucking moron to think this girl wanted anything more from you. I’m just her meal ticket, the same as I was for the rest of them. Red-hot rage builds in my chest as I stand there, staring at the screen, waiting for another email to pop up in the chain so I can write FUCK OFF in capital letters, repeated hundreds of times. What should I do? Confront her? No. I stride out of the room and slam the door, relishing the sound of it. I’m going to make Princess Daisy’s life hell. F*CK THE ROYALS! Madness in Harronvale Café Daisy Cheeseburgers. Sometimes I dream about the taste of them. The fried onions cooked in the ground beef patty, the toasted sesame bun, American cheese oozing over the whole thing, and the tang of ketchup to accompany it. Yeah, I fantasize about them a lot. I sometimes smell them. The moment I wake up, it hits my nose. I open my eyes, waiting for it to disappear, but the greasy smell doesn’t disappear. I nearly fall over my sheets in my haste to get out of bed. Anglefell doesn’t have a burger joint. I don’t think I’ve ever gone this long without a burger or a pizza. I haven’t realized how much I need fast food until the tantalizing scent hits my stomach. I burst through the guest room door and walk toward it. Liam sits on the couch with his feet kicked up on the coffee table. There’s a half-eaten carton of french fries next to him with a little tub of red paste, and in his hand is a giant cheeseburger. He bites into it, and I imagine the taste exploding over my own tongue. He chews loudly, the sound carrying across the room. He gives the burger a thoughtful look. “Wow—this is—really adequate.” I make a strangled sound,

Making dinner for Wayne is either the easiest thing or the hardest thing on the planet, depending on how you look at it. After all, Wayne's famous Eleven are neither difficult to procure nor annoying to prepare. They are just. So. Boring. Roasted chicken Plain hamburgers Steak cooked medium Pork chops Eggs scrambled dry Potatoes, preferably fries, chips, baked, or mashed, and not with anything fancy mixed in Chili, preferably Hormel canned Green beans Carrots Corn Iceberg lettuce with ranch dressing That's it. The sum total of what Wayne will put into his maw. He doesn't even eat fricking PIZZA for chrissakes. Not including condiments, limited to ketchup and yellow mustard and Miracle Whip, and any and all forms of baked goods... when it comes to breads and pastries and desserts he has the palate of a gourmand, no loaf goes untouched, no sweet unexplored. It saves him, only slightly, from being a complete food wasteland. And he has no idea that it is strange to everyone that he will eat apple pie and apple cake and apple charlotte and apple brown Betty and apple dumplings and fritters and muffins and doughnuts and crisp and crumble and buckle, but will not eat AN APPLE.

The world is big, but our time here is small and precious. Life is meant to be lived, not solved. And love … well, it’s like a white T-shirt with french fries and ketchup. It’s messy, but worth the risk.

They served perfectly seasoned tender steaks and creamed spinach that people dreamt about. They charged almost twenty dollars for the burger, a thick sirloin patty cooked in butter that always came out glistening. During Lent, they went fish heavy on the menu---fried perch and shrimp. They were fancy comfort food, meatloaf and chicken potpie. Their chicken paillard was lemony and crisp, served over a bed of bright greens.

Jane decides that she'll stay silent until Rose talks, but after ninety seconds of chewing her tuna, she can't handle it and she starts to tell Rose how she started reading the Little House books to Lauren, how Lauren has become obsessed with Laura Ingalls Wilder and the idea of being a pioneer, how she talks about eating fried pig's tails and maple syrup snow. Rose sips her iced tea but doesn't respond and so Jane tells her about the new flowers she's planning to plant in her garden in the spring. A plant that smells like lemon when the leaves rustle. Another that grows flowers that look like candy corn!

Gretchen walked by and saw Kendall and another waitress dipping fries in Armando's garlic aioli and shoveling them into their mouths. This was the number-one hangover food for the staff at Sullivan's. The salt fixed everything.

Sometimes the kitchen would bring out large plates piled high with fries or grilled cheese cut into tiny pieces. If Frank, the line cook, was working and in a good mood (which usually meant he was stoned), he'd sometimes repurpose the specials into amazing creations---leftover short ribs stuffed into tortillas or mini turkey sliders with cranberry sauce.

Jane ordered the short ribs. The meat fell apart as soon as she touched it and she ate each bite with a little bit of the mashed potatoes, which were salty, creamy perfection. If Mike was there, she knew he would've substituted steamed spinach for the potatoes, and just thinking about it made her sad. She always suspected that Mike didn't like Sullivan's. He would never admit this, but he made comments that hinted at it. The food, he said, was too heavy. The decor was too dark. "I always leave Sullivan's smelling like a French fry," Mike said once, years earlier. It was an offhand comment, but it had offended her just the same. "My whole family smells like French fries," she said. It was true---the air of Sullivan's was always filled with the smell of oil from the fryers in the back and it clung to your coat and hair long after you were gone. Jane never minded this---it reminded her of her grandfather; it smelled like home.

Barbara was all too familiar with the reality that boys are very different from girls. For example, their sense of humor is different. A group of boys can watch old "Three Stooges" episodes and howl with laughter while girls just shake their heads in confusion, wondering what's so funny. Boys' eating habits (and preferences) are also very different than girls. It's not that one is right and the other wrong. It's just that a boy finds nothing strange about a ketchup-and-peanut butter sandwich, or a cold piece of pizza for breakfast, or putting French fries inside his hamburger. In a boy's room, it's not altogether unlikely to discover a petrified chicken bone or a year-old empty Coke can stuffed into the back of a sock drawer.

Why are you doing this? Ever find yourself working on something without knowing exactly why? Someone just told you to do it. It’s pretty common, actually. That’s why it’s important to ask why you’re working on____. What is this for? Who benefits? What’s the motivation behind it? Knowing the answers to these questions will help you better understand the work itself. What problem are you solving? What’s the problem? Are customers confused? Are you confused? Is something not clear enough? Was something not possible before that should be possible now? Sometimes when you ask these questions, you’ll find you’re solving an imaginary problem. That’s when it’s time to stop and reevaluate what the hell you’re doing. Is this actually useful? Are you making something useful or just making something? It’s easy to confuse enthusiasm with usefulness. Sometimes it’s fine to play a bit and build something cool. But eventually you’ve got to stop and ask yourself if it’s useful, too. Cool wears off. Useful never does. Are you adding value? Adding something is easy; adding value is hard. Is this thing you’re working on actually making your product more valuable for customers? Can they get more out of it than they did before? Sometimes things you think are adding value actually subtract from it. Too much ketchup can ruin the fries. Value is about balance. Will this change behavior? Is what you’re working on really going to change anything? Don’t add something unless it has a real impact on how people use your product. Is there an easier way? Whenever you’re working on something, ask, “Is there an easier way?” You’ll often find this easy way is more than good enough for now. Problems are usually pretty simple. We just imagine that they require hard solutions. What could you be doing instead? What can’t you do because you’re doing this? This is especially important for small teams with constrained resources. That’s when prioritization is even more important. If you work on A, can you still do B and C before April? If not, would you rather have B and C instead of A? If you’re stuck on something for a long period of time, that means there are other things you’re not getting done. Is it really worth it? Is what you’re doing really worth it? Is this meeting worth pulling six people off their work for an hour? Is it worth pulling an all-nighter tonight, or could you just finish it up tomorrow? Is it worth getting all stressed out over a press release from a competitor? Is it worth spending your money on advertising? Determine the real value of what you’re about to do before taking the plunge.

People from different worlds can work out," Chloe insisted, sweeping another fry through the ketchup. "I mean, what if you're star-crossed lovers and meant to be?

At a table behind, a man was sitting with his knees pinched together and eating as if it were a punishment: for a few seconds his hand sped between the carton of fries, the small tub of ketchup and the chewing mouth, then he swallowed, grabbed the hamburger with both hands, put it to his lips and took a large bite.

She dipped one of her fries into the ketchup. Gross!

Hipster Chick personally brings it to the table, and there’s a phone number written in ketchup on his plate. He looks at her. Looks at the plate. Dips a fry in it. She bites her lip so hard I think she draws blood, and somewhere in Hollywood Johnny Depp wakes up in a cold sweat.

French fries (often dusted with flour before freezing) fried vegetables/tempura fruit fillings and puddings gravy hot dogs ice cream imitation crabmeat, bacon, etc. instant hot drinks ketchup malt/malt flavoring malt vinegar marinades mayonnaise meatballs/meatloaf non-dairy creamer oat bran (unless certified gluten-free) oats (unless certified gluten-free) processed cheese (e.g., Velveeta) roasted nuts root beer salad dressings sausage seitan soups soy sauce and teriyaki sauces syrups tabbouleh trail mix veggie burgers vodka wheatgrass wine coolers The following are miscellaneous sources of gluten: cosmetics lipsticks/lip balm medications non-self-adhesive stamps and envelopes Play-Doh shampoos/conditioners vitamins and supplements (check label) The following ingredients are often code for gluten: amino peptide complex Avena sativa brown rice syrup caramel color (frequently made from barley) cyclodextrin dextrin fermented grain extract Hordeum distichon Hordeum vulgare hydrolysate hydrolyzed malt extract hydrolyzed vegetable protein maltodextrin modified food starch natural flavoring phytosphingosine extract Secale cereale soy protein Triticum aestivum Triticum vulgare vegetable protein (HVP) yeast extract

Staring down into her big brown eyes, I wondered how someone who had millions of dollars to her family name could grow up to want fries and ketchup on a date. Most girls like her wanted more than something that simple.

On my days of pay I am grateful, I am grateful for everything, and it shows. I am grateful for the good food, the warmth, the service, the forgotten ketchup that is relocated from a nearby table by the waitress’s own hand and offered to me. I am grateful for the waitress’s thumbs that grasp the edges of the food plates, and their palms and their wrists that juggle them all the way. And at the first sip of beer, the first fries, I forget and forgive humanity for its stupidity, its foulness, its pride, its avarice and greed, envy, lust, gluttony, sloth, wrath, and anger. I forgive it for its contaminated spit, its valued feced, its rivers of piss, its bombs, all its bad dancing. I forgive it for not taking off its shoes before entering homes, before stepping on the carpets of places of worship.

Ketchup is only allowed to be used on French fries and nothing else in cafeterias in France.

I watch a couple more. My favorites are the cultural ones, because they have the strange feeling of being instruction manuals on becoming whatever ethnicity the person in the video is. One of my favorites has over six million views and combines the what-I-eat genres of "in a week," "Japanese food," "realistic," "teen," and "ASMR." I watch an entire twenty-five minutes of a girl in Tokyo with dyed wine-red-fading-into-pink hair eating sausages, toast, a Japanese corn dog made with hotcake mix dipped in ketchup, demae hot sesame ramen with an egg plopped in, pizza, stir-fried udon, seaweed salad and barley rice, tapioca and black tea ice cream, soy-glazed salmon on okayu, pearl milk bubble tea. Each time she eats, the microphone hones in on the sounds of her eating---slurping, chewing, crunching. When she drinks her bubble tea, there's a loud pop as the straw goes through the lid, and the sound of gulping. Gulp, gulp, gulp. I realize that I'm gulping along to the video, imagining that the bubble tea is blood.

Dinner?" "No." "Jalebi ice cream sandwich?" he called out, referring to one of her favorite childhood treats. Her betraying lips quivered at the corners. "No." "How about a snack? French toast crunch? Scooby Snacks? Trix with extra sugar? Pakoras and pretzels? Roast beef on rye with mustard and three thinly sliced pickles with a side of chocolate milk?" Laughter bubbled up inside her. He had done this almost every day to guess the after-school snack even though she had always taped the weekly family meal plan to the refrigerator door. "Pav bhaji, chaat, panipuri...?" Liam had loved her father's Indian dishes. "I'm not listening." But of course, she was. "Two grilled cheese sandwiches with ketchup and zucchini fries? Masala dosa...?" His voice grew faint as she neared the end of the block. "Cinnamon sugar soft pretzels, tomato basil mozzarella toasts...

Linda closed the door without answering. She searched the car again to ensure she hadn’t missed anything before the State Police arrived. A tattered highway atlas. Three empty packs of cigarettes, a lighter, a packet of ketchup, four stale French fries, and a corpse.

You have to be kidding.” Chuck stabbed one of the Swedish meatballs on his plate and gave Hallie a look. “This could not have actually happened.” “Which part don’t you believe?” Hallie asked her best friend as she dipped one of her french fries into ketchup.

Surely little remained of the Puritan legacy of prudish rectitude, he thought: surely this was now a country of excess, gluttony, lust, and sloth; surely this had grown into a land where obesity reigned and even the poor moved ponderously down the street on big thighs that rubbed fatly together. What had become of the pilgrims' gaunt and stingy oversight? He knew in part it was the visionary genius of enterprising men, but such entrepreneurs were only the tools of a hungry culture. For the descendants of those gray, upright pioneers had cherished cravings for beef patties with ketchup, deep-fried chicken and vats of ice cream, chemically scented and dyed all the colors of the rainbow, and billions upon billions of gallons of soda. Their thirst had never been quite slaked and so they never finished drinking; and this was the market in all its streamlined functionality—which, precisely where the supply and the demand curves crossed, had swiftly produced a nation of paralyzed giants, fallen across their couches much as soldiers on the field of battle, their arteries hard, their softened hearts failing. The market made a fool of you by giving you what you wanted. But this did not make him resent it; it merely earned his respect. From the day you were born you were called upon to discern what to choose.

Burger and French fries?” Darling asks. The excited uptick in her voice is unmistakable. “Ummm…” The server holds a pencil over a notepad, unsure of what to write. “French…fries?” “Matchsticks,” I tell the girl. “Right. Of course.” She scribbles that down. “And a meat sandwich.” I turn to Darling. “What do you like on your burgers?” “Lettuce?” I can’t help but laugh. “We don’t put leaves on food here.” She grumbles. “Pickles?” “That we do have.” “Ketchup?” “Tomato syrup,” I translate to the server. She nods and continues scribbling. “Tomato syrup?” Darling screws up her mouth, aghast. “What in the hell is that?” “It’s sweet like your ketchup. Just trust me.” “Fine.” She looks up at the server. “A meat sandwich please with pickles and tomato syrup.

There was another pause. We waited to learn if the dialogue was over. Then we set to eating again. We traded unwanted parts in silence, stuck our hands in cartoons of rippled fries. Wilder liked the soft white fries and people picked these out and gave them to him. Denise distributed ketchup in little watery pouches. The interior of the car smelled of grease and licked flesh. We traded parts and gnawed.

He squeezes a packet of ketchup into the box that’s full of fries.

Josh picked up a French fry, dipped it in ketchup, and drew his initials on his plate. When he ate the French fry, a glob of ketchup plopped onto his shirt. “Rats, this is my favorite T-shirt!” Josh said. Dink put down his book and grinned at his freckle-faced, redheaded friend. “Was your favorite shirt,” he said.

... Why come kick the table over? Couldn't he have just pulled up a chair with the rest of us?" "Some men just need to own everything." The voice was so quiet that it took Bobby a moment to realize that Clarissa had spoken. She was still making Ketchup art with her french fries and not looking at any of them. "What's that Peaches?" Amos said. ... "This sounds like personal experience." Bobby said cutting him off. "What are you thinking, Clare?" "...By owning and controlling a share in [ the rice growers' companies] my father was in a position to dictate policy to the Ganymede Agricultural Union. It meant, in terms Ganymede food production, he couldn't be ignored by the local government." "What did he use that for?" Bobby asjed. "Nothing," Clarissa responded with a delicate wave of one hand, " but he had it. He owned an important piece of Ganymede. A thing he hadn't conjtrioled before. And some men just need to own everything, everything that they lay their eyes that they don't posses, it's like a sliver in their finger." Clarissa pushed her soggy fries away and smiled at them all. "my father could be the kindest, most genrous, and loving man, right up until he wanted something and you wouldn't give it to him. I don't know why I think this, but Duarte feels the same. These are men that will mercilessly punish anyone who won't comply , but with tears in their eyes and begging them to tell you why you made them do it.

Planning and Prepping MONDAY, DAY 8 ♦After 24 hours, drain and rinse the wild rice and green lentils. Sprout in colanders and continue to rinse twice a day. Wild rice will take 3 to 5 days to sprout. ♦Quinoa should be finished sprouting after 24 hours. Store in the refrigerator in a lidded glass container. ♦Make Guacamole and Cashew Sour Cream. WEDNESDAY, DAY 10 ♦Lentils should be sprouted. Store in the refrigerator. ♦Make Coconut Yogurt and leave in a warm place overnight to ferment for 12 to 24 hours. THURSDAY, DAY 11 ♦Place the yogurt in a lidded glass container in the refrigerator. ♦If you have a dehydrator, make Caramelized Onions. FRIDAY, DAY 12 ♦Soak 1½ cups of cashews to make the cheese sauce for Raw Vegan Mac ’n’ Cheese and Cheesy Kale Chips. ♦The wild rice should be sprouted. Make two servings of Dragon Bowls for lunch on Day 13 and dinner on Day 14. ♦Make Jicama Fries and Ketchup for your snack on Day 13 and lunch Day 14. SUNDAY, DAY 14

My smells of a son are gummy sweeties, Play-Doh, Pritt Stick, poster paint and wax crayons. Earthy mud on polyester football kit. The sweet antiseptic of sticking plasters. Fruity bubble gum and the minty tang of chong- as he and his friends called chewing gum. Bicycle chain oil and rubber inner tubes. The chemical overload of Lynx sprayed profusely over sweat, hair gel and toxic trainers. Fried onions and meat on the breath. Tomato ketchup. My scents for a son are: I am Juicy Couture by Juicy Couture Black by Bvlgari L'Air de Rien by Miller Harris Serge Noire by Serge Lutens Rocker Femme by Britney Spears Dirty by Lush Africa by Lynx

As he wait, he practically empties an entire bottle of ketchup on his French fries, not by mistake either- that’s just how he likes it.

Consume rarely or never Wheat products—wheat-based breads, pasta, noodles, cookies, cakes, pies, cupcakes, breakfast cereals, pancakes, waffles, pita, couscous; rye, bulgur, triticale, kamut, barley Unhealthy oils—fried, hydrogenated, polyunsaturated (especially corn, sunflower, safflower, grapeseed, cottonseed, soybean) Gluten-free foods—specifically those made with cornstarch, rice starch, potato starch, or tapioca starch Dried fruit—figs, dates, prunes, raisins, cranberries Fried foods Sugary snacks—candies, ice cream, sherbet, fruit roll-ups, craisins, energy bars Sugary fructose-rich sweeteners—agave syrup or nectar, honey, maple syrup, high-fructose corn syrup, sucrose Sugary condiments—jellies, jams, preserves, ketchup (if contains sucrose or high-fructose corn syrup), chutney

I know what it looks like. The connection that enables two people to have full conversations without saying a word. The devotion that every other person and responsibility comes second to … Being completely owned by someone else not just for who you are now, but for whoever you evolve into … And commitment to stick together no matter how fucked up life gets because the worst days together are better than the best days apart.” She blinks rapidly as if coming out of a daze. “Who?” I dip a French fry into ketchup. “My parents.” … “Is that what you’re looking for then? That kind of love?” “I don’t see why I should settle for anything else. If that kind of love and partnership is possible, I want what’s possible.

Slushy spiked lemonade/beer Boiled peanuts/homemade pickles/kettle corn Mini corn dogs with chili ketchup, curried mustard, and cheese sauce Turkey leg confit Deep-fried Brussels sprouts Poker-chip potatoes Ginger-pear sno-cones and cotton candy Pumpkin funnel cake "What the hell are poker-chip potatoes?" "I'm going to slice the potatoes paper thin- like poker chips or carnival tokens- and line them up in a baking dish, accordion-style, with thyme, shallots, and garlic, and bake them until they're crispy around the edges but tender in the middle.

The following foods often contain gluten: baked beans (canned) beer blue cheeses bouillons/broths (commercially prepared) breaded foods cereals chocolate milk (commercially prepared) cold cuts communion wafers egg substitute energy bars flavored coffees and teas French fries (often dusted with flour before freezing) fried vegetables/tempura fruit fillings and puddings gravy hot dogs ice cream imitation crabmeat, bacon, etc. instant hot drinks ketchup malt/malt flavoring malt vinegar marinades mayonnaise meatballs/meatloaf non-dairy creamer oat bran (unless certified gluten-free) oats (unless certified gluten-free) processed cheese (e.g., Velveeta) roasted nuts root beer salad dressings sausage seitan soups soy sauce and teriyaki sauces syrups tabbouleh trail mix veggie burgers vodka wheatgrass wine coolers

You’re the ketchup to my fries.” “Here we say tomato sauce and chips.” “Doesn’t have quite the same ring.

— I listen to In the Wee Small Hours from start to finish twice. I wonder if Jen would like it—whether she’d find it too depressing or whether she’d like its sentimentality. It’s weird not being in our subculture of two any more. There was Jen’s culture, her little habits and ways of doing things; the collection of stuff she’d already learnt she loved before we met me. Chorizo and Jonathan Franzen and long walks and the Eagles (her dad). Seeing the Christmas lights. Big dogs and Greek islands and poached eggs and tennis. Taylor Swift, frying pans in the dishwasher, the words absolutely, arsewipe, heaven. Tracy Chapman and prawn jalfrezi and Muriel Spark and HP Sauce in bacon sandwiches. And then there was my culture. Steve Martin and Aston Villa and New York and E.T. Chicken bhuna, strange-looking cats and always having squash or cans of soft drinks in the house. The Cure. Pink Floyd. Kanye West, fried eggs, ten hours’ sleep, ketchup in bacon sandwiches. Never missing dental check-ups. Sister Sledge (my mum). Watching TV even if the weather is nice. Cadbury’s

Josh picked up a French fry, dipped it in ketchup, and drew his initials on his plate.