Mint Leaves Quotes

Take from my palms, to soothe your heart, a little honey, a little sun, in obedience to Persephone's bees. You can't untie a boat that was never moored, nor hear a shadow in its furs, nor move through thick life without fear. For us, all that's left is kisses tattered as the little bees that die when they leave the hive. Deep in the transparent night they're still humming, at home in the dark wood on the mountain, in the mint and lungwort and the past. But lay to your heart my rough gift, this unlovely dry necklace of dead bees that once made a sun out of honey. ― Osip Mandelstam, The Selected Poems (NYRB Classics; 1st edition, August 31, 2004) Originally published 1972

The demon kept pulling him unconscious, and in those short bursts of blackness, the dreamer snatched at light, and when he swam back to consciousness, he thrust the dream into reality. He shaped them into flapping creatures and earthbound stars and flaming crowns and golden notes that sang by themselves and mint leaves scattered across the blood-streaked pavement and scraps of paper with jagged handwriting on them: Unguibus et rostro. But he was dying.

You don't notice the dead leaving when they really choose to leave you. You're not meant to. At most you feel them as a whisper or the wave of a whisper undulating down. I would compare it to a woman in the back of a lecture hall or theater whom no one notices until she slips out.Then only those near the door themselves, like Grandma Lynn, notice; to the rest it is like an unexplained breeze in a closed room. Grandma Lynn died several years later, but I have yet to see her here. I imagine her tying it on in her heaven, drinking mint juleps with Tennessee Williams and Dean Martin. She'll be here in her own sweet time, I'm sure. If I'm to be honest with you, I still sneak away to watch my family sometimes. I can't help it, and sometimes they still think of me. They can't help it.... It was a suprise to everyone when Lindsey found out she was pregnant...My father dreamed that one day he might teach another child to love ships in bottles. He knew there would be both sadness and joy in it; that it would always hold an echo of me. I would like to tell you that it is beautiful here, that I am, and you will one day be, forever safe. But this heaven is not about safety just as, in its graciousness, it isn't about gritty reality. We have fun. We do things that leave humans stumped and grateful, like Buckley's garden coming up one year, all of its crazy jumble of plants blooming all at once. I did that for my mother who, having stayed, found herself facing the yard again. Marvel was what she did at all the flowers and herbs and budding weeds. Marveling was what she mostly did after she came back- at the twists life took. And my parents gave my leftover possessions to the Goodwill, along with Grandma Lynn's things. They kept sharing when they felt me. Being together, thinking and talking about the dead, became a perfectly normal part of their life. And I listened to my brother, Buckley, as he beat the drums. Ray became Dr. Singh... And he had more and more moments that he chose not to disbelieve. Even if surrounding him were the serious surgeons and scientists who ruled over a world of black and white, he maintained this possibility: that the ushering strangers that sometimes appeared to the dying were not the results of strokes, that he had called Ruth by my name, and that he had, indeed, made love to me. If he ever doubted, he called Ruth. Ruth, who graduated from a closet to a closet-sized studio on the Lower East Side. Ruth, who was still trying to find a way to write down whom she saw and what she had experienced. Ruth, who wanted everyone to believe what she knew: that the dead truly talk to us, that in the air between the living, spirits bob and weave and laugh with us. They are the oxygen we breathe. Now I am in the place I call this wide wide Heaven because it includes all my simplest desires but also the most humble and grand. The word my grandfather uses is comfort. So there are cakes and pillows and colors galore, but underneath this more obvious patchwork quilt are places like a quiet room where you can go and hold someone's hand and not have to say anything. Give no story. Make no claim. Where you can live at the edge of your skin for as long as you wish. This wide wide Heaven is about flathead nails and the soft down of new leaves, wide roller coaster rides and escaped marbles that fall then hang then take you somewhere you could never have imagined in your small-heaven dreams.

Oyin Da’s mind is as elegant as a French horn, thoughts moving in whorls and evoking fresh mint leaves.

And when the rains were over and it was October and the birds were in song again, I could lie in the sun on sweet-smelling grass and gaze up through a pattern of oak leaves into a blind-blue heaven. And I would thank my God for leaves and grass and the smell of things, the smell of mint and myrtle and bruised clover, and the touch of things, the touch of grass and air and sky, the touch of the sky's blueness.

Oh, misanthropy and sourness. Gary wanted to enjoy being a man of wealth and leisure, but the country was making it none too easy. All around him, millions of newly minted American millionaires were engaged in the identical pursuit of feeling extraordinary - of buying the perfect Victorian, of skiing the virgin slope, of knowing the chef personally, of locating the beach that had no footprints. There were further tens of millions of young Americans who didn't have money but were nonetheless chasing the Perfect Cool. And meanwhile the sad truth was that not everyone could be extraordinary, not everyone could be extremely cool; because whom would this leave to be ordinary? Who would perform the thankless work of being comparatively uncool?

The more bleach in the bedsheets, the greater Chastity's impulse to roll around in them. A party would be thrown, she decided, the kind that would tell a small story in the contents of the dustpan the next morning. Detached sequins and mint leaves muddled by high heels, shrimp tales mixed in with a few shards of broken glass, a crust of bread. She rolled in her bleached sheets until they wrapped around her like a storm, and she fell asleep in the eye of it.

The mint from your breath, the milk from your breast, the best of your mind, now in its worst state of condition. From the womb to the tomb, as a mild flower, you break your petals upon blossom, and seize death openly. Leaving your fragrance to spin and dance, one last time before being blown away.

The stew had been made with chunks of beef, potatoes, and turnips simmered in burgundy wine until they melted at the lightest pressure of the tongue. There was a salad of crisp lettuce greens and chopped mint leaves, and wedges of cottage bread, the interior laced with holes to catch every drop of salted butter.

Avelina raised her hand to her face, the one Lord Thornbeck had squeezed a moment ago, and was overcome by his familiar scent—the smell of evergreen trees and mint leaves the servants put in his laundry. Warmth washed over her as she remembered how he had held her tight, much tighter than necessary, sitting on the balcony floor. Surely

There was the Bennett Cocktail (gin, lime juice, bitters), the Bee’s Knees (gin, honey, lemon juice), the Gin Fizz (gin, lemon juice, sugar, seltzer water), and the Southside (lemon juice, sugar syrup, mint leaves, gin, seltzer water).

Of Woman and Chocolate   "Chocolate shares both the bitter and the sweet. Chocolate melts away all cares, coating the heart while smothering every last ache.   Chocolate brings a smile to the lips on contact, leaving a dark kiss behind.   Chocolate is amiable, complimenting any pairing; berries, peanut butter, pretzels, mint, pastries, drinks...everything goes with chocolate.   The very thought of chocolate awakens taste buds, sparking memories of candy-coated happiness.   Chocolate will go nuts with you, no questions asked.   Chocolate craves your lips, melts at your touch, and savors the moment.   Chocolate is that dark and beautiful knight who charges in on his gallant steed ready to slay dragons when needed.   Chocolate never disappoints; it leaves its lover wanting more.   Chocolate is the ultimate satisfaction, synonymous with perfection.   Chocolate is rich, smooth pleasure.   Chocolate has finesse - the charm to seduce and indulge at any time, day or night.   Chocolate is a true friend, a trusted confidant, and faithful lover. Chocolate warms and comforts and sympathizes.   Chocolate holds power over depression, victory over disappointment.   Chocolate savvies the needs of a woman and owns her.   Simply put, chocolate is paradise.

A good man's prayers are golden recompense!" rejoined old Roger Chillingworth, as he took his leave. "Yea, they are the current gold coin of the New Jerusalem, with the King's own mint-mark on them!

Te, olvasó: az élet, a dicsőség, a szerelem lázában égsz, mint én, Legyenek tehát a tiéid e dalok.

The best time to harvest herbs was after the early-morning dew dried, and Nellie had a long list of things to do, starting with her herb garden. While the sun rose higher and Richard kept sleeping, Nellie used her kitchen shears to trim leaves and stalks from her herb plants to later dry for her seasoning mix. Rosemary. Sage. Parsley. Dill. Lemon balm. Mint. Marjoram.

What about me?" Monica whined. "Do you really want to know?" Shane gave her a glare that should have scorched her hair off. "Be grateful I'm not leaving you as an after-dinner mint on his pillow." Myrnin leaned close to Claire's ear and said, "I think I like your young man." When she reacted in pure confusion, he held up his hands, smiling. "Not in that way, my dear. He just seems quite trustworthy.

I followed the chef to the circular herb garden with relief. Here were familiar plants with gentle smells: thyme, dill, mint, basil, and others equally benign. He asked me to identify the ones I knew and gave me a brief dissertation on their uses: Dill was good with fish, thyme complemented veal, mint went well with fruit, and basil was perfect for the dreaded love apples. He plucked two large mint leaves with purplish undersides, placed one on his tongue, and gave me the other. We came to rest on a curved stone bench in the middle of the garden, and we sat there sucking on fresh mint, him enjoying the breeze, and me awaiting the judgement that must be coming. He continued his lecture on herbs. He talked about the subtlety of bay laurel, the many varieties of thyme, and the use of edible flowers as garnishes.

Az egyenlőségről – mintha bizony káromra volna, ha másnak is megadják ugyanazokat a lehetőségeket és jogokat, mint nekem, mintha nem volna saját jogaim nélkülözhetetlen része, hogy másnak is ugyanolyan jogai legyenek.

Wild Peaches" When the world turns completely upside down You say we’ll emigrate to the Eastern Shore Aboard a river-boat from Baltimore; We’ll live among wild peach trees, miles from town, You’ll wear a coonskin cap, and I a gown Homespun, dyed butternut’s dark gold color. Lost, like your lotus-eating ancestor, We’ll swim in milk and honey till we drown. The winter will be short, the summer long, The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot, Tasting of cider and of scuppernong; All seasons sweet, but autumn best of all. The squirrels in their silver fur will fall Like falling leaves, like fruit, before your shot. 2 The autumn frosts will lie upon the grass Like bloom on grapes of purple-brown and gold. The misted early mornings will be cold; The little puddles will be roofed with glass. The sun, which burns from copper into brass, Melts these at noon, and makes the boys unfold Their knitted mufflers; full as they can hold Fat pockets dribble chestnuts as they pass. Peaches grow wild, and pigs can live in clover; A barrel of salted herrings lasts a year; The spring begins before the winter’s over. By February you may find the skins Of garter snakes and water moccasins Dwindled and harsh, dead-white and cloudy-clear. 3 When April pours the colors of a shell Upon the hills, when every little creek Is shot with silver from the Chesapeake In shoals new-minted by the ocean swell, When strawberries go begging, and the sleek Blue plums lie open to the blackbird’s beak, We shall live well — we shall live very well. The months between the cherries and the peaches Are brimming cornucopias which spill Fruits red and purple, sombre-bloomed and black; Then, down rich fields and frosty river beaches We’ll trample bright persimmons, while you kill Bronze partridge, speckled quail, and canvasback. 4 Down to the Puritan marrow of my bones There’s something in this richness that I hate. I love the look, austere, immaculate, Of landscapes drawn in pearly monotones. There’s something in my very blood that owns Bare hills, cold silver on a sky of slate, A thread of water, churned to milky spate Streaming through slanted pastures fenced with stones. I love those skies, thin blue or snowy gray, Those fields sparse-planted, rendering meagre sheaves; That spring, briefer than apple-blossom’s breath, Summer, so much too beautiful to stay, Swift autumn, like a bonfire of leaves, And sleepy winter, like the sleep of death.

Linda," though, had a flavor that was so assertive that I almost spit when I first heard DeAnne say it. It wasn't the artificial, mellowed-out mints of toothpaste and chewing gum. I would soon identify the taste of mint leaves fresh from the garden, warmed by the sun, their aromatic oils primed and intensified. But when I first heard "Linda," I had no memory of tasting any of the other flavors that accompanied the English words that were already a part of my vocabulary, but I must have as well.

You outdid yourself,” I said, popping a seasoned slice of radish into my mouth. A pinch of salt hit my tongue. Curried vegetables in muted hues of green and orange were piled high in a bowl. Spicy dhal with a swirl of paprika-induced red glistening on the surface simmered in a pot next to a platter of saffron-infused yellow rice. On the granite countertop, crispy papad with hot spots of fennel were stacked on a metal dish beside an open container of creamy raita with bright pieces of mint leaves.

He spooned the zabaglione into ramekins and slid them into the fridge. They were to form part of a complex assemblage of warm and cold, consisting of a fresh peach gelato, just starting to thaw; then zabaglione made with Barolo wine, slightly chilled; then a warm froth of more zabaglione, a thicker one this time, made with the yolks of goose eggs and rich, sherry like marsala; and finally a topping of crisp fried mint leaves and freshly roasted espresso beans, arranged like the petals and seeds of a flower on top of the other ingredients.

About sexuality of English mice. A warm perfume is growing little by little in the room. An orchard scent, a caramelized sugar scent. Mrs. MOUSE roasts apples in the chimney. The apple fruits smell grass of England and the pastry oven. On a thread drawn in the flames, the apples, from the buried autumn, turn a golden color and grind in tempting bubbles. But I have the feeling that you already worry. Mrs. MOUSE in a Laura Ashley apron, pink and white stripes, with a big purple satin bow on her belt, Mrs. MOUSE is certainly not a free mouse? Certainly she cooks all day long lemon meringue tarts, puddings and cheese pies, in the kitchen of the burrow. She suffocates a bit in the sweet steams, looks with a sigh the patched socks trickling, hanging from the ceiling, between mint leaves and pomegranates. Surely Mrs. MOUSE just knows the inside, and all the evening flavours are just good for Mrs. MOUSE flabbiness. You are totally wrong - we can forgive you – we don’t know enough that the life in the burrow is totally communal. To pick the blackberries, the purplish red elderberries, the beechnuts and the sloes Mr. and Mrs. MOUSE escape in turn, and glean in the bushes the winter gatherings. After, with frozen paws, intoxicated with cold wind, they come back in the burrow, and it’s a good time when the little door, rond little oak wood door brings a yellow ray in the blue of the evening. Mr. and Mrs. MOUSE are from outside and from inside, in the most complete commonality of wealth and climate. While Mrs. MOUSE prepares the hot wine, Mr. MOUSE takes care of the children. On the top of the bunk bed Thimoty is reading a cartoon, Mr. MOUSE helps Benjamin to put a fleece-lined pyjama, one in a very sweet milky blue for snow dreams. That’s it … children are in bed …. Mrs. MOUSE blazes the hot wine near the chimney, it smells lemon, cinnamon, big dry flames, a blue tempest. Mr. and Mrs. MOUSE can wait and watch. They drink slowly, and then .... they will make love ….You didn’t know? It’s true, we need to guess it. Don’t expect me to tell you in details the mice love in patchwork duvets, the deep cherry wood bed. It’s just good enough not to speak about it. Because, to be able to speak about it, it would need all the perfumes, all the silent, all the talent and all the colors of the day. We already make love preparing the blackberries wine, the lemon meringue pie, we already make love going outside in the coldness to earn the wish of warmness and come back. We make love downstream of the day, as we take care of our patiences. It’s a love very warm, very present and yet invisible, mice’s love in the duvets. Imagine, dream a bit ….. Don’t speak too badly about English mice’s sexuality …..

how will you sleep without my whispering above you like the linden’s branches? Without my lying here awake and placing words, almost like eyelids, on your breasts, your limbs, your lips. Without my closing you and leaving you alone with what is yours like a garden with a mass of mint-balm and star-anise.

There was a rhythm to the process. First, a pot of equal parts water and milk was put on the hob. To this, Camellia added a few spoons of Assamese tea, two slices of ginger, and a fistful of fresh lemongrass leaves and mint. After arriving at a gentle boil, a tablespoon of sugar went in, and the brew cooked for five minutes.

In the beginning, they had thought all the curled lips, cut eyes, turned-up noses—even the shaking heads—signified a bad scent emanating from their bodies because of the toil in the barn. The odor of swill alone had often made them strip bare and spend nearly an hour in the river bathing. Daily, just before sundown, when the others were bent out of shape from fieldwork and tried to find an elusive peace in their shacks, there Samuel and Isaiah were, scrubbing themselves with mint leaves, juniper, sometimes root beer, washing away the layers of stink. But the baths didn't change the demeanor of the sucked teeth that held The Two of Them in contempt.

It was little trouble to boil up mutton and water and mash in some leeks, garlic, and green herbs, then leave it to bubble away in its own good time. The elementary pattern these Mesopotamian recipes took was: prepare water, add fat and salt to taste; add meat, leeks, and garlic; cook in the pot; maybe add fresh coriander or mint; and serve.

All at once he found his mind drawing a parallel between that destiny and his own existence; all at once questions of life arose before his vision, like owls in an ancient ruin flushed from sleep by a stray ray of sunlight. Somehow he felt pained and grieved at his arrested development, at the check which had taken place in his moral growth, at the weight which appeared to be pressing upon his every faculty. Also gnawing at his heart there was a sense of envy that others should be living a life so full and free, while all the time the narrow, pitiful little pathway of his own existence was being blocked by a great boulder. And in his hesitating soul there arose a torturing consciousness that many sides of his nature had never yet been stirred, that others had never even been touched, and that not one of them had attained complete formation. Yet with this there went an aching suspicion that, buried in his being, as in a tomb, there still remained a moribund element of sweetness and light, and that it was an element which, though hidden in his personality, as a nugget lies lurking in the bowels of the earth, might once have become minted into sterling coin. But the treasure was now overlaid with rubbish--was now thickly littered over with dust. 'Twas as though some one had stolen from him, and besmirched, the store of gifts with which life and the world had dowered him; so that always he would be prevented from entering life's field and sailing across it with the aid of intellect and of will. Yes, at the very start a secret enemy had laid a heavy hand upon him and diverted him from the road of human destiny. And now he seemed to be powerless to leave the swamps and wilds in favour of that road. All around him was a forest, and ever the recesses of his soul were growing dimmer and darker, and the path more and more tangled, while the consciousness of his condition kept awaking within him less and less frequently--to arouse only for a fleeting moment his slumbering faculties. Brain and volition alike had become paralysed, and, to all appearances, irrevocably--the events of his life had become whittled down to microscopical proportions. Yet even with them he was powerless to cope--he was powerless to pass from one of them to another. Consequently they bandied him to and fro like the waves of the ocean. Never was he able to oppose to any event elasticity of will; never was he able to conceive, as the result of any event, a reasoned-out impulse. Yet to confess this, even to himself, always cost him a bitter pang: his fruitless regrets for lost opportunities, coupled with burning reproaches of conscience, always pricked him like needles, and led him to strive to put away such reproaches and to discover a scapegoat.

Le mal du pays.” The quiet, melancholy music gradually gave shape to the undefined sadness enveloping his heart, as if countless microscopic bits of pollen adhered to an invisible being concealed in the air, ultimately revealing, slowly and silently, its shape. This time the being took on the shape of Sara—Sara in her mint-green short-sleeved dress. The ache in his heart returned. Not an intense pain, but the memory of intense pain. What did you expect? Tsukuru asked himself. A basically empty vessel has become empty once again. Who can you complain to about that? People come to him, discover how empty he is, and leave. What’s left is an empty, perhaps even emptier, Tsukuru Tazaki, all alone. Isn’t that all there is to it?

When it is hot like this they lie by the pool for hours, not eating but drinking—pitchers of iced mint tea for breakfast, liters of lemonade for lunch, bottles of Aligoté for dinner—and they leave the house’s every window, every door open, the ceiling fans spinning, so that at night, when they finally seal it shut, they trap within it the fragrance of meadows and trees.

Striped mintbush Meaning: Love forsaken Prostanthera striatiflora | Centtral Australia Found in rocky gorges and near outcrops. Very strongly mint-scented. Narrow leathery leaves. The white flower is bell-shaped with purple stripes inside the bloom and yellow spots in the throat. Should not be ingested, as it can cause difficulty in sleeping. Vivid dreams are also symptomatic.

The pull toward him came from her center. Her eyes never left his face as she moved to her hands and knees. She crawled slowly over the blanket, the breakfast, his legs, until her hands rested on either side of his hips. His smile lifted only on one side. He took care to stay very still, but his mouth opened slightly as she approached. This close to Blake she could smell him. Fresh, sweet fall leaves and mint.

Az a legbölcsebb, aki a legóvatosabb, Csupán az nyer, aki eléggé messze megy. Bármely dolog kellőleg meg van alapozva, ha meg van alapozva, az, ami létrehozza és ami folytatásáról gondoskodik. Ha a Tábornok lelkében van egy hadsereg, akkor jó hadserege van; Akár férfi, akár nő, akkor boldog, ha lélekben boldog, De én mondom nektek, boldogok nem lehettek mások által, mint ahogy csak általatok jöhet világra a ti gyermeketek.

Such observations came naturally to Judd, who could no more look at a woman without assessing her bedability than he could see a microphone without minting a soundbite. She smiled—she had recognised him, of course—then replaced the bottle in its bucket and moved away. He'd leave a decent tip, and get her number. He was supposed to be behaving himself, for reasons of marital harmony, but a waitress hardly counted, for God's sake.

O Thebes! garland yourself in all the green there is — ivy green, olive green, fennel green, growing green, yearning green, wet sap green, new grape green, green of youth and green of branches, green of mint and green of marsh grass, green of tea leaves, oak and pine, green of washed needles and early rain, green of weeds and green of oceans, green of bottles, ferns and apples, green of dawn-soaked dew and slender green of roots, green fresh out of pools, green slipped under fools, green of the green fuse, green of the honeyed muse, green of the rough caress of ritual, green undaunted by reason or delirium, green of jealous joy, green of the secret holy violence of the thyrsos, green of the sacred iridescence of the dancе — and let all the land of Thebes dance! with Dionysos leading, to the mountains! to the mountains! where the mob of women waits! They’ve forsaken their shuttles, they’ve left their looms, they’ve dropped their aprons and taken up their stations on Dionysos’ mountain!

Stepping out of the gate and turning onto a narrow footpath, he was immediately treated to the sight of the legendary Gu Yun, who was “up to his ears in military affairs,” sitting in a little garden. A profusion of mint plants grew in Magistrate Guo’s gardens. Gu Yun was sitting alone in a small pavilion, absent-mindedly picking leaves off the mint. He held each leaf in his mouth for a while, then chewed them up and swallowed them down. How long he sat there, who could say, but the mint plant beside him was picked nearly bald, looking for all the world like a shrub that had been ravaged by a mountain goat.

Romance Sonambulo" Green, how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches. The ship out on the sea and the horse on the mountain. With the shade around her waist she dreams on her balcony, green flesh, her hair green, with eyes of cold silver. Green, how I want you green. Under the gypsy moon, all things are watching her and she cannot see them. Green, how I want you green. Big hoarfrost stars come with the fish of shadow that opens the road of dawn. The fig tree rubs its wind with the sandpaper of its branches, and the forest, cunning cat, bristles its brittle fibers. But who will come? And from where? She is still on her balcony green flesh, her hair green, dreaming in the bitter sea. —My friend, I want to trade my horse for her house, my saddle for her mirror, my knife for her blanket. My friend, I come bleeding from the gates of Cabra. —If it were possible, my boy, I’d help you fix that trade. But now I am not I, nor is my house now my house. —My friend, I want to die decently in my bed. Of iron, if that’s possible, with blankets of fine chambray. Don’t you see the wound I have from my chest up to my throat? —Your white shirt has grown thirsty dark brown roses. Your blood oozes and flees a round the corners of your sash. But now I am not I, nor is my house now my house. —Let me climb up, at least, up to the high balconies; Let me climb up! Let me, up to the green balconies. Railings of the moon through which the water rumbles. Now the two friends climb up, up to the high balconies. Leaving a trail of blood. Leaving a trail of teardrops. Tin bell vines were trembling on the roofs. A thousand crystal tambourines struck at the dawn light. Green, how I want you green, green wind, green branches. The two friends climbed up. The stiff wind left in their mouths, a strange taste of bile, of mint, and of basil My friend, where is she—tell me— where is your bitter girl? How many times she waited for you! How many times would she wait for you, cool face, black hair, on this green balcony! Over the mouth of the cistern the gypsy girl was swinging, green flesh, her hair green, with eyes of cold silver. An icicle of moon holds her up above the water. The night became intimate like a little plaza. Drunken “Guardias Civiles” were pounding on the door. Green, how I want you green. Green wind. Green branches. The ship out on the sea. And the horse on the mountain.

Most plants—from a potted snapdragon to a giant sequoia—will develop differently when grown with different communities of mycorrhizal fungus. Basil plants, for example, produce different profiles of the aromatic oils that make up their flavor when grown with different mycorrhizal strains. Some fungi have been found to make tomatoes sweeter than others; some change the essential oil profile of fennel, coriander, and mint; some increase the concentration of iron and carotenoids in lettuce leaves, the antioxidant activity in artichoke heads, or the concentrations of medicinal compounds in Saint-John’s-wort and echinacea.

Sheepwalking I define “sheepwalking” as the outcome of hiring people who have been raised to be obedient and giving them a brain-dead job and enough fear to keep them in line. You’ve probably encountered someone who is sheepwalking. The TSA “screener” who forces a mom to drink from a bottle of breast milk because any other action is not in the manual. A “customer service” rep who will happily reread a company policy six or seven times but never stop to actually consider what the policy means. A marketing executive who buys millions of dollars’ worth of TV time even though she knows it’s not working—she does it because her boss told her to. It’s ironic but not surprising that in our age of increased reliance on new ideas, rapid change, and innovation, sheepwalking is actually on the rise. That’s because we can no longer rely on machines to do the brain-dead stuff. We’ve mechanized what we could mechanize. What’s left is to cost-reduce the manual labor that must be done by a human. So we write manuals and race to the bottom in our search for the cheapest possible labor. And it’s not surprising that when we go to hire that labor, we search for people who have already been trained to be sheepish. Training a student to be sheepish is a lot easier than the alternative. Teaching to the test, ensuring compliant behavior, and using fear as a motivator are the easiest and fastest ways to get a kid through school. So why does it surprise us that we graduate so many sheep? And graduate school? Since the stakes are higher (opportunity cost, tuition, and the job market), students fall back on what they’ve been taught. To be sheep. Well-educated, of course, but compliant nonetheless. And many organizations go out of their way to hire people that color inside the lines, that demonstrate consistency and compliance. And then they give these people jobs where they are managed via fear. Which leads to sheepwalking. (“I might get fired!”) The fault doesn’t lie with the employee, at least not at first. And of course, the pain is often shouldered by both the employee and the customer. Is it less efficient to pursue the alternative? What happens when you build an organization like W. L. Gore and Associates (makers of Gore-Tex) or the Acumen Fund? At first, it seems crazy. There’s too much overhead, there are too many cats to herd, there is too little predictability, and there is way too much noise. Then, over and over, we see something happen. When you hire amazing people and give them freedom, they do amazing stuff. And the sheepwalkers and their bosses just watch and shake their heads, certain that this is just an exception, and that it is way too risky for their industry or their customer base. I was at a Google conference last month, and I spent some time in a room filled with (pretty newly minted) Google sales reps. I talked to a few of them for a while about the state of the industry. And it broke my heart to discover that they were sheepwalking. Just like the receptionist at a company I visited a week later. She acknowledged that the front office is very slow, and that she just sits there, reading romance novels and waiting. And she’s been doing it for two years. Just like the MBA student I met yesterday who is taking a job at a major packaged-goods company…because they offered her a great salary and promised her a well-known brand. She’s going to stay “for just ten years, then have a baby and leave and start my own gig.…” She’ll get really good at running coupons in the Sunday paper, but not particularly good at solving new problems. What a waste. Step one is to give the problem a name. Done. Step two is for anyone who sees themselves in this mirror to realize that you can always stop. You can always claim the career you deserve merely by refusing to walk down the same path as everyone else just because everyone else is already doing it.

Most of all, there had been a time when honor meant something at the Colgan School, when school property was respected, when the faculty was revered—when the headmaster’s mint-condition 1958 Porsche Speedster would never have been placed on top of the fountain in the quad with water shooting out of its headlights on an unusually warm evening in November. There had been a time when the girl responsible—the very one who had lucked into that last-minute vacancy only a few months before—would have had the decency to admit what she’d done and quietly taken her leave of the school. But unfortunately, that era, much like the headmaster’s car, was finished.

He held me much closer than Carl had. His grip was firm and possessive. It left no doubt in anyone’s mind who I belonged to and that alone sent a thrill through me that I knew was wrong. He imprisoned me in the unwavering chains of his gaze, leaving me powerless to break away while he scrutinized my soul. I wondered what he was looking for. “You came.” The hand on my waist slid over the swell in my spine where it connected to the rise of my backside. His palm flattened against the spot and I was drawn even closer, eliminating what modicum of space there had been between us. My soft frame was cradled seamlessly into the unyielding length of his in all the places that counted, thighs, pelvis, stomach … breasts. I couldn’t even breathe without feeling the skim of my hardened nipples against his chest. I couldn’t move without feeling his cock reaching for me through miles of fabric to prod into my midsection. He was long and hard and I grew wet from that knowledge alone. “Gabriel…” “I couldn’t leave without having this dance with you.” My fingers tightened around his shoulder. “Why?” His quiet exhalation whispered over the curve of my cheeks, smelling of mint and despair. “Because the further away I got from you, the more it felt like if I kept driving, I would lose you for good and that scared me like nothing else.

What a gentle, pleasing flavor! It's as if I've taken a bite of powdery snow! Using that special explosion oven, she baked thin sheets of piecrust at a high temperature until they were nice and crispy... layering them together to create a mille-feuille! One bite and they crumble into delicate flakes... which then meld with the elegantly smooth and sweetly rich meringue created by the blades of her chain carving knife! "Excellently done! With every bite I take... ... my mouth fills with flavorful joy. It's so good I can't help but writhe in my seat!" What?! Out of nowhere... my tongue was assaulted with an explosion of thick, full-bodied sweetness? "Ah! There are flakes of chocolate in between the mille-feuille layers?" "I call those my CLUSTER CHOCO CHIPS. I mixed almond powder and mint leaves into chocolate and then chilled it until it was good and hard." Crushing that chocolate with a sledgehammer, I deployed the fragments into the piecrust, set to explode with just enough firepower! Protected by the layers of crust, the chocolate didn't melt during baking and was instead tempered... resulting in chocolate chips that have the crunch and richness of baking chocolate! The more you eat, the more you trip, setting off a chain of explosions... ... as if triggering a cluster bomb! "These are the specs of what I have dubbed... ... my CLUSTER BOMB CAKE!

Le mal du plays.” The quiet, melancholy music gradually gave shape to the undefined sadness enveloping his heart, as if countless microscopic bits of pollen adhered to an invisible being concealed in the air, ultimately revealing, slowly and silently, its shape. This time the being took on the shape of Sara—Sara in her mint-green short-sleeved dress. The ache in his heart returned. Not an intense pain, but the memory of intense pain. What did you expect? Tsukuru asked himself. A basically empty vessel has become empty once again. Who can you complain to about that? People come to him, discover how empty he is, and leave. What’s left is an empty, perhaps even emptier, Tsukuru Tazaki, all alone. Isn’t that all there is to it?

Of all the herbs, Jasmine thought, basil was her soul mate. She rubbed her fingers over a leaf and sniffed deeply at the pungent, almost licorice scent. Basil was sensuous, liking to stretch out green and silky under a hot sun with its feet covered in cool soil. Basil married so well with her favorite ingredients: rich ripe tomatoes, a rare roast lamb, a meaty mozzarella. Jasmine plucked three leaves from her basil plant and slivered them in quick, precise slashes, then tucked them into her salad along with a tablespoon of slivered orange rind. Her lunch today was to be full of surprises. She wanted to impress as well as amuse this particular guest. They would start with a tomato soup in which she would hide a broiled pesto-stuffed tomato that would reveal itself slowly with every sip. Next she would pull out chicken breasts stuffed with goat cheese and mint. Then finish with poached pears, napped heavily in eau-de-vie-spiked chocolate.

Ti gonosztevők a bíróság előtt, Ti börtöncellákba zárt fegyencek, ti elítélt, megvasalt, bilincsbevert gyilkosok, Ki vagyok én, hogy felettem nem ítélkeznek és nem vetnek börtönbe? Nekem, aki éppoly kegyetlen és sátáni vagyok, mint bárki közületek, miért nincs vasban a csuklóm, és miért nem bilincsbevert a bokám? Ti ringyók, utcán lófrálók s a szobák mélyén paráználkodók, Ki vagyok én, hogy titeket romlottabbnak nevezzelek magamnál? Ó, elzüllöttek! Fennhangon kiáltom: Beismerem! Megvallom! (Ó, csodálóim, ne dicsérjetek — ne hízelegjetek — megborzadok tőle. Én látom, amit ti nem láttok — én tudom, amit ti nem tudtok.) Mellkasomba zártan fekszem, szennyben fuldokolva, E mögött a közömbösnek látszó arc mögött a pokol örvénylik, Kéjvágy és elvetemültség nem idegen tőlem, Parázsló szeretettel járok a bűnösök között, Ügy érzem, közülük való vagyok – magam is a bűnözők és ringyók közé tartozom, Többé nem tagadom meg őket – hogyan is tagadhatnám meg önmagam?

Walt Whitman, kozmosz, Manhattan fia, Békétlen, anyagias, érzéki, evő-ivó és nemző, Nem érzelgős, nem áll férfiak vagy nők fölött, sem rajtuk kívül, Éppoly szerény, mint szerénytelen. Csavarjátok le a zárat az ajtókról! Csavarjátok ki sarkaikból még az ajtókat is! Ha ki mást lealáz, engem aláz le, Ha mit tesznek és mondanak, végül is engem érint. Rajtam hömpölyög át az áram, rajtam az ár és a mutató! Én mondom ki az ős jelszót, én adom meg a demokrácia jelét, Istenemre, semmit sem fogadok el, amit bárki meg nem kaphat hasonló feltételekkel. Rajtam hatol át sok régen elnémult hang, Véget nem érő rab- és rabszolganemzedékek hangjai, Betegek és elcsüggedtek és tolvajok és törpék hangjai, Felkészülődések és gyarapodások körforgásának hangjai, És a csillagokat egybekötő fonalak és anyaméhek és nemzősejtek hangjai, És azok jogainak hangjai, akiket mások letepertek, A torzalakúak, bohók, laposak, balgák, megvetettek hangjai, Légbeli köd, ganajtúró bogarakéi.

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

Noshát, ki csodálkozik a csodán? Én, én mást se látok, mint csoda dolgokat, Kószáljak Mannahatta utcáin akár, Vagy szökkenjen szemem a háztetők fölé az égnek, Vagy gázoljam meztélláb végig a tengerpart sekélyét, Vagy füleljek roppant fák alatt, Vagy szóljak azzal, akit szeretek, vagy háljak azzal, akit szeretek, Vagy üljek asztalnál, ebédnél, társaimmal, Vagy bámuljam az idegen, szembe-futós kocsikat, Vagy kas körül zizegő, mézteli méhek sürgését, míg rezeg a nyári dél, Vagy a lassú állatok legelését, Vagy madarak, bogarak csoda cikkanását a levegőben, Vagy a naplemente ámulatát, a csillag csöndes csillanását, Tavaszi újhold mondhatatlan, lehelet-gyönge hajlatát; Mind, mind csoda nékem ez, külön, együtt, Hordozván az egészet, s mind-mind önmaga is. Csoda nékem minden perce a fénynek, az árnynak, Csoda nékem minden kicsi íze a térnek, Behintve a földfelszín minden falatja csodával, Elöntve a belső minden csöppje vele. Szakadatlan csoda nékem a tenger, Hal-nyájak – szirtek – hullámzubogás – a hajók és rajtuk az ember, Kell-e különb csoda ennél?

I make the very best halwa chebakia. With mint tea, or qamar-el-deen- you can take some home to your family." Such an offer cannot be refused. I know this from experience. Years of traveling with my mother have taught me that food is a universal passport. Whatever the constraints of language, culture or geography, food crosses over all boundaries. To offer food is to extend the hand of friendship; to accept is to be accepted into the most closed of communities. I wondered if Francis Reynaud had ever thought of this approach. Knowing him, he hasn't. Reynaud means well, but he isn't the type to buy halwa chebakia or to drink a glass of mint tea in the little café on the corner of the Boulevard P'tit Baghdad. I followed Fatima into the house, making sure to leave my shoes at the door. It was pleasantly cool inside and smelt of frangipani; the shutters closed since midday to guard against the heat of the sun. A door led into the kitchen, from which I caught the mingled scents of anise and almond and rosewater and chickpeas cooked in turmeric, and chopped mint, and toasted cardamom, and those wonderful halwa chebakia, sweet little sesame pastries deep-fried in oil, just small enough to pop into the mouth, flower-shaped and brittle and perfect with a glass of mint tea...

Gyönyörűek az alvók, a ruhátlanul heverők, A ruhátlan heverők kéz a kézben ömölnek át a kerek földön, kelettől nyugatig, Kéz a kézben az ázsiai és az afrikai, kéz a kézben az európai és az amerikai, Meztelen karjával öleli át a lány szeretője mellét, gerjedelem nélkül tapadnak egymáshoz, a szerető kedvese nyakára tapasztja ajkát, Az apa mérhetetlen szeretettel tartja karjában felnőtt vagy neveletlen fiát, és a fiú mérhetetlen szeretettel tartja karjában az apját, Az anya fehér haja leánya fehér csuklóján ragyog, A fiú egyszerre lélegzik a felnőtt emberrel, barát a barátba karol, Az iskolás megcsókolja a tanítót és a tanító az iskolást, kiengesztelődik a megbántott, A rabszolga szava egy a gazda szavával, rabszolgájának köszön a gazda, Kilép a börtönből a bűnös, az elmebajos épelméjű lesz, megszabadulnak fájdalmuktól a betegek, Megszűnik az izzadság és a láz, a beteg torok ismét egészséges, a tüdővészes tüdeje rendbe jön, a szegény gondterhelt lélek megszabadul a gondtól, A reumabeteg ízületei oly lágyan mozognak, mint valamikor, könnyebben, mint valaha, Görcsök és fájdalmak fölengednek, újra járnak a bénák, És a vízkórosak, a görcsben fetrengők, a vértolulásosak magukhoz térnek jóerőben, Elhagyják az üdítő éjszakát, a gyógyító éjt, és felébrednek. Elhagyom én is az éjt, Egy ideig távol leszek tőled, ó, éjszaka, de ismét visszatérek hozzád és szeretlek. Miért féljek, hogy rád bízom magam? Nem félek, te voltál, aki továbbvittél, és jól vittél, Szeretem a gazdag, iramló nappalt, de nem hagyom el azt, akiben oly sokáig fekszem, Nem tudom, hogyan jöttem el tőled és nem tudom, hova térek veled, de tudom azt, hogy jól jöttem el és jól távozom el. Csak egyszer állok meg az éjben és jókor ébredek föl, Pontosan hagyom el a nappalt, ó, anyám, és pontosan térek vissza hozzád.

A woman decides to have a facelift for her 50th birthday. She spends $15,000 and feels pretty good about the results. On her way home, she stops at a news stand to buy a newspaper. Before leaving, she says to the clerk, "I hope you don’t mind my asking, but how old do you think I am?" "About 32," is the reply. "Nope! I’m exactly 50," the woman says happily. A little while later she goes into McDonald’s and asks the counter girl the very same question. The girl replies, "I’d guess about 29." The woman replies with a big smile, "Nope, I’m 50." Now she’s feeling really good about herself. She stops in a drug store on her way down the street. She goes up to the counter to get some mints and asks the clerk this burning question. The clerk responds, "Oh, I’d say 30." Again she proudly responds, "I’m 50, but thank you!" While waiting for the bus to go home, she asks an old man waiting next to her the same question. He replies, "I’m 78 and my eyesight is going. Although, when I was young, there was a sure-fire way to tell how old a woman was. If you permit me to put my hands under your bra, then, and only then can I tell you EXACTLY how old you are." They wait in silence on the empty street until her curiosity gets the best of her. She finally blurts out, "What the hell, go ahead." He slips both of his hands under her blouse and begins to feel around very slowly and carefully. He bounces and weighs each breast and he gently pinches each nipple. He pushes her breasts together and rubs them against each other. After a couple of minutes of this, she says, "Okay, okay...How old am I?" He completes one last squeeze of her breasts, removes his hands, and says, " Ma dam, you are 50." Stunned and amazed, the woman says, "That was incredible, how could you tell?" The old man says, "Promise you won’t get mad?" "I promise I won’t," she says. "I was behind you in McDonald’s.

St. Louis Blues (1929) I hate to see de evenin' sun go down, Hate to see de evenin' sun go down 'Cause ma baby, he done lef' dis town. Feelin' tomorrow like I feel today, Feel tomorrow like I feel today, I'll pack my trunk, make ma git away. Saint Louis woman wid her diamon' rings Pulls dat man 'roun' by her apron strings. 'Twant for powder an' for store-bought hair, De man ah love would not gone nowhere, nowhere. Got de Saint Louis Blues jes as blue as ah can be. That man got a heart lak a rock cast in the sea. Or else he wouldn't have gone so far from me. Doggone it! I loves day man lak a schoolboy loves his pie, Lak a Kentucky Col'nel loves his mint an' rye. I'll love ma baby till the day ah die. Been to de gypsy to get ma fortune tole, To de gypsy, done got ma fortune tole, Cause I'm most wile 'bout ma Jelly Roll. Gypsy done tole me, "Don't you wear no black." Yes, she done told me, "Don't you wear no black. Go to Saint Louis, you can win him back." Help me to Cairo, make Saint Louis by maself, Git to Cairo, find ma old friend Jeff, Gwine to pin maself close to his side; If ah flag his train, I sho' can ride. Got de Saint Louis Blues jes as blue as ah can be. That man got a heart lak a rock cast in the sea. Or else he wouldn't have gone so far from me. Doggone it! I loves day man lak a schoolboy loves his pie, Lak a Kentucky Colonel loves his mint an' rye. I'll love ma baby till the day I die. You ought to see dat stovepipe brown of mine, Lak he owns de Dimon' Joseph line, He'd make a cross-eyed o'man go stone blin'. Blacker than midnight, teeth lak flags of truce, Blackest man in de whole of Saint Louis, Blacker de berry, sweeter am de juice. About a crap game, he knows a pow'ful lot, But when worktime comes, he's on de dot. Gwine to ask him for a cold ten-spot, What it takes to git it, he's cert'nly got. Got de Saint Louis Blues jes as blue as ah can be. Dat man got a heart lak a rock cast in the sea. Or else he wouldn't have gone so far from me. Doggone it! I loves day man lak a schoolboy loves his pie, Lak a Kentucky Col'nel loves his mint an' rye. I'll love ma baby till the day ah die. A black-headed gal makes a freight train jump the track, said a black-headed Gal makes a freight train jump the track, But a long tall gal makes a preacher ball the jack. Lawd, a blonde-headed woman makes a good man leave the town, I said Blonde-headed woman makes a good man leave the town, But a red-headed woman makes a boy slap his papa down. Oh, ashes to ashes and dust to dust, I said ashes to ashes and dust to dust, If my blues don't get you, my jazzing must.

Elizabeth’s breakfast had cured Ian’s hunger, in fact, the idea of ever eating again made his stomach churn as he started for the barn to check on Mayhem’s injury. He was partway there when he saw her off to the left, sitting on the hillside amid the bluebells, her arms wrapped around her knees, her forehead resting atop them. Even with her hair shining like newly minted gold in the sun, she looked like a picture of heartbreaking dejection. He started to turn away and leave her to moody privacy; then, with a sigh of irritation, he changed his mind and started down the hill toward her. A few yards away he realized her shoulders were shaking with sobs, and he frowned in surprise. Obviously there was no point in pretending the meal had been good, so he injected a note of amusement into his voice and said, “I applaud your ingenuity-shooting me yesterday would have been too quick.” Elizabeth started violently at the sound of his voice. Snapping her head up, she stared off to the left, keeping her tear-streaked face averted from him. “Did you want something?” “Dessert?” Ian suggested wryly, leaning slightly forward, trying to see her face. He thought he saw a morose smile touch her lips, and he added, “I thought we could whip up a batch of cream and put it on the biscuit. Afterward we can take whatever is left, mix it with the leftover eggs, and use it to patch the roof.” A teary chuckle escaped her, and she drew a shaky breath but still refused to look at him as she said, “I’m surprised you’re being so pleasant about it.” “There’s no sense crying over burnt bacon.” “I wasn’t crying over that,” she said, feeling sheepish and bewildered. A snowy handkerchief appeared before her face, and Elizabeth accepted it, dabbing at her wet cheeks. “Then why were you crying?” She gazed straight ahead, her eyes focused on the surrounding hills splashed with bluebells and hawthorn, the handkerchief clenched in her hand. “I was crying for my own ineptitude, and for my inability to control my life,” she admitted. The word “ineptitude” startled Ian, and it occurred to him that for the shallow little flirt he supposed her to be she had an exceptionally fine vocabulary. She glanced up at him then, and Ian found himself gazing into a pair of green eyes the amazing color of wet leaves. With tears still sparkling on her long russet lashes, her long hair tied back in a girlish bow, her full breasts thrusting against the bodice of her gown, she was a picture of alluring innocence and intoxicating sensuality. Ian jerked his gaze from her breasts and said abruptly, “I’m going to cut some wood so we’ll have it for a fire tonight. Afterward I’m going to do some fishing for our supper. I trust you’ll find a way to amuse yourself in the meantime.” Startled by his sudden brusqueness, Elizabeth nodded and stood up, dimly aware that he did not offer his hand to assist her.

Clear Skin     You will need: Aloe Vera 3 drops of tea tree oil 2 drop of witch hazel 5 fresh mint leaves 6 lemon leaves 3 cups pure spring water   Instructions: Add all the ingredients to a cauldron/saucepan and bring to the boil. Allow to cool. Before dabbing onto skin recite the following:   I have brewed this potion, To make a clear skin lotion.

1. Classic Pine-Mint Smoothie This recipe is indeed a classic. Simple and reliably delicious and good for a newbie to green smoothies. Two cups is a lot of pineapple so it’s best to use a sweet(ish) one. If it’s too acid or sour then add more leaves and some sweetener. You could add dried figs or apricots or soft dates. See notes on the pages just before the recipes. 1 cup water 2 cups pineapple (fresh or frozen) 1 avocado 1 cup mint leaves 1 cup of spinach leaves or other mild green Ice and extra water to get to your desired temperature and consistency.

HOW TO USE: For tea: Pour 2 cups of boiling water over 1 oz. of dried damiana leaves and allow to steep for 10 to 15 minutes. Strain the water off the leaves, add honey and enjoy. You can drink damiana tea up to three times daily. You can also combine with chamomile and mint for better flavor (using equal parts of each herb).

GREEK PITAS Ground beef, or a mixture of lamb and beef, can be used in these flavorful meatballs. 4 SERVINGS                    INGREDIENTS                  1 pound (454 gm) ground lamb                  ¾ cup (177 mL) fresh bread crumbs                  1 egg                  ¼ cup (59 mL) finely chopped onion                  1 teaspoon (5 mL) each: dried oregano and mint leaves                  ¾ teaspoon (3.7 mL) salt                  ½ teaspoon (5 mL) pepper                  ¾ cup (177 mL) chicken broth                  2 pita breads, halved                  Cucumber-Yogurt Sauce (recipe follows)                  4 tablespoons crumbled feta cheese 1. Combine lamb, bread crumbs, egg, onion, oregano, mint, salt and pepper; shape into 16 meatballs. Place in slow cooker with chicken broth; cover and cook on low 4 hours. Drain and discard juices, or save for another use. 2. Spoon 4 meatballs into each pita half; top meatballs in each pita half with 2 tablespoons Cucumber-Yogurt sauce and 1 tablespoon (15 mL) feta cheese. CUCUMBER-YOGURT SAUCE MAKES ABOUT ½ CUP (118 ML)                    INGREDIENTS                  ¼ cup (59 mL) each: plain yogurt, finely chopped seeded cucumber                  1 teaspoon (5 mL) dried mint leaves 1. Mix all ingredients.

NON-AD VENTURERS WITHOUT QUESTS ARE AD VISED TO NOT STAND IN ONE PLACE FOR LONG PERIODS. Now that I knew what to look for, I saw them dotted throughout the crowd. Questgivers. Armored knights in the pay of lords and barons stood around the areas of highest traffic, soliciting cheap muscle for dirty jobs, shoulder to shoulder with farm workers looking for someone to shoo the gnolls off the pumpkin patches. I'd stumbled into some kind of quest exchange. My first thought was to shrug him off and leave, which was backed up by my second, third and fourth thought. But it was my fifth thought that somehow got control of my voice. "Yes, I have a quest for you," I said, placing two fingertips on his sternum and gently pushing him out of my personal space. "Lend me fifty talans." Our gaze met for a few seconds, or rather, I looked into his eyes and he focused vaguely on something behind my head. Then he produced an understated but roomy purse from his britches, shook out five freshly-minted coins, and thrust them forwards. "Your quest is complete," I announced, jingling them in my palm. "Well done. You are truly a hero." The tiniest glimmer of understanding flashed momentarily in the center of his dead eyes, then he turned a smooth 180 degrees and jogged off into the crowd, swinging his hips.

South Indian lassi is made with chilled yogurt and a bloomed oil of curry leaves, mustard seed, red chile, cumin seed, and coconut. This goes perfectly with salmon or halibut with a South Indian coconut mint chutney. It gives you a spicy flavor with cooling yogurt, which provides great balance in the stomach for digestion.

HONEY MUSTARD VINAIGRETTE You can alter this basic recipe by adding any of the following ingredients: ½ teaspoon sweet paprika, 1 teaspoon grated lemon or orange peel, or 1 teaspoon dried herbs, such as tarragon, basil, mint, or oregano. If you prefer fresh herbs, use 1 tablespoon of the finely chopped leaves. TOTAL TIME: 5–10 MINUTES YIELD: 1½ CUPS ¼ cup vinegar of your choice 1–2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice, lime juice, or orange juice 1 tablespoon honey 1–2 garlic cloves, finely minced or pushed through a garlic press 1 tablespoon prepared mustard or 1 teaspoon powdered mustard ¾ teaspoon salt, or more or less to taste Freshly ground black pepper to taste 1 cup extra virgin olive oil, preferably unfiltered Combine all ingredients except the oil and mix until well blended. You can beat with a spoon or wire whisk or blend for ten seconds in a food processor on medium-high speed. Then add the oil in a thin drizzle, whisking constantly. If you’re using a food processor, process on medium speed as you add the oil. Pour enough dressing over the salad to coat the greens, but not so much that it pools in the bottom of the salad bowl. Store in the refrigerator for up to two weeks. Bring to room temperature before using.

If possible, get the ingredients at your local farmer’s market. Food tastes better when you know where it comes from. ⅓ cup honey 2 cups melon cubes ⅓ cup lemon or lime juice 2 cups green seedless grapes 6 fresh mint leaves, 1 cup fresh blueberries finely snipped 1 cup fresh pineapple chunks Use a whisk or hand mixer to whip the honey until it turns thick and opaque. Add the lemon or lime, then stir in the mint leaves. Combine the fruit in a large glass or pottery bowl. Pour the honey mixture over and stir gently to coat. Serve immediately with a clear flute of sparkling water or Prosecco. [Source: Original]

Raspberry Cupcakes (makes approximately 12 cupcakes) I top these with white-chocolate mint frosting. You could also just go with vanilla frosting … but why be normal? INGREDIENTS: 1 cup milk 1 teaspoon apple cider vinegar 1-1/4 cups all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon baking powder 3/4 teaspoon baking soda 1/2 teaspoon salt 3/4 cup granulated sugar 1/3 cup canola oil 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1 6-ounce container fresh raspberries (or equal amount frozen raspberries, thawed), mashed into pulp INSTRUCTIONS: Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a muffin pan with cupcake liners. In a large bowl, whisk together the milk and vinegar, and set aside for a few minutes to curdle. In a separate bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Once the milk has curdled, add in the sugar, oil, vanilla extract, and raspberry pulp, and stir. Then slowly add the dry ingredients to the wet ones a little bit at a time, and combine using a whisk or handheld mixer, stopping to scrape the sides of the bowl a few times, until no lumps remain. Fill cupcake liners two-thirds of the way and bake for 20–22 minutes. Transfer to a cooling rack, and let cool completely before frosting. White-Chocolate Mint Frosting INGREDIENTS: 4-1/2 ounces white chocolate, finely chopped 6 tablespoons margarine or butter 2 cups confectioners’ sugar 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract 1 teaspoon mint extract or minced fresh mint leaves (NOT peppermint) Up to 1/4 cup milk INSTRUCTIONS: In a double boiler, melt the white chocolate until smooth, then remove and cool to room temperature. If you prefer, you can instead melt the white chocolate in a small bowl in the microwave, heating it on high for a few seconds at a time, then stirring until smooth. (Repeat heating if necessary, but don’t overdo it!) In a large bowl, with an electric mixer, cream the margarine or butter until it’s a lighter color, about 2–3 minutes. Slowly beat in the confectioners’ sugar in 1/2-cup batches, adding the vanilla extract and either mint extract or minced fresh mint leaves about halfway through. Add the melted white chocolate to the frosting and combine thoroughly. If the frosting seems too stiff and thick, add a little milk until the right consistency is reached. Continue mixing on high speed for about 3–7 minutes, until the frosting is light and fluffy. Place in the refrigerator until firm enough to frost, about 30 minutes.

2 grilled chicken breasts, diced 1 avocado, peeled and diced 5-6 green lettuce leaves, cut in stripes 3-4 green onions, finely chopped 5-6 radishes, sliced 7-8 grape tomatoes 2 tbsp lemon juice 3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil 1 tsp dried mint salt and black pepper, to taste

Wilby had a problem. He didn’t know which brand of toothpaste to buy. He decided to try this new opposing viewpoints idea he’d been reading about in The Fallacy Detective. He decided to go around and ask different people what they thought. Wendy, a store assistant who offered to help: This type with oxy-white pro is guaranteed to make your teeth whiter in twenty-four hours. (Wilby noticed that toothpaste brands with the oxy-white pro sticker were twice the price of other brands.) Phoebe, a friend of Wilby’s: Wilby, I think you’d have such a cute smile if you got rid of some of those blueberry Popsicle stains on your teeth. Judd, another friend: Toothpaste? What’s that? Real men don’t brush their teeth. Wilby’s Mom: Wilby, it really doesn’t matter, as long as you don’t buy anything that contains fluoride additives. You might come down with a terrible disease in a few years if you use fluoride. Austin, Wilby’s coworker: I only use Hug-A-Tree brand. It’s made by an environmentally conscious company from Denmark. They promise they don’t test their product on whales. Bob, who works out at the health club with Wilby: I heard on a talk show that if you chew organic mint leaves, then your breath will smell good without having to brush your teeth. Wilby concluded that he was worrying too much over nothing. He decided to keep using the brand of toothpaste he’d always used. It seemed to do the job. But now he understood more about how different people make their decisions.

Dear Christopher, This is the perfume of March: rain, loam, feathers, mint. Every morning and afternoon I drink fresh mint tea sweetened with honey. I’ve done a great deal of walking lately. I seem to think better outdoors. Last night was remarkably clear. I looked up at the sky to find the Argo. I’m terrible at constellations. I can never make out any of them except for Orion and his belt. But the longer I stared, the more the sky seemed like an ocean, and then I saw an entire fleet of ships made of stars. A flotilla was anchored at the moon, while others were casting off. I imagined we were on one of those ships, sailing on moonlight. In truth, I find the ocean unnerving. Too vast. I must prefer the forests around Stony Cross. They’re always fascinating, and full of commonplace miracles…spiderwebs glittering with rain, new trees growing from the trunks of fallen oaks. I wish you could see them with me. And together we would listen to the wind rushing through the leaves overhead, a lovely swooshy melody…tree music! As I sit here writing to you, I have propped my stocking feet much too close to the hearth. I’ve actually singed my stockings on occasion, and once I had to stomp out my feet when they started smoking. Even after that, I still can’t seem to rid myself of the habit. There, now you could pick me out of a crowd blindfolded. Simply follow the scent of scorched stockings. Enclosed is a robin’s feather that I found during my walk this morning. It’s for luck. Keep it in your pocket. Just now I had the oddest feeling while writing this letter, as if you were standing in the room with me. As if my pen had become a magic wand, and I had conjured you right here. If I wish hard enough… Dearest Prudence, I have the robin’s feather in my pocket. How did you know I needed token to carry into battle? For the past two weeks I’ve been in a rifle pit, sniping back and forth with the Russians. It’s no longer a cavalry war, it’s all engineers and artillery. Albert stayed in the trench with me, only going out to carry messages up and down the line. During the lulls, I try to imagine being in some other place. I imagine you with your feet propped near the hearth, and your breath sweet with mint tea. I imagine walking through the Stony Cross forests with you. I would love to see some commonplace miracles, but I don’t think I could find them without you. I need your help, Pru. I think you might be my only chance of becoming part of the world again. I feel as if I have more memories of you than I actually do. I was with you on only a handful of occasions. A dance. A conversation. A kiss. I wish I could relive those moments. I would appreciate them more. I would appreciate everything more. Last night I dreamed of you again. I couldn’t see your face, but I felt you near me. You were whispering to me. The last time I held you, I didn’t know who you truly were. Or who I was, for that matter. We never looked beneath the surface. Perhaps it’s better we didn’t--I don’t think I could have left you, had I felt for you then what I do now. I’ll tell you what I’m fighting for. Not for England, nor her allies, nor any patriotic cause. It’s all come down to the hope of being with you.

Another key to a perfect salad is the sauce, or vinaigrette. Most people don’t think of vinaigrette as a sauce but it is one of the most important in the French repertoire. It always includes mustard, and shallot, garlic, or chives, either vinegar or lemon juice, and most often peanut oil, though olive and canola oil are rapidly becoming more common. The proportions are 1 tablespoon vinegar, 1 teaspoon mustard, ¼ cup (60ml) oil, a pinch of salt. There can be more to a vinaigrette. Try adding a bit of soy sauce (1 teaspoon) when you add the vinegar, mix oils or use just a nut oil—hazelnut and walnut are my favorites, but almond and peanut oil are delicious, too. You can add different herbs aside from the traditional chives—try tarragon, mint, thyme, basil, or fennel fronds—a flavored mustard, a mix of ground peppercorns. One vital tip for making a great salad, whether green, composed, or otherwise, is to thoroughly toss the leaves in the vinaigrette. Some people ask me if they should toss salad with their hands. My resounding response is “Ugh.” Apparently someone at some time said the French do this but I’ve never witnessed this behavior and cannot imagine anything worse. The best utensils for tossing salad are a wooden spoon and fork, though you can use whatever is easiest for you. The point is to fatiguer la salade, tire out the lettuce, by lifting it up and out of the bowl, turning it, and letting it fall back into the bowl as many times as it takes for the lettuce leaves to begin to feel heavy. When they do, they’re perfectly dressed. And finally, toss the lettuce right before you plan to serve the salad. You cannot do this in advance. The acid in the vinaigrette begins to “cook” the leaves almost immediately—they’ll soon be wilted and soft if they’re left to sit.

Continental Drift you have moved through like an ice flow- steady slow substantial tumble of glacial tongue sweeping through valleys reshaped you arrived on your own epic time patient and thorough meltwater firn crevasse and all lifting rocks on shifting plates smoothing edges and moving the very axes of my teeth you soothed over rifts and fault lines leaving me newly minted peaked and ridged steep and crested sloped and spurred Hillsides lush and summits glistening I rush to a new dawn but not without raw traces of your tender era scratched warmly on my every acre

The blade was unsheathed. It had two cutting edges. The crossguard was short, meant to protect a much smaller hand than Arin’s, and was hooked in the Valorian style. Everything about the dagger was Valorian. The courtiers buzzed. His face. Who did it? That blade. Whose it it? That’s a lady’s dagger. How did he get it? Stole it, maybe. Or…could it have been a gift? Arin almost heard the whispered words. “Your welcome has been so much more than I could expect,” Arin said. The emperor smiled a little. His eyes didn’t leave Arin’s hand on the dagger’s hilt. Arin was glad. He thought that the emperor was quite pleased with his son’s engagement to the military’s favorite daughter. The marriage would make General Trajan part of the imperial family…and would renew the soldiers’ loyalty to the emperor. But there were those rumors. Even the minting of an engagement coin hadn’t laid them to rest. It was the first time that Arin thought of the rumors about him and Kestrel coldly. He thought about them as something he could use. Yes, Arin bargained that if he lifted his hand to reveal the hilt and seal of Kestrel’s dagger, it would be recognized. Courtiers would gasp. Arin could make rumor look real. A Valorian always wore her dagger, except in the bath or bed. Whether the courtiers judged it a theft or gift, they would think very hard about how close Arin must have been to Kestrel in order to take her blade.

And it’s not like I have to have a relationship with the man. A one-night fling would do. I could be a one-night fling kind of girl. Adam’s sexy smile and flirty touches scream one-night stand. Adam leads me to his car and opens the back door. “Yep, there he is.” “Who?” He turns and smiles down at me. “Hailey’s bear.” “Oh. Right.” I’m staring at his mouth, and finally, without overthinking it, I rise up on my tiptoes and press my mouth to his firmly, then pull away and gasp. “I’m so sorry.” “Sorry?” Adam stops my hand from tugging my shirt up over my shoulder and drags his fingertip down my skin, right next to my bra strap, and every nerve ending in my body stands up on high alert. “Sweetheart, if you’re going to kiss a man, you don’t apologize after the fact.” Before I can reply, he turns me so my back is against the car, his hands on my hips, and presses in, his face so close I can feel the heat coming off of him and smell the mint from his toothpaste. His nose nudges mine, and then his lips are working their magic. I grip his arms and revel at the hard muscles there, and everywhere, as he presses his firm body against me and devours me whole. He bites my lower lip, then moves in for more. His hands skim up my sides and cup my jaw as his tongue tangles with mine. He’s all lips and hands and hard body, and oh my God, I want him. Right here. Right now. But he suddenly stops, panting hard, his forehead leaning on mine. “Let me take you out,” he whispers. “Let me see you again.” I can’t speak, so I nod weakly, making him smile. Without looking down, I pull my card out of my back pocket and slip it into his, silently high-fiving myself for touching his very fine ass. “My number’s on that.” “Okay,” he says, still whispering. Even his whisper is sexy. I nod again, swallow hard, and when he pulls away, I clear my throat and begin walking away, toward my own car, acutely aware of his eyes on my ass as I leave. “Sarah?” “Yeah?” “You forgot something.” He’s holding the bear and sporting a very satisfied grin. “Right.

On the top rack is a cooled and decorated seven-layered 'opera' cake. Her client- the Peruvian ambassador- had requested a "tropical" theme for a dinner party dessert. Avis had based the decoration on the view through the kitchen window, re-creating in lime, lemongrass, and mint frostings the curling backyard flora, curving foliage shaped like tongues and hearts, fat spines bisecting the leaves.

She soaked, washed, and trimmed three artichokes, baby purple Romagnas, which would sadly lose their beautiful hue once they hit hot water, then washed and peeled a bunch of pencil-thin asparagus. She pulled out several small zucchini and sliced them into translucent moons. She washed three leeks, slicing them down their centers and peeling back each layer, carefully rinsing away any sand, then chopped the white, light green, and some of the darker parts into a fine dice. She shelled a couple handfuls of spring peas, collecting them in a ceramic bowl. She chopped a bulb of fennel and julienned one more, then washed and spun the fronds. She washed the basil and mint and spun them dry. Last, she chopped the shallots. With the vegetables prepped, she started on the risotto, the base layer for the torta a strati alla primavera, or spring layer cake, she'd been finessing since her arrival, and which she hoped would become Dia's dish. She'd make a total of six 'torte': three artichoke and three asparagus. The trick was getting the risotto to the perfect consistency, which was considerably less creamy than usual. It had to be firm enough to keep its shape and support the layers that would be placed on top of it, but not gummy, the kiss of death for any risotto. She started with a 'soffritto' of shallot, fennel, and leek, adding Carnaroli rice, which she preferred to arborio, pinot grigio, and, when the wine had plumped the rice, spring-vegetable stock, one ladle at a time. Once the risotto had absorbed all the liquid and cooked sufficiently, she divided it into six single-serving crescent molds, placed the molds in a glass baking dish, and popped them all in the oven, which made the risotto the consistency of a soft Rice Krispies treat. Keeping the molds in place, she added the next layer, steamed asparagus in one version, artichoke in the other. A layer of basil and crushed pignoli pesto followed, then the zucchini rounds, flash-sauteed, and the fennel matchsticks, cooked until soft, and finally, the spring-pea puree. She carefully removed the first mold and was rewarded with a near-perfect crescent tower, which she drizzled with red-pepper coulis. Finally, she placed a dollop of chilled basil-mint 'sformato' alongside the crescent and radiated mint leaves around the 'sformato' so that it looked like a sun. The sun and the moon, 'sole e luna,' all anyone could hope for.

We’ve covered the time and work and responsibility a jackpot often entails, the isolation, trust and security issues, and the reluctance of the superwealthy to engage with outsiders. Well, all of the above was shaping up to be a hurdle for Bob Kenny, who was eager to learn about the inner lives of America’s wealthiest citizens. We met Kenny before. He’s a developmental psychologist and cofounder of North Bridge Advisory Group, which helps superwealthy parents and their children “manage the unique opportunities, dilemmas, and challenges that can accompany family money.” Back in 2007, though, he was the newly minted associate director of Boston College’s Center on Wealth and Philanthropy. The center’s data guru, John Havens, had projected that the baby boomers and their successors would leave behind about $59 trillion in private wealth between 2007 and 2061. Some portion of that would go to charity, and so getting a handle on the mindset of America’s elite was of big interest to the philanthropic world. With a $250,000 grant from the Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation, Kenny and Havens set out to survey ultra-high-net-worth families. “If you’ve got kids and you got more money then you’re going to spend in your lifetime, you’ve got a dilemma,” Kenny explains. “And if you don’t think about it and plan it out a little bit, you’re going to cause a problem.… You gonna give it to them now, give it to them later, not going to give it to them at all? How do you talk about it? How do you think about it?

blueberry margarita It’s a stretch, but I like to think of this drink as the boozy almost-equivalent of an açai bowl, since it’s made with pomegranate juice and fresh blueberries. You can take it all the way healthy by omitting tequila, if you like your drinks dry, and subbing in ginger ale, club soda, or a nonalcoholic spirit. Either way, it’s perfect for a summer (or, if you live in Los Angeles, spring/summer/fall/winter) day. TIME: 3 MINUTES SERVES: 1 2 tablespoons Himalayan pink salt 1 lime wedge 4 fresh mint leaves ¼ cup rinsed fresh blueberries, plus 4 blueberries for garnish 2 ounces tequila ½ ounce fresh lime juice 1 ounce pomegranate juice ½ ounce Ginger Syrup Pour the Himalayan salt into a small dish. Run the wedge of lime around the rim of a highball glass, then twist the rim in the salt until fully coated. Fill the salt-rimmed glass with ice and set aside. Clap the mint to bring out its flavor, then put it and the blueberries into a shaker. Muddle them until pulverized. Add a handful of ice, the tequila, lime juice, pomegranate juice, and ginger syrup. Shake vigorously until chilled; strain into the prepared glass. Skewer 4 blueberries onto a cocktail pick and use to garnish the drink. Serve and enjoy.

ANTI-INFLAMMATORY TURMERIC TONIC Try this anti-inflammatory turmeric tonic, using a recipe created by chef Sarah Sugden. You’ll need: 6​pieces of fresh turmeric root, each piece roughly an inch long 3​pieces of fresh ginger root Juice from 2​lemons or oranges 2​tablespoons of manuka or raw honey 3​pinches of ground black pepper Wash or scrub away any dirt on the turmeric and ginger roots, but keep the skin on both. Place all the ingredients in a high-speed blender and blend until smooth. Strain through a nut-milk bag or fine sieve. You can have it straight up as a powerful shot or prepare a warming tea by adding three-quarters of a tablespoon to a mug of boiled water. For a refreshing and hydrating tonic, you can add it to sparkling water, ice and fresh mint leaves. For a metabolic boost, add a pinch of cayenne, while a pinch of cinnamon will improve blood flow and circulation

Professors are supposed to be clever," I whisper. "Why did you leave me if you still want me?

French Minted Pea Soup Serves: 3 10 ounces frozen green peas 1 small onion, chopped 1 clove garlic, chopped 3 tablespoons VegiZest*, or other no-salt seasoning, adjusted to taste 3 cups water 1 bunch fresh mint leaves (save a few leaves for garnish) 3 regular dates, pitted ½ cup raw cashews ½ tablespoon Spike no-salt seasoning, or other no-salt seasoning, to taste 4 teaspoons fresh lemon juice 4 cups shredded romaine lettuce or chopped baby spinach 2 tablespoons fresh snipped chives Simmer peas, onions, garlic, and seasonings in water for about 7 minutes. Pour pea mixture into a high-powered blender or food processor. Add remaining ingredients except for the lettuce and chives. Blend until smooth and creamy. Add lettuce or spinach and let it wilt in hot liquid. Pour into bowls and garnish with chives and mint leaves. PER SERVING: CALORIES 313; PROTEIN 14g; CARBOHYDRATE 45g; TOTAL FAT 11.4g; SATURATED FAT 1.9g; SODIUM 153mg; FIBER 11.6g; BETA-CAROTENE 4496mcg; VITAMIN C 39mg; CALCIUM 192mg; IRON 9mg; FOLATE 210mcg; MAGNESIUM 156mg; ZINC 3mg; SELENIUM 8.1mcg

Hallucination Country by Stewart Stafford A furious tribe of leaves, Chased a logging truck, As forked flames waved, From a burning backyard tree. A half-eaten unicorn in a ditch, A warning from hunters nearby, Slaughtering fairytale creatures, Cryptids were their mint targets. An abandoned Volkswagen car lay, Half-overturned, underbelly exposed, The injured driver, now hitchhiking, With a spree killer or tow-truck driver. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

Grapefruit isn't usually my favorite fruit, even in the citrus family," he said, thoughtful. "But this is something else." He was right. It should have been a simple, maybe even boring dish: grapefruit shaved ice, with thin slices of candied grapefruit and mint leaves on top, all heaped into a frozen grapefruit skin. "I think the word you're looking for is transcendent." Somehow the dish was a thousand times greater than the sum of its parts. Each bite of ice literally melted away in my mouth, transforming into something luscious and concentrated, something that brought me right back to being a little kid in my mom's lap, asking for a spoonful of the grapefruit half she'd sprinkled with sugar. But even better. And it was beautiful, too. I was already imagining the way the miniature shards of ice would glitter in my photo, the way the crystallized grapefruit slices would shine like jewels, how the green shreds of mint would keep it from looking too much like something you'd want to wear around your neck.

Then what is your story, Cleo Carpenter--- if that's even your real name?" He bent his head lower, and she smelled mint on his breath. It intoxicated her. Drew her toward him. His fingers trailed down her cheek, her neck, and toyed with a strand of her hair. "What's your story, Cleo? Why are you here? Why are you hiding?" "Please don't ask. Don't ask questions that you won't like the answers to." Cleo's whisper was silenced as Deacon lowered his mouth to hers. His kiss was tender at first. Hesitant. Not what she would have expected from a man like Deacon Tremblay, who had probably kissed many women in his lifetime. Cultured women. Women more beautiful than her. Less broken. "Cleo..." His murmur rumbled in her ear as his lips moved along her jaw. "Don't leave me. Not yet. Not now." "But---" He stopped her again, this time with more fervor in his caress. Cleo whimpered for a moment before giving in to him. Hands at her waist, Deacon drew her closer, his chest pressing against hers. She couldn't help lifting her hands to his shoulders, then around his neck, her fingers threading their way into his dark curls. Deacon pulled back, then changed his mind and kissed her again before finally giving her a moment to breathe. But breathing didn't feel possible. No more was he Deacon Tremblay in the media, or Deacon Tremblay the sought-after bachelor--- well, maybe he still was that a little, and if she was being honest, it gave her a thrill--- but mostly he was just Deacon. Deacon who needed her. And she needed him.

cranberries is a powerful antioxidant, but the high-fructose corn syrup added to cranberry cocktail acts as a pro-oxidant, canceling out some of the benefit.79 Here’s a simple recipe for a whole-food version of a tasty cranberry beverage, what I call my Pink Juice: 1 handful fresh or frozen cranberries 2 cups water 8 teaspoons erythritol (a naturally derived low-calorie sweetener; read more about erythritol and other sweeteners in part 2) Place all the ingredients in a blender and blend at high speed. Pour over ice and serve. At just twelve calories, this recipe has twenty-five times fewer calories and at least eight times more phytonutrients than typical cranberry juice drinks.80 For an extra boost, blend in some fresh mint leaves.

I had my feast out on the kitchen table. Draped over beds of jasmine rice, thin pork chops seasoned with lemongrass showcased charred stripes from the grill. Cold summer rolls with translucent rice paper glimmered with riotous colors from the mint leaves, vermicelli, and shrimp filling. Emerald coriander leaves peeked out amid slices of barbecued pork, in golden, crusty baguette sandwiches called banh mi. I placed a few pieces of the pork onto a plate for the cat. I bit into the cold rolls first. The thin wrapper yielded to my teeth, giving way to the crunchy pickled vegetables and plump shrimp underneath. The mint leaf inside complemented the sweet sauce with crushed peanuts. The two small rolls vanished into my belly. I attacked the banh mi next. The crisp crust highlighted the varying textures of its filling: crisp from the pickled radish and carrots, textures sang on my tongue.

She times it perfectly so that her sister would be heading for the bathroom just as Lina is on her way back to their shared room, so she could be alone. Naked on her bed, on top of her towel, she caresses pink lotion into her skin, not missing a single spot. Then she applies makeup but not too much because he had once made a comment about overly made-up girls, how they were trying to look older but they succeeded only in looking whorish. She blows her hair out in large sections so that it will lie straight but full of body, so that it might bounce across her back and shoulders as she walks. She applies perfume behind her ears, at the backs of the knees, and on the insides of her wrists. It’s a lemony floral scent evocative of beach house afternoons, of iced tea with mint leaves, and clean breezes.

A stream of leaves funneled down the road and pulled him toward his mint-coloured house, the location of his life, the place where he passed through time, passed through rooms.

Introduction When it comes to skincare, one of the most important factors we often overlook is maintaining the hydration of our skin. Dry and dehydrated skin can lead to a multitude of issues, including itching, flaking, and premature aging. That's where Tatily London Bodywash comes in. Powered by Botnica and enriched with glycerine and blueberry extract, this bodywash offers a luxurious and nourishing experience that leaves your skin feeling soft, smooth, and deeply hydrated. In this article, we will explore the science behind glycerine, the key ingredient in Tatily London Bodywash, and dive into the numerous benefits of incorporating this bodywash into your daily skincare routine. So, let's delve into the world of skincare and discover how Tatily London Bodywash can transform your skin. The Science Behind Glycerine Glycerine, also known as glycerol, is a natural compound that is derived from plant or animal fats. It is a colorless and odorless liquid that has been used extensively in the skincare industry for its moisturizing properties. Glycerine acts as a humectant, drawing moisture from the air into the skin and forming a protective barrier that helps to seal in hydration. One of the unique properties of glycerine is its ability to attract and retain water molecules. This means that when glycerine is applied to the skin, it helps to replenish and maintain the skin's moisture levels, leading to a plump and hydrated complexion. Additionally, glycerine has emollient effects, which help to soften and smooth the skin's texture Benefits of Tatily London Body-wash Tatily London Body-wash takes the power of glycerine to the next level with the added benefits of blueberry extract. This combination creates a body-wash that not only hydrates the skin but also provides it with essential nutrients and antioxidants to promote overall skin health. Here are some of the key benefits of using Tatily London Body-wash: 1. Deep Hydration: The glycerine in Tatily London Body-wash deeply moisturises the skin, leaving it feeling hydrated and supple. Say goodbye to dry and itchy skin! 2. Nourishing Blueberry Extract: Blueberries are packed with antioxidants, vitamins, and minerals that help to protect the skin against environmental damage and promote a youthful complexion. 3. Gentle and Safe: Tatily London Body-wash is free of parabens and silicons, making it suitable for all skin types, including sensitive skin. It is dermatologically tested to ensure safety and efficacy. 4. Luxurious Fragrance: The delightful scent of blueberries and mint adds a touch of luxury to your shower routine, transforming it into a spa-like experience. 5. Smooth and Soft Skin: With regular use, Tatily London Body-wash helps to improve the texture of your skin, leaving it smooth, soft, and radiant. How to Incorporate Tatily London Bodywash into Your Skincare Routine To unlock the full benefits of Tatily London Body-wash, here are some tips on how to best incorporate it into your skincare routine: - Wet Your Skin: Start by wetting your skin thoroughly in the shower. - Dispense Bodywash: Squeeze Blueberry & Mint Bodywash onto your palm or a loofah. - Apply and Lather: Gently massage the body wash onto your damp skin using circular motions. - Focus on Areas: Pay special attention to areas that tend to accumulate more oil, dirt, or impurities. - Rinse Thoroughly: Once you’ve worked up a rich lather and cleansed your skin, thoroughly rinse off the body wash using warm water. - Pat Dry: After rinsing, gently pat your skin dry with a clean, soft towel. - Frequency: You can use the Multani Mitti Bodywash daily or as needed, depending on your skin’s requirements. For best results, use Tatily London Body-wash daily as part of your skincare routine. You'll notice a visible difference in the texture and hydration of your skin

They always say chase your dreams. If you want it, it’ll happen. But I don’t think anyone gets what they wanted at eighteen. Maybe the dream job turns out to be a nightmare. Maybe the wife… leaves. Maybe the kids never happen. There’s no shame in changing your dream.

I ripped off fresh mint leaves for tea, dill to stuff inside whole fish, flat-leaf parsley and sprigs of thyme for my braised beef, cilantro for my chicken tagine. In the spring, I waited patiently for slim blades of chive to appear for my swordfish tartare. In the summer, I bought bunches of purple basil for a tomato salad.

Adults didn't like maraschino cherries; nobody ate them but me. "Never give Charlotte just one cherry in her Shirley Temple," everybody said. "Make it at least five or six." But I tired of cherries, just cherries. So after a time, lemon, lime, and orange twists snaked around the brims. Dollops of Chantilly cream floated like water lilies on top of mint leaves in the fizzy pink water. The bartenders dipped sugar swizzles in grenadine overnight so they would look like pink rhinestones, capped cocktail straws with berries they had rolled in honey, and looped lemon peels around the stems of martini glasses. Everyone on the staff called those ones "Bondage Shirley Temples," and then they would wink at one another.

He knew they didn’t have much time left, and that one day she’d walk out that door. Emma was never meant to be permanent, a warm breeze after the blizzard. Nothing more. Nick had prepared for that, told Skylar when she’d asked. He was ready for the return to working the rush alone and the lack of donuts to delight the customers. The business could survive without her. He just wasn’t so certain if his heart would.

headache, drink one cup of filtered water with ½ cucumber, ½ lemon, and three mint leaves.

The eggrolls arrived first. Blistered and dangerously hot from the deep fryer, filled with wood ear mushrooms, glass noodles, and ground pork, they came with a heap of lettuce leaves, bean sprouts, sliced cucumber, and herbs. To eat one, you flatten a lettuce leaf; set an eggroll on it; scatter mint, basil, cilantro, and shiso leaves over it; add sprouts, cucumber, and pickled carrot; then roll it up. A messy business! We each wrapped a roll as snugly as we could—not very—and dunked them in a clear, cold, salty-sweet sauce. The first bite is a jolt of simultaneity: hot and cold, meat and herbs, sweet and salty, deep-fried crunch and fresh lettuce crunch…

Compare those to the smoothie I had for breakfast this morning. I started with a cup of water (0), a half cup of frozen blueberries (323), and the pulp of a ripe mango (108). I added a tablespoon of ground flaxseeds (8), along with a half cup of fresh mint leaves (33) and a palmful of bulk white tea leaves (103). (For more about tea leaves, see here.) While the typical SAD breakfast may give you only about 25 antioxidant units, my breakfast smoothie offered more than 500. And, when I add the final ingredient, a single teaspoon of amla, I get an additional 753 antioxidant units.

To eight cups of water, add a handful of bulk dried hibiscus or four bags of tea in which hibiscus is the first ingredient. Then add the juice of one lemon and three tablespoons of erythritol, and leave it in your fridge to cold-brew overnight. In the morning, strain out the hibiscus or take out the tea bags, shake well, and drink throughout the day. That’s something I try to do every day I’m home. For extra credit, add green foam: Pour a cup of the tea into a blender with a bunch of fresh mint leaves, blend on high, and enjoy. You end up with dark-green leafies blended into what may be the highest antioxidant beverage in the world, and it tastes like fruit punch.

Juan Esteban removed his gloves and raised the lid of the exquisite case to reveal a solid gold apple adorned with a reliquary silver crucifix embedded in the face. Juan Esteban held the heavy lemon sized orb in his bare hand and slowly wiped his thumb back and forth across the crucifix and asked, “How did you get it to be so flawless?” “It takes time. This was the fourth casting. The first three were good, but not good enough for a king,” Mateo replied. “This one is perfect.” The general had acquired a portion of a gold and silver shipment from the Santa Fe mint at Bogota to fulfill his personal mission to exalt favor with King Philip V of Spain. It was this ruler who had entrusted the general with command of the armada. As a devout catholic, Juan Esteban envisioned a holy gift to honor his king. With the expertise of this goldsmith, the golden orb was created in secrecy. An apple represented Adam and Eve’s ‘original sin’ and the crucifix symbolized Christ Jesus’ redemption of mankind. General Juan Esteban de Ubilla christened the casting as the Temptation of Paradise. “Yes, this one is perfect,” General de Ubilla replied. “You are a fine artisan. Now, before I leave, you must break the molds. There will never be another casting.” “But Your Excellency, I should retain the mold as you may one day require another,” Mateo pleaded. “There will be no others. This is the one. This is the only one,” he emphasized. “Yes, Your Excellency.” “And Mateo, if word reaches me that another orb exists?” “Yes, master?” “I will have your hands removed.

We have access to whatever we want from the FoF fridges and pastries for flavoring or toppings, so I go with a fancy Swiss chocolate for the base with plans to infuse it with pureed mint. It's a glorified mint chocolate chip, but it feels like I'm taking a huge risk. Benny gets quite the kick out of teasing me about putting leaves in my ice cream, even though I show him repeatedly that the mint is not in leaf form by the time I'm mixing it with the chocolate.

Use a baking soda as toothpaste – Typically toothpastes use mint to give you that clean feeling, but can trigger a mucus response and relaxation of the LES. Alternatively, use a sparing amount of baking soda as a toothpaste. As a side benefit, I find that this leaves a better clean than most toothpastes. Much like you feel after a good scrubbing from the dentist! □ Brush all the surfaces of your mouth with an electric toothbrush - When brushing, it's important to realize that you should clear accumulated stomach contents from your mouth. To do this, use an electric toothbrush to brush all the surfaces of your mouth including your inner cheek, gums, your tongue, and the roof of your mouth.

Well, most places leave a mint on your pillow, but I think I like the way they do things out West a whole lot better.

Strangely enough, the Japanese base most of their traditional desserts on beans. Called an, this smooth chocolatey-looking paste is made from azuki beans boiled in sugar and water. I encountered it for the first time one afternoon when I helped myself to a traditional Kyoto sweet resembling a triangular ravioli stuffed with fudge. What a shock to find a center made from azuki beans, instead of cocoa beans! Sometimes sweet makers choose chestnuts or white kidney beans to make the an, which they craft into dainty flowers, leaves, and fruits that look just like marzipan. Using special tools and food coloring, they fashion such masterpieces as prickly green-jacketed chestnuts with dark brown centers, winter white camellias with red stamens, and pale pink cherry blossoms with mint-colored leaves to commemorate the flower's arrival in April. The bean fudge also fills and frosts other confections, including pounded glutinous rice taffy called mochi and bite-size cakes, made from flour, water, and eggs that are baked until golden. These moist confections go by the name of namagashi and are always served before the thick whipped green tea at the tea ceremony.

A whole fresh tuna, a wicker basket of San Marzano tomatoes, a crate of anchovies, great handfuls of parsley... Dozens of new potatoes, still encrusted with the black volcanic earth of Campania, their flesh golden as egg yolks... A pale wheel of parmesan, big as a truck tire... A sack full of blooded watermelons... An armful of mint, its leaves so dark green they were almost black...

For four years she had been cobbling together odds and ends, just in order to put on the table something that resembled food. But now, thanks to Angelo and his black market contacts, she was cooking with real ingredients, and in the sort of quantities she had previously only dreamed of. A whole fresh tuna, a wicker basket of San Marzano tomatoes, a crate of anchovies, great handfuls of parsley... Dozens of new potatoes, still encrusted with the black volcanic earth of Campania, their flesh golden as egg yolks... A pale wheel of parmesan, big as a truck tire... A sack full of bloodred watermelons... An armful of mint, its leaves so dark green they were almost black... All afternoon and all evening she chopped and baked, and by the time darkness fell she had pulled together a feast that even she was proud of.

At the far end of our plot he'd cleared a little square patch of land and planted herbs: thyme, rosemary, parsley, coriander, chives, sage and mint. I asked him if he was worried they'd be polluted by the city air. "You're all polluted yourselves," he said, but without animosity, not judgmental. "You breathe the air, what difference does it make if you eat it? It's already inside you." At night I used to visit our vegetable patch with a torch. I would crouch down with my feet on the bare earth and watch the velvety sage leaves catching the moisture, covering themselves in it, soaking it up. The rosemary held up its tiny daggers in the darkness as if trying to burst bubbles of water hovering just above the ground. And the tall tubes of chives, the spiky, green, seriously weird hair-style of a subterranean onion reaching upwards. Thyme crawled over the soil, like a detachment of the Resistance, grouped together, efficient, close-knit. I used to stay there thinking, resting. I liked being with plants, they're neutral, they don't talk, don't hear anything, have no longings or needs.