Mocha Quotes

Coffee and chocolate—the inventor of mocha should be sainted.

Just the other day, I was in my neighborhood Starbucks, waiting for the post office to open. I was enjoying a chocolatey cafe mocha when it occurred to me that to drink a mocha is to gulp down the entire history of the New World. From the Spanish exportation of Aztec cacao, and the Dutch invention of the chemical process for making cocoa, on down to the capitalist empire of Hershey, PA, and the lifestyle marketing of Seattle's Starbucks, the modern mocha is a bittersweet concoction of imperialism, genocide, invention, and consumerism served with whipped cream on top.

Julie swallowed. "Flat Finn is on Facebook?" She'd love to see those status updates. 'Got strapped to the roof of the car today for a trip to Starbucks. Would have loved to taste caramel mocha, but can't move arms and so was forced to stare longingly at delicious hot beverage. Will the taunting never end?

First you buy me a mocha. Then you let me help you hide a body. Now you take me to a biker clubhouse. Best. Day. Ever.

To espresso or to latte, that is the question...whether 'tis tastier on the palate to choose white mocha over plain...or to take a cup to go. Or a mug to stay, or extra cream, or have nothing, and by opposing the endless choice, end one's heartache...

Cook, at that moment in time, I would have sold my body for a mocha latte

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

Women could probably be trained quite easily to see men first as sexual things. If girls never experienced sexual violence; if a girl's only window on male sexuality were a stream of easily available, well-lit, cheap images of boys slightly older than herself, in their late teens, smiling encouragingly and revealing cuddly erect penises the color of roses or mocha, she might well look at, masturbate to, and, as an adult, "need" beauty pornography based on the bodies of men. And if those initiating penises were represented to the girl as pneumatically erectible, swerving neither left nor right, tasting of cinnamon or forest berries, innocent of random hairs, and ever ready; if they were presented alongside their measurements, length, and circumference to the quarter inch; if they seemed to be available to her with no troublesome personality attached; if her sweet pleasure seemed to be the only reason for them to exist--then a real young man would probably approach the young woman's bed with, to say the least, a failing heart.

I'm so fucking tired of black women always being described by their skin tones! Honey-colored this! Dark-chocolate that! My paternal grandmother was mocha-tinged, café-au-lait, graham-fucking-cracker brown! How come they never describe the white characters in relation to foodstuffs and hot liquids? Why aren't there any yogurt-colored, egg-shell-toned, string-cheese-skinned, low-fat-milk white protagonists in these racist, no-third-act-having books? That's why black literature sucks!

I sit down in front of Baz now, on the coffee table--which I carried up by myself. He hands me his cup, and I take a sip. "What is this?" "Pumpkin mocha breve. I created it myself.

What's silly is paying five bucks for hot milk and flavored syrup! But now I see what's really been going on all this time! They charge you all that money because they need it for the R & D! Somewhere on the outskirts of Seattle, there's a secret facility with higher security than Area 51, and inside there are men with poor eyesight and bad haircuts wearing white coats, and they're trying to make the Holy Grail of all coffee drinks. The bacon latte? No, Atticus, I already told you those exist! I'm talking about the prophecy! 'Out of the steam and the foam and the froth, a man in white with poor eyesight will craft a liquid paradox, and it shall be called the Triple Nonfat Double Bacon Five-Cheese Mocha!' Oberon, what the F---?

The modern mocha is a bittersweet concoction of imperialism, genocide, invention, and consumerism served with whipped cream on top

I picked up my mocha and stood. The cup was still almost half-full, but I didn't want it anymore. Besides, it was now luke-warm. Which meant I didn't have to worry if it was scalding him when I tossed the remains in Ethan's face.I think Finn might have craked a smileas he held the door open for me, but I wasn't sure.

I am a mess. Like that MargieMocha, I am spilled across a floor, but there's nobody to mop me up. I have only one thing to show for the day: Perry Delloplane. The sound of a name. It is a grape in my mouth. I roll it over and over on my tongue--perrydelloplaneperrydelloplaneperrydelloplaneperrydelloplane--but when I try to crush it with my teeth, it slips away.

You should go order a sweet roll. Those are to die for. And a carne adovada burrito." His mouth thinned. "Should I order something else to drink?" "Yes! A diet whatever. No! A mocha latte. No!" I held up my hand to put him in pause so I could think. "Yes, a mocha latte." "Are you finished?" he asked, rising to go place his order. He was really hungry. "Yes. No! Yes. I'm good with that. I have a busy afternoon ahead of me, and I need all the energy I can get. And I need you to be my wingman." "This should be interesting," he said, sauntering off like he owned the place. By the time he got back, his fries had disappeared. It was weird.

Personally, I like to mix and match--I prefer to get a couple of milk shakes, a banana split ... a sundae or two. Then I top it off with a mocha chip in a cone. I don't know why. I guess that's like the dinner mint at the end of a meal to me. Know what I mean?" Mary had to turn around again. Bitty was looking forward, her brows super-high, her little face the picture of surprise. "He's not kidding," Mary murmured. "Even if you're not into the ice cream, watching him eat all that is something to see.

Revenge might give you a warm feeling, but unless it delivers some lasting results you might as well have a nice cup of mocha instead.

A girl, a mocha latte, and a naked dead man walk into a bar,

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

I was seriously one mocha frappucino away from blowing my own brains out.

it shall be called the Triple Nonfat Double Bacon Five-Cheese Mocha!”>

In December 2008, I had the book with me while we waited for Dr. O'Reilly. Mom had already finished it. Every time I put the book down to go grab some mocha, or check my email, or make a call, I returned to find Mom rereading it, sneakily wolfing down passages as though I'd left behind a bag of cookies, not a book, and she was scooping up crumbs behind my back.

Survive everything. And do it with style.

Can I have money for a chocolate parfait at least? Or even an iced mocha? Considering the heat and what I'm wearing right now—and considering that I'm about to get pummeled for your sake—I think I should be allowed some compensation. You should've seen that in the Supervillain Handbook in the 'Sidekicks: Who are They, and How are They Cared For?' chapter.

Just to be difficult, I kept on my tee and my panties (which thank God, were mocha-colored satin hipsters with a load of beige lace and not ratty old ones that sagged at the ass)

Ranger is Cuban-American with skin the color of a mocha latte, heavy on the mocha, and a body that can best be described as yum.

Linda told me mochas were ‘complicated

I like my wi-fi as strong as my mochas.

Never underestimate the power of a woman on a double espresso with a mocha latte chaser high

She sighed in appreciation and wrapped her hands around the cup. She took a sip and glanced at Braeden. “How did you know I like mocha?” “Because you’re a girl.” “Oh,” she said and went back to her coffee.

The campus police officer folded his hands and stared at me from across the table. “Coffee?” “What flavor is it?” I asked. He was in his forties, a big, solid man with bags under his calm, wary eyes, and his name tag read dean. “It’s coffee-flavored coffee.” “No mocha?” “Fuck mocha.” “Thank God,” I said. “Black.

My mother was in the hospital & everyone wanted to be my friend. But I was busy making a list: good dog, bad citizen, short skeleton, tall mocha. Typical Tuesday. My mother was in the hospital & no one wanted to be her friend. Everyone wanted to be soft cooing sympathies. Very reasonable pigeons. No one had the time & our solution to it was to buy shinier watches. We were enamored with what our wrists could declare. My mother was in the hospital & I didn't want to be her friend. Typical son. Tall latte, short tale, bad plot, great wifi in the atypical café. My mother was in the hospital & she didn't want to be her friend. She wanted to be the family grocery list. Low-fat yogurt, firm tofu. She didn't trust my father to be it. You always forget something, she said, even when I do the list for you. Even then.

He looked round once more at the piled boxes, glass dishes, fondants, ribbons, rosettes, cracknels, violet creams, mocha blanc, dark rum truffle, chili squares, lemon parfait, and coffee cake on the countertop with an expression of slightly blank amazement.

The names of coffee beans mostly derive from where they are grown. In the case of mocha, the beans are grown in Yemen and Ethiopia and named after Yemen’s port city of Mocha, where they were traditionally shipped from. Kilimanjaro beans are grown in Tanzania

He knew she drank coffee, but he knew nothing about the stuff himself, and he intentionally hung back watching other people order for a while. When he heard a young woman who clearly couldn’t be old enough to drink coffee order a grande, iced, half-caf, triple-mocha latte macchiato, he panicked, but he was committed. It was all very confusing, and by the time he was at the counter, he was ready to give up and buy her a coffeemaker.

...the people who take their coffee orders far too personally, who have deep-seated emotional issues about how many pumps of mocha they get.

I’d heard people order coffee drinks whose names went on for half an hour . . . A double mocha joka jerky over ice with a peppermint twist and a Kansas City pickle on the side.

What kind of psycho drinks peppermint mocha in the middle of summer?

Out of the steam and the foam and the froth, a man in white with poor eyesight will craft a liquid paradox, and it shall be called the Triple Nonfat Double Bacon Five-Cheese Mocha!”>

[Therapist and friend, with a voice like Raul Julia during his Gomez Adam’s days] Rudy studied my face, “I have a two o’clock open on Tuesday.” I sighed, “Yeah, ok. Tuesday at two.” He nodded, pleased. “Bring Starbucks.” “Sure, what do you want?” “My usual. Iced half-caf ristretto quad grade two-pump raspberry two percent no whip light ice with caramel drizzle three-and-a-half-pump white mocha.” “Is any of that actually coffee?” “More or less.” “And you think I’m damaged …

I didn't know until I licked the mocha buttercream from my third devil's food cupcake that this was the flavor of starting over- dark chocolate with that take-charge undercurrent of coffee. I could actually taste it, feel it. And now I craved it.

When he strolled into the kitchen with Samantha, he couldn't help grinning at the adoring look on Hans's face. "Hans, a cup of coffee and a Diet Coke, please." "Of course. But I have found a new cafe mocha you might like, Miss Sam. Much less coffee aftertaste. Would you care to try it?" "I trust you, Hans," she replied, smiling at the chef. "Splendid. And might I suggest omelets for breakfast?" "Sounds good. Rick?" He nodded, wondering just when he'd lost control of his household. "That's fine.

She’d love to see those status updates. Got strapped to the roof of the car today for a trip to Starbucks. Would have loved to taste caramel mocha, but can’t move arms and so was forced to stare longingly at delicious, hot beverage. Will the taunting never end?

I closed my eyes, flared my nostrils, and let the scents flood in. The strongest of them, caramel and brown sugar, smell as yellow-orange as the sun, came first. That one was easy. The one that anyone would notice coming into the shop. And then chocolate of course, the bitter dark and the sugary milk chocolate. I don’t think a normal girl would’ve smelled anything else, and part of me wanted to stop there. But I could feel Sam’s heart pounding behind me, and for once, I gave in. Peppermint swirled into my nostrils, sharp as glass, then raspberry, almost too sweet, like too-ripe fruit. Apple, crisp and pure. Nuts, buttery, warm, earthy, like Sam. The subtle, mild scent of white chocolate. Oh, God, some sort of mocha, rich and dark and sinful. I sighed with pleasure, but there was more. The butter cookies on the shelves added a floury, comforting scent, and the lollipops, a riot of fruit scents too concentrated to be real. The salty bite of pretzels, the bright smell of lemon, the brittle edge of anise. Smells I didn’t even know names for. I groaned.

I brightened when Reyes stepped into the small room, one hand behind his back. I'd dried my hair and pulled it into a ponytail for the time being, but I felt wonderful. Clean. Warm. Safe. "It's time," he said as I slipped into a T-shirt and the jeans he'd provided. "Time?" He brought his hand around, and it was like the clouds parted and heaven shone down on us. Blessing us. Nurturing our deepest, most primal desires. "One triple shot mocha latte with extra whipped cream." I ran to him and threw my arms around his neck, but only for a second. There was a mocha latte out there calling my name.

Julie swallowed. “Flat Finn is on Facebook?” She’d love to see those status updates. Got strapped to the roof of the car today for a trip to Starbucks. Would have loved to taste caramel mocha, but can’t move arms and so was forced to stare longingly at delicious, hot beverage. Will the taunting never end? Celeste

The more history I learn, the more the world fills up with stories. Just the other day, I was in my neighborhood Starbucks, waiting for the post office to open. I was enjoying a chocolatey caffé mocha when it occurred to me that to drink a mocha is to gulp down the entire history of the New World. From the Spanish exportation of Aztec cacao, and the Dutch invention of the chemical process for making cocoa, on down to the capitalist empire of Hershey, PA, and the lifestyle marketing of Seattle’s Starbucks, the modern mocha is a bitter-sweet concoction of imperialism, genocide, invention, and consumerism served with whipped cream on top. No wonder it costs so much.

All right then, you should know that you missed out on mocha sugar donuts.” My mouth falls open. “How’d you get those? I thought the shop didn’t open that early!” “I went out and got them last night specifically for the bus ride,” Peter says. “For you and me.” Aw. I’m touched. “Well, are there any left?” “Nope. I ate them all.” He looks so smug that I reach out and swat at his hoodie strings. “You creep,” I say, but I mean it affectionately. Peter grabs my hand mid-swat and says, “Wanna hear something funny?” “What?” “I think I started liking you.” I go completely still. Then I pull my hand away from his, and I start to gather my hair into a ponytail, and then I remember I don’t have a hair tie. My heart is thudding in my chest and it’s hard to think all of a sudden. “Stop teasing.” “I’m not teasing. Why do you think I kissed you that day at McClaren’s house back in seventh grade? It’s why I went along with this thing in the first place. I’ve always thought you were cute.” My face feels hot. “In a quirky way.” Peter grins his perfect grin. “So? I guess I must like quirky, then.

The next day, Trixie pawed Maddie awake, patting her arm gently. “I’m up,” Maddie groaned, blinking sleep out of her eyes. “Mrrow.” Trixie peered at her, then gave her a soft nose kiss, her whiskers skimming Maddie’s cheeks. “Thanks, Trixie.” The gesture touched Maddie’s heart, and she wondered how she’d managed to live without a pet until Trixie came into her life.

Back to that very first bite of hidden cupcake in the pantry: a soft cap of vanilla buttercream giving way to light, creamy mocha cake. I kept eating, turning the cupcake slowly in my hand. This was not rich, one-bite-and-you-couldn't-possibly-have-more chocolate. This was refined, complex chocolate cut with a hint of coffee and what else... Currant? Salt? A grown-up, masterful cupcake. It was perfect.

He turned the Corner onto Third Street and went up the block to Cup O'Joe. "Hey, Jack," said Marc, the barista, as he approached the Counter. "Latte?" "Mmm... nah. Gimme a large Mocha with a shot of hazelnut, skim, no Whip." "Okay." He rung up the sale. "By yourself tonight?" "My better half is home asleep. Just got back from a two-week trip." "Well, tell him I've got some 'regular goddamn coffee' here with his Name on it," Marc said, winking.

The trend is for the following new coffee drinks: espresso, a shot of hot strong caffè served in a small cup with hot cream and sweetener; cappuccino, a blend of espresso and steamed and foamed hot milk; caffè latte, same ingredients as cappuccino but with more steamed and less foamed milk; and cafe mocha, mostly steamed milk with a shot of espresso and mocha syrup. All these coffees may have cinnamon, chocolate, plus additional flavors added.Δ

It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.” Josh nodded at the venti drink on the table. “Every time I see you, you’re inhaling a caramel mocha the size of your head.” Okay, fair point. My love for all things caramel-flavored wasn’t exactly a secret. “Keep it up and you’ll get diabetes,” he added. “All that sugar isn’t good for you.” “So you’re feeding me more sugar in the hopes I’ll become diabetic.” I tapped my pen against the table with my free hand. “I knew you had nefarious intentions.

I was examining the perfumed, coloured candles guaranteed to bring good fortune with continued use when a lovely mocha-skinned girl came in from the back room and stood behind the counter. She wore a white smock over her dress and looked about nineteen or twenty. Her wavy, shoulder-length hair was the colour of polished mahogany. A number of thin, silver hoops jingled on her fine-boned wrist. "May I help you?" she asked. Just beneath her carefully modulated diction lingered the melodic calypso lilt of the Caribbean.

I can almost see it now, in red and yellow lettering; as if the events of the past eight years have been neatly and prettily folded away, leaving no rough edges, no blanks, just the gloss of recovered time. And it smells of the Americas; the court of Montezuma; spiced, in golden goblets and mixed with wine and pomegranate juice. And it smells of cream and cardamom; of sacrificial bonfires; of temples and of palaces; of vanilla and tonka and mocha and rose. The scent is overwhelming; it rushes through me like the wind; it sweeps me off my feet like love- Will you stay, Vianne? Will you stay?

Hey, Large,” Gabe says, flicking me with his towel. “Where you been all day?” “I’ve been around.” I look over at Peter, but he won’t meet my eyes. “I saw you guys on the slopes.” Darrell says, “Then why didn’t you holler at us? I wanted to show off my ollies for you.” Teasingly I say, “Well, I called Peter’s name, but I guess he didn’t hear me.” Peter finally looks me in the eyes. “Nope. I didn’t hear you.” His voice is cold and indifferent and so un-Peterlike, the smile fades from my face. Gabe and Darrell exchange looks like oooh and Gabe says to Peter, “We’re gonna head out to the hot tub,” and they trot off. Peter and I are left standing in the lobby, neither of us saying anything. I finally ask, “Are you mad at me or something?” “Why would I be mad?” And then it’s back to quiet again. I say, “You know, you’re the one who talked me into coming on this trip. The least you could do is talk to me.” “The least you could do was sit next to me on the bus!” he bursts out. My mouth hangs open. “Are you really that mad that I didn’t sit next to you on the bus?” Peter lets out an impatient breath of air. “Lara Jean, when you’re dating someone, there are just…certain things you do, okay? Like sit next to each other on a school trip. That’s pretty much expected.” “I just don’t see what the big deal is,” I say. How can he be this mad over such a tiny thing? “Forget it.” He turns like he’s going to leave, and I grab his sweatshirt sleeve. I don’t want to be in a fight with him; I just want it to be fun and light the way it always is with us. I want him to at least still be my friend. Especially now that we’re at the end. I say, “Come on, don’t be mad. I didn’t realize it was that big of a deal. I swear I’ll sit next to you on the way home, okay?” He purses his lips. “But do you get why I was pissed?” I nod back. “Mm-hmm.” “All right then, you should know that you missed out on mocha sugar donuts.” My mouth falls open. “How’d you get those? I thought the shop didn’t open that early!” “I went out and got them last night specifically for the bus ride,” Peter says. “For you and me.

Strong, good smells clash with each other, garlic against cinnamon, savory against sweet. Two dressings, Ma's traditional corn bread version as well as the stuffing she made last year for a change of pace, a buttery version with cherries and sausage and hazelnuts. The herb-brined turkey, probably larger than we need, and a challenge to manhandle into and out of the refrigerator. A deep dish of creamy, smooth mashed potatoes, riced and dried to make them thirsty, then plumped back up with warmed cream and butter. For dessert, a mocha cake I came up with one day. In the batter is barely sweetened chocolate and dark, strong coffee. The layers are sealed together with more chocolate, warmed up with a hint of ancho powder.

or hangovers or some combination thereof. They wore sweatpants and yesterday’s T-shirts and clutched Styrofoam cups of soy mocha lattes or artisanal blonde roasts or whatever it was the kids were drinking these days. Professor Reid Lawson’s job was to teach, but he also recognized the need for a morning boost—a mental stimulant to supplement the caffeine. Lawson gave them a moment to find their seats and get comfortable while he took off his tweed sport coat and draped it over his chair. “Good morning,” he said loudly. The announcement jarred several students, who looked up suddenly as if they hadn’t realized they’d wandered into a classroom. “Today, we’re going to talk about pirates.” That got some attention. Eyes looked forward, blinking through the slush of sleep deprivation and

into the main part of the store. Off to get Kendal, I mouthed to Celine, and she nodded. I stepped out into the September afternoon. Behind me, Eighty-ninth Street stretched several blocks to Riverside Park, a favorite place of mine and Kendal’s. Just ahead the intersection at Broadway sparkled with a steady stream of cars and our neighboring retailers’ windows. A man walking his dog nodded a wordless hello, and a mom with a baby in a stroller bent to pop a pacifier back into her unhappy child’s mouth. A delivery truck double-parked and the car behind it honked its disproval. The air held only a hint that summer was waning. September used to be my favorite month. I liked the way it sweetly bade the summer pastels away and showered the Yard’s shelves with auburn, mocha, and every shade of red. September brought in the serious quilters, those who loved spending

Kee Li Tong was one of my favorite chocolatiers in New York. Years earlier, I had a fleeting addiction to her otherworldly crème brûlée truffle, a dainty yet dangerous homemade bonbon that you have to pop into your mouth whole, or suffer the consequences of squirting eggy custard all over your blouse. Now, I discovered, she was handcrafting macarons in wild and wonderful flavors like blood orange, sesame, and rose. How did she create her recipes? What inspired her expanded repertoire? And how did hers compare to Paris's best? Emboldened as I was by my new French history lessons, I asked Kee in her Soho boutique: why macarons? "Because they're so pretty!" Kee laughed. "They're so dainty. I think it's the colors." And, standing as we were above the glass display case, I had to agree. Her blueberry macarons were as bright as the September sky. The lotus flower was the kind of soft pink that's the perfect shade of blush. Kee's favorite flavor, passion fruit, was a snappy corn husk yellow. These were surrounded by greens (lulo and jasmine green tea) and purples (lavender, which was dotted with purple sugar crystals) and some neutral shades as well (white truffle oil and mint mocha).

There is no fault that can’t be corrected [in natural wine] with one powder or another; no feature that can’t be engineered from a bottle, box, or bag. Wine too tannic? Fine it with Ovo-Pure (powdered egg whites), isinglass (granulate from fish bladders), gelatin (often derived from cow bones and pigskins), or if it’s a white, strip out pesky proteins that cause haziness with Puri-Bent (bentonite clay, the ingredient in kitty litter). Not tannic enough? Replace $1,000 barrels with a bag of oak chips (small wood nuggets toasted for flavor), “tank planks” (long oak staves), oak dust (what it sounds like), or a few drops of liquid oak tannin (pick between “mocha” and “vanilla”). Or simulate the texture of barrel-aged wines with powdered tannin, then double what you charge. (““Typically, the $8 to $12 bottle can be brought up to $15 to $20 per bottle because it gives you more of a barrel quality. . . . You’re dressing it up,” a sales rep explained.) Wine too thin? Build fullness in the mouth with gum arabic (an ingredient also found in frosting and watercolor paint). Too frothy? Add a few drops of antifoaming agent (food-grade silicone oil). Cut acidity with potassium carbonate (a white salt) or calcium carbonate (chalk). Crank it up again with a bag of tartaric acid (aka cream of tartar). Increase alcohol by mixing the pressed grape must with sugary grape concentrate, or just add sugar. Decrease alcohol with ConeTech’s spinning cone, or Vinovation’s reverse-osmosis machine, or water. Fake an aged Bordeaux with Lesaffre’s yeast and yeast derivative. Boost “fresh butter” and “honey” aromas by ordering the CY3079 designer yeast from a catalog, or go for “cherry-cola” with the Rhône 2226. Or just ask the “Yeast Whisperer,” a man with thick sideburns at the Lallemand stand, for the best yeast to meet your “stylistic goals.” (For a Sauvignon Blanc with citrus aromas, use the Uvaferm SVG. For pear and melon, do Lalvin Ba11. For passion fruit, add Vitilevure Elixir.) Kill off microbes with Velcorin (just be careful, because it’s toxic). And preserve the whole thing with sulfur dioxide. When it’s all over, if you still don’t like the wine, just add a few drops of Mega Purple—thick grape-juice concentrate that’s been called a “magical potion.” It can plump up a wine, make it sweeter on the finish, add richer color, cover up greenness, mask the horsey stink of Brett, and make fruit flavors pop. No one will admit to using it, but it ends up in an estimated 25 million bottles of red each year. “Virtually everyone is using it,” the president of a Monterey County winery confided to Wines and Vines magazine. “In just about every wine up to $20 a bottle anyway, but maybe not as much over that.

Consumerism, the new black. I want my burger my way. Shaken not stirred. Sauce on the side and rare but not rare rare. Venti, two-pump, sugar-free vanilla, non-fat, two Splenda, extra-hot, extra-whip, extra-mocha Mocha and can you put the Splenda in before you pour the milk? (See, this is where it gets positively delicious!) Under the auspices of that wonderful word Consumerism, not only is this not seen as overly demanding, it’s positively encouraged by everyone.

What doesn't work is when we adopt some TEMPORARY habits, lose some weight and then pick our previous habits back up. Surprise, surprise. The weight always returns. Live one way, lose weight. Live another way, gain weight. Hhhmmm...how curious. What also doesn't work is lying to yourself about what you ate and then falling into a crying heap on the scale, playing the victim. Poor you. Never mind you ate three biscuits with butter before your dinner even hit the table at Billy Bob's Feed trough last night--it was only a salad. Never mind you gobbled down five handfuls of M&Ms off the receptionist's desk between trips to the break room for a soda--it was diet! Never mind you drove through Coffee Planet on the way to work and downed a 32 oz. Italian-named mocha-choca-ya-ya worth a day's calories in some starving nations--you skipped the whipped cream and said "no thanks" to the Chihuahua-sized muffin. I'm telling you, diets work.

I got a call froma cynical young American journalist...You know the sort. He's lived in the Middle East for a little over five minutes so assumes he knows us natives well. I sip at a skinny mocha frappe while he fires off big important questions about 'the political landscape' and 'Islamic thought'. I stare at him blankly.

When you see me in a scarf you may think “Oh, she went to some trouble there.” But no, when I wear a scarf it means "this grey blouse was unwrinkled and those mocha pants make my behind look fine and voila I have a vivid grey and brown silk scarf which means I have transformed self from bone lazy to coordinated accessory maven.(Maid in Waiting publish date June 2014)

When you see me in a scarf you may think “Oh, she went to some trouble there.” But no, when I wear a scarf it means” this grey blouse was unwrinkled and those mocha pants make my behind look fine and voila I have a vivid grey,brown and white silk scarf which means I have transformed self from bone lazy to coordinated accessory maven.--Bridget Allison (Gretchen Gallen in my book#3, "Maid in Waiting" publish date June 2014)

The walls were two different shades of brown, probably with names like Swooning Nutmeg and Pensive Mocha.

Café Mocha Pull two shots of espresso into a tall glass. Mix in chocolate syrup or powder. Add steamed milk nearly to the top. Squirt whipped cream over the milk and garnish.

In cucina strillava il televisore: l’apparecchio bianco e tondo, probabilmente pesantissimo, era sistemato tra il frigorifero e il calendario di Frate Indovino. Un faccione arrogante disegnato dal cerone stava leggendo le ultime notizie. Tragedie e miserie di diversa entità si impastavano a jingle pubblicitari: guerre, banchieri corrotti, politici senza scrupoli e donne picchiate, uccise, vessate, donne con i culi di fuori, donne dentro i cartelloni e pronte per mangiare la banana. Orrori. Esecrazioni variegate, tetre quel tanto da essere ascoltate abbracciando una boccia di popcorn al burro, possibilmente con occhialini 3D. Erano leccornie croccanti, erotiche e maligne, da ingurgitare in fretta e dimenticare con un rutto. Mocha, al contrario, non digeriva quelle succulente notizie. Lo lasciavano in balìa di un profondo senso di incompiuto, scolpivano nella sua mente un mondo malato e inguaribile. Lo avrebbe definito un inferno medievale. Un luogo in cui il male e il bene erano diventati concetti privi di significato profondo. Al loro posto, un amalgama di fatti e fattucoli sottoposti al pubblico, vile, munifico censore.

The closest thing I have to a spiritual experience anymore is a Mocha Frappe from McDonald's.

Running is welcoming to even the least athletically inclined, but it’s also a sneaky little drug that will–like caramel mochas–keep you coming back for more. Lace up and enjoy the ride.

Sergeant Dominick Leland was tall, thin as barbed wire, and peered at the world through a permanent scowl. A rim of steel-colored fuzz circled his mocha pate, and two fingers were missing from his left hand, lost to a monstrous Rottweiler-mastiff attack dog he fought to protect a K-9 partner. With thirty-two years on the job as a K-9 officer, Dominick Leland had served as the Platoon’s Chief Trainer longer than anyone in the history of the Los Angeles Police Department, and was an undisputed, three-fingered legend. The Officer-in-Charge ran the Platoon, but Leland was the final authority and absolute master in all matters regarding dogs, dog handlers, and their place within the Platoon. When

Wait, Abigail.” Dylan wiped his tool on his rag. “You like country music?” She could see where this was headed. “Not really. More of a classical music gal myself.” “Give me a chance to win you over. We have a great local band, the Silver Spurs, and they’re playing at the Chuckwagon Saturday.” “Marla’s brother’s band. Tina from Mocha Moose told me about them.” “You’re getting around.” Not in the way he hoped. “I like meeting people.” She knew it was the wrong thing to say as soon as she said it. “Then come with me Saturday. Everyone from town’ll be there, and it’ll give you a chance to hang out with the home crowd.” He winked. “Thanks, but I don’t think so. Have fun, though.” She turned toward the house. “I won’t give up, you know,” he called, teasing. “I’m getting that impression.

I was talking about sinful, melt-in-your-mouth, quality mocha that could almost replace an orgasm it tasted so damned good. Although, given Mr. Cavanaugh’s stellar good looks, rockin’ bod and general fuckable vibe, I imagined sex with him might prove even more enjoyable than the best chocolate available on the market.

Oh, my,” she breathed. “She’s here?” he asked unnecessarily, refusing to look. Resisting temptation. “I’m assuming it must be her; I pretty much know everyone else in the room.” There was a short silence as she inspected the newcomer thoroughly. “My heavens, I didn’t realize scientists came like this. She’s simply . . . magnificent.” “There’s not one thing that’s simple about Lily Banyon.” Evelyn’s eyes were still focused on the other end of the room. “Hmm, I think I see what you mean.” A smile played over her lips. “How utterly refreshing and fascinating—you’ll have your work cut out for you. Come, Mayor McDermott, duty calls.” “I don’t need to meet her. I already know her. Too well.” Evelyn made a tsking sound. “My, my, don’t we sound like we’ve missed our afternoon nap?” she murmured as she brushed by him, assuming the role of Coral Beach’s welcome wagon, fully equipped with bells, whistles, and highlighters. His secretary had abandoned him for the enemy. How much worse could things get? A clause should be inserted into their contracts prohibiting secretaries from treating their bosses as though they were three-year-olds. Had there been dirt instead of mocha-colored industrial carpeting underfoot, he’d have kicked it. It wasn’t anyone’s business but his if he refused to rush over and blurt, Hey, Lily, long time no see! So, tell me, what’ve you been up to since Rome, when you slammed the door in my face so hard you almost broke my nose for the second time? He was the mayor. He could do as he liked. And what he most wanted, right after making Lily Banyon disappear from his life as suddenly as she’d reappeared, was an armed guard. Then maybe he could confront her and walk away in one piece. Reluctantly, Sean turned and looked. Three seconds was all he permitted himself. Lily Banyon wasn’t going to catch him staring like some hormone-crazed adolescent. Three seconds was more than enough, though. Lily’s image burned, a brilliant flame behind his retinas. She looked good. No, make that great, incredible . . . yes, magnificent. She’d chopped off her hair, about a foot and a half of it. Her wheat-blonde locks fell in a casual, tousled style, framing her face, accentuating those startling, ice-crystal blue eyes. She looked even better than he remembered, a memory hot enough to make him lie awake at night, aching.

Let me guess. Hmmm. Mocha. Nonfat. Covered with whipped cream.” “That’s exactly right. How did you know?” I supposed he could add mind reader to his growing list of useful talents. “A lucky guess. Would you settle for vanilla, though? The nonfat and whipped cream I have covered, but even this tan would never qualify as ‘mocha’.

I think they'd barely recognize us as brothers and sisters. If we told them, church is on Sundays, and we have an awesome band...if the found out 1/6th of the earth's population claimed to be Christians, I'm not sure they could reconcile the suffering happening on our watch while we're living in excess... But listen, early church, we have a monthly event called 'Mocha chicks', we have choir practice every Wednesday, we organize retreats with door prizes, we're raising $3 million for an outdoor amphitheater, we have catchy t-shirts, we don't smoke or say the f-word, we go to bible study every semester... the local church would be the heartbeat of the city.

There are some women who can make souffles. Who just happen to have a recipe for mocha parfait stuffed into their sports bra. Who can stack up their own wedding cakes with one hand and produce pepper steak Nossi Be with the other. That ought to make all of us happy. As long as it doesn't mean that the rest of us have to have a guilty conscience because we're still not on a first-name basis with our toasters.

Detective Sergeant Lincoln Gibbs was a tall, thin African-American with mocha-colored skin, a profoundly receding hairline, and tortoiseshell spectacles. He looked like a college professor, which was a look he cultivated. He had twenty-eight years on the job, less than Tomsic, but more time in grade as a detective sergeant, so Linc Gibbs would be in charge. He arrived with Detective-three Pete Bishop, a twenty-two-year veteran with an M.A. in psychology and five divorces. Bishop rarely spoke, but was known to make copious notes, which he referred to often. He had a measured IQ of 178 and a drinking problem. He was currently in twelve-step.

Stephen Maturin sipped his scalding coffee, the right Mocha berry, brought back from Arabia Felix in the pilgrim dhows, and considered. He was naturally a reserved and even a secretive man: his illegitimate birth (his father was an Irish officer in the service of His Most Catholic Majesty, his mother a Catalan lady) had to do with this; his activities in the cause of the liberation of Ireland had more; and his voluntary, gratuitous alliance with naval intelligence, undertaken with the sole aim of helping to defeat Bonaparte, whom he loathed with all his heart as a vile tyrant, a wicked cruel vulgar man, a destroyer of freedom and of nations, and as a betrayor of all that was good in the Revolution, had even more. Yet the power of keeping his mouth shut was innate; so perhaps was the integrity that made him one of the Admiralty’s most valued secret agents, particularly in Catalonia – a calling very well disguised by his also being an active naval surgeon, as well as a natural philosopher of international renown, one whose name was familiar to all those who cared deeply about the extinct solitaire of Rodriguez (close cousin to the dodo), the great land tortoise Testudo aubreii of the Indian Ocean, or the habits of the African aardvark. Excellent agent though he was, he was burdened with a heart, a loving heart that had very nearly broken for a woman named Diana Villiers: she had preferred an American to him – a natural preference, since Mr. Johnson was a fine upstanding witty intelligent man, and very rich, whereas Stephen was a plain bastard at the best, sallow with odd pale eyes, sparse hair and meager limbs, and rather poor.

Christmas Peppermint Coffee I can’t have caffeine but I promise it’s just as good without the extra jolt! Ingredients - 8 ounces (225 grams) brewed coffee - 8 ounces (225 grams) chocolate milk, heated until steaming (I use Chocomel) - 1 ounce (28 grams) peppermint syrup - Chocolate syrup - Whipped cream - Crushed peppermint candies Directions Heat chocolate milk until very hot, but not boiling. Add the hot coffee and syrup to the milk and stir. Using a large glass, add chocolate syrup, pour in the mocha and top with whipped topping and crushed candies.

He demonstrated by gently drawing her hand over to the piano keys and placing his hand over hers. He pressed the top of her fingers so that they came down, and a few notes echoed through the instrument. Soon they were playing a simple yet haunting melody together. ‘In many ways that actually makes it a superior way of communicating.’ He let her hand go but a tingle remained, the sensation so pleasant she held her palm to her chest. Lottie found herself completely entranced as Jamie began working his fingers over the keys. His light mocha skin delicately complemented the ivories, as though they were meant to be together. His eyes slowly closed, gripped by the melody, and Lottie couldn’t help being drawn in by the delicate music. ‘You really love music, don’t you?

Unlike the city-dwelling hipsters who spent their nights wired to their phones streaming music or assessing the efficacy of a cabbage and baby food diet before tumbling from their beds after three hours of sleep desperate for a full-fat, four-shot, mocha latte with a caramel drizzle and a Red Bull chaser to get them on their feet again, the older and much wiser Rona Macallan – immune to the allure of caffeine and the frivolous banality of the internet – enjoyed a stress-free existence tending to her livestock, untroubled by the burden of social media and a relentless compulsion to share her schedule with the rest of the world.

Minutes later the waitress brought back a cup the size of a soup bowl filled with steaming chocolate-flavored coffee and topped with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. Tianna realized she hadn't eaten anything since the bite of muffin early in the morning. She sipped the brew, enjoying the rich, sweet taste, and listened to Serena recite a poem about her demon lover. It made Tianna think more than ever that Serena was some kind of witch or worse. How could she know so much about temptation and choosing between good and evil? The words sent chills through Tianna.

I think their muscles are bigger than mine. Kevin felt his HP gauge take a major hit. He thought he’d gotten used to the concept of women being physically stronger than him. He lived with Kotohime, trained with Kiara, and got his ass kicked on a daily basis by Heather. Strong women surrounded him. He should have been used to it, but he wasn’t. “Uh…” Kevin tried to think of something to say. “Hello?” All the girls giggled some more. Kevin’s cheeks turned the fiercest shade of red. He was embarrassed, but he didn’t really know why. And that’s when he realized something. He was naked. Naked and tied to a bed. Naked, tied to a bed, and surrounded by beautiful teenage girls. It took everything he had not to freak out. “Hello,” one of the girls breathed, a beautiful blond with sun-kissed skin and vivid blue eyes. Kevin did not like the way she looked at him. It made him feel naked… … Oh, wait. He was naked. “I’ve never seen a man before,” another said, this one a girl with skin like mocha and dark brown eyes. “So this is a penis?” another asked, and Kevin suddenly realized something else. “Don’t touch that!” he snapped, trying to squirm away from the girl, who just giggled at his response and tried touching him again. Fortunately, before the girl could actually grab his phallic weapon of DOOM,

One thing Mauser leaned over the years was that students, almost to a one, viewed the world from the inside of a fishbowl. They had the bigger points covered—genocide in Kamchatka, illegal whale hunting in the Arctic Circle, shit like the. But if you asked about anything relevant to their lives they’d look at you with glazed eyes and go right back to sipping their double-mocha lattes.

Every time I hear “Hillary won the popular vote,” I cringe. The correct answer to this is “And?” Winning the popular vote and $5.45 gets you a venti mocha latte at Starbucks. It. Means. Nothing.

Lolling on the narrow pier, surrounded by these mocha-colored youths, I became aware of my own pallid body in an unaccustomed way. “Like cats,” George Biddle, an American painter, wrote of islanders in the 1920s, “they fall naturally into harmonious poses.

I was hoping to talk to you, Nic.” Oh? “You have to do something about that dog.” Oh. “Tiger?” “What other dog roams this town at will and always manages to get in my way? This must be the last town in America not to have leash laws on the books.” “Actually, I agree with you about that. It’s not safe for the animals, and it’s something Eternity Springs will need to address once we have more visitors to town. What did he do now?” “I had a breakfast meeting at the Mocha Moose this morning. He was sitting at the door when I left, and he followed me back here. He’s been hanging around all day. You were supposed to find a home for him. That was the deal, was it not?” “Yes, and I’m still trying.” She licked her lips, then offered a smile just shy of sheepish. “Dale Parker has agreed to consider taking him.” Gabe jerked his stare away from her mouth as he asked, “So why is he underfoot every time I turn around?” “I explained that to you before. He’s adopted you.” “He’s a dog. It’s not his choice!” “Oh, for crying out loud,” Sage said. “Give it up, Callahan. I saw you slip that dog a hunk of your sandwich earlier. Way to chase him away.” Gabe didn’t bother defending himself, but watched Nic for a long minute before asking, “And where might I find Dale Parker?” “He owns the Fill-U-Up.” “That grumpy old son of a gun? No wonder the mutt has taken to hiding out with me. Is he the best you could do?” She watched it register on his face the moment he realized the mistake. Nic decided to take pity on him, mostly because her embarrassment lingered and she needed distance. “Where’s Tiger now?” “Here, at the foot of the stairs.” “He can stay with us.” She lifted her voice and called, “Tiger? Here, boy. C’mere, boy.” Four paws’ worth of nails clicked against the wooden floor. The boxer paused in the doorway and rubbed up against Gabe’s legs. “Awww,” Sage crooned as Sarah said, “He’s so cute. Gabe is right. He’s too sweet to hang with Dale Parker.” Nic dropped her hand and wiggled her fingers. Reluctantly the boxer approached. “You willing to take him home, Sarah?” “I can’t. Daisy and Duke are all I can handle. You know that.” She referred to the three-year-old golden retrievers who refused to leave the puppy stage behind. Nic scratched the boxer behind the ears and said, “What about you, big guy? Wanna watch the basketball game with us?” When the boxer climbed up on her knees and licked her face, she smiled and looped a finger through his leather collar. “We’ve got him. Sorry for the trouble, Callahan.” Gabe nodded, then glanced at the television and fired a parting shot. “You do know that Coach Romano has a twin brother who coaches at Southern Cal, don’t you?” Seated

A flustered photographer in the great Eurotrash tradition hurried over to their perch. He had a goatee and spiky blond hair like Sandy Duncan on an off day. Bathing did not appear to be a priority here. He sighed repeatedly, making sure all in the vicinity knew that he was both important and being put out. “Where is Brenda?” he whined. “Right here.” Myron swiveled toward a voice like warm honey on Sunday pancakes. With her long, purposeful stride—not the shy-girl walk of the too-tall or the nasty strut of a model—Brenda Slaughter swept into the room like a radar-tracked weather system. She was very tall, over six feet for sure, with skin the color of Myron’s Starbucks Mocha Java with a hefty splash of skim milk. She wore faded jeans that hugged deliciously but without obscenity and a ski sweater that made you think of cuddling inside a snow-covered log cabin. Myron

Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. Do it again. After this is over you better be prepared, Double Mocha Fudge Ripple, because you are going down. First

All those songs I used to pretend to understand, all the angsty, heartbroken songs I had heard all my life, they suddenly made so much more sense. "Well, then she probably needs a giant coffee, a huge box of your creations, and some time to nurse her feelings in private, don't you think?" Brantley Dane, local hero, saves girl from sure death brought on by sheer mortification. That'd be his headline. "Come on, sweetheart," he said, moving behind me, casually touching my hip in the process, and going behind counter. "What's your poison? Judging by the situation, I am thinking something cold, mocha or caramel filled and absolutely towering with full fat whipped cream." That was exactly what I wanted. But, broken heart aside, I knew I couldn't let myself drown in sweets. Gaining twenty pounds wasn't going to help anything. There was absolutely no enthusiasm in my voice when I said, "Ah, actually, can I have a large black coffee with one sugar please?" "Not that I'm not turned on as all fuck by a woman who appreciates black coffee," he started, making me jerk back suddenly at the bluntness of that comment and the dose of profanity I wasn't accustomed to hearing in my sleepy hometown. "But if you're only one day into a break-up, you're allowed to have some full fat chocolate concoction to indulge a bit. I promise from here on out I won't make you anything even half as food-gasm-ing as this." He leaned across the counter, getting close enough that I could see golden flecks in his warm brown eyes. "Honey, not even if you beg," he added and, if I wasn't mistaken, there was absolutely some kind of sexually-charged edge to his words. "Say yes," he added, lips tipping up at one corner. "Alright, yes," I agreed, knowing I would love every last drop of whatever he made me and likely punish myself with an extra long run for it too. "Good girl," he said as he turned away. And there was not, was absolutely not some weird fluttering feeling in my belly at that. Nope. That would be completely insane. "Okay, I got you one of everything!" my mother said, coming up beside me and pressing the box into my hands. She even tied it with her signature (and expensive, something I had tried to talk her out of many times over the years when she was struggling financially) satin bow. I smiled at her, knowing that sometimes, there was nothing liked baked goods from your mother after a hard day. I was just lucky enough to have a mother who was a pastry chef. "Thanks, Mom," I said, the words heavy. I wasn't just thanking her for the sweets, but for letting me come home, for not asking questions, for not making it seem like even the slightest inconvenience. She gave me a smile that said she knew exactly what I meant. "You have nothing to thank me for." She meant that too. Coming from a family that, when they found out she was knocked up as a teen, had kicked her out and disowned her, she made it clear all my life that she was always there, no matter what I did with my life, no matter how high I soared, or how low I crashed. Her arms, her heart, and her door were always open for me. "Alright. A large mocha frappe with full fat milk, full fat whipped cream, and both a mocha and caramel drizzle. It's practically dessert masked as coffee," Brantley said, making my attention snap to where he was pushing what was an obnoxiously large frappe with whipped cream that was towering out of the dome that the pink and sage straw stuck out of. "Don't even think about it, sweetheart," he said, shaking his head as I reached for my wallet. "Thank you," I smiled, and found that it was a genuine one as I reached for it and, in a move that was maybe not brilliant on my part, took a sip. And proceeded to let out an almost porn-star worthy groan of pure, delicious pleasure. Judging by the way Brant's smile went a little wicked, his thoughts ran along the same lines as well.

It was right about then that a drink dropped down in front of me on the table, Brant sliding into the open chair to my side. "You know I can't have..." I started, big-eying him so I didn't have to say it. "Raspberry mocha shake with skim milk but full fat whipped cream," he explained, popping the little piece of paper topper off the straw. "Not a damn bit of actual coffee in it," he said, looking disgusted at the very prospect. "Oh, and here," he said, pulling my phone out of his pocket. "You know, you can't pull the 'pregnancy' card every time your phone has an issue and you don't want to go to Verizon." "True," I agreed, taking a long sip of the shake he made and closing my eyes on a sigh. "But I can for the next eight or so months," I concluded, giving him a saucy smile. He chuckled at that, reaching for the piece of paper I had in front of me with the design for the macaron wedding cake. "Macarons, huh?" he asked, looking excited. It didn't matter how many different recipes I came up with, he never seemed to get sick of them. "It's not too soon," he informed me, reading my thoughts as I looked down at the perfect princess cut ring. "It hasn't even been a year," I had insisted, shaking my head. "Sweetheart, I knew this was where we were heading that first time you moaned like a porn star over your break-up frappe." I looked around my mother's and mine and Brant's little shop, feeling it down to my soul: peace. Then I looked over at Brant, feeling it down to my bones: love. And finally, to the plate at the center of the table where Brant and I reached toward simultaneously and grabbed one each: macarons. It was all I would ever need.

He opened the box and saw a tiny cake shaped like a bird's nest in three small round layers of tender, browned-butter vanilla cake with an apricot filling. A "nest" border of piped rum and mocha buttercream enclosed a clutch of pale blue marzipan eggs and a sugar-paste feather. The complicated yin and yang of rum and mocha, the "everybody loves" vanilla, Mr. Social white chocolate, tart and witty apricot, and artistic marzipan- all said "Gavin" to me.

flooded with relief when Gray came through the door. “You were at the cemetery awhile. I almost drove by, but I figured you wanted to be alone.” “Sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.” Gray set down Charlene’s messenger bag. “Mind if I change real quick?” Gray snapped her fingers and the skirt turned into a pair of soft blue jeans and ribbed tank top. “Much better,” Gray said, flopping onto the couch. “Actually I ran into Raj McKenna and we left in favor of mochas at The Daily Grind.” “Raj McKenna knows you’re back?” “Hey, Charlene told Ryan Phillips. If she can tell her minion what’s going on I should be able to tell my… well, definitely not minion, but, you know, magically inclined friend.” Gray chuckled at the thought of Raj as her minion. “Speaking of Ryan Phillips, are you and Mr. Phillips still an item?” Yes, let’s change the subject—obviously Mom was mulling over both the fact that Gray had confided in someone and, more likely, that she’d been out having coffee with a boy. “Marc and I aren’t dating any longer.” Gray tilted her head back on the armrest of the couch. “Oh, why not?” “I couldn’t see him after hearing Ryan helped Charlene

SWEET POTATO BISQUE WITH CRABMEAT GRAPEFRUIT ICE IN A SWEET TORTILLA CRISP LAMB SEARED IN ANCHO CHILI PASTE ON POLENTA TWO CHUTNEYS: PEAR & MINT ASPARAGUS FLAN AMERICAN GOAT CHEESE, EAST & WEST, WITH RED-WINE BISCUITS AVOCADO KEY LIME PIE PINON TORTA DE CIELO & CHOCOLATE MOCHA SHERBET She'd invented the cake just for tonight; the sherbet came from Julia Child, a remarkably simple confection made with sour cream. Torta de cielo was a traditional wedding cake from the Yucatan, slim and sublime, light but chewy, where pulverized almonds stood in for flour. This time, instead of almonds, Greenie used the fat, velvety pignoli she ordered from an importer on Grand Street, mincing them by hand to keep them from turning to paste. She did not know whether you could tell the best Italian pine nuts from those grown in New Mexico, but, she caught herself thinking, and not without a touch of spite, she might soon find out.

The rays of sun spilled Like coffee into a pot Gently, warmly flowing Almost as an afterthought. The morning dew melted to vapor Rising into a morning mist As the supple steam rose from the cup And with the breeze, was dismissed. I took my mocha with extra cream As clouds drifted across the sky Forming thick, bushy clumps Becoming one with the liquid nearby. I took my first sip As sun crested horizon The heat nearly burnt my lips As blue sky began to lighten. I sighed with contentment Enjoying the myriad flavors The coffee swirled and mixed Rhythmically as the light wavered.

A hundred and forty-four, twelve trays of twelve. Were 144 cupcakes enough for one day? There was no way of knowing. What if she'd made too many chocolate-orange and not enough lemon-lime? What if everyone wanted vanilla-coconut and nobody looked at the mocha? What if people hated the cream-cheese icing and only went for the ones topped with buttercream? Was Clongarvin ready for mascarpone frosting?

In December of 2007 human bones including skulls, which have been radiocarbon dated back to between 1304 and 1424, were found in a museum in Concepción, Chile. These skulls were originally discovered on Isla Mocha, which is located 25 miles off the south-central coast of Chile. Since some of them have definite telltale signs of being Polynesian, the strong suggestion is that there was a pre-Columbian interaction between the local Mapuche people and the Polynesian seafarers. This contact is further supported by forensic evidence found near the Chilean site of “El Arenal,” which is a sandy dune approximately 3 miles inland from the coast. Pottery found in Ecuador, predating the arrival of Columbus in America, have markings similar to pottery found on the southernmost island of Kyushu, Japan. Radiocarbon dating has determined the date of organics in the clay that survived the firing, or from food or liquids stored in the pottery, to be 4500 years old with a possible variance of 200 to 500 years, thus predating Columbus by a wide margin. There is no reason to doubt these findings, which indicate that Asians and Polynesians sailed to all parts of the Pacific Ocean, including the vast continents of North and South America that border it on its far eastern side. It was always assumed that Spaniards introduced Chickens to the new continent; however the chicken bones found at the site also dated back to this era, proving that it was the Polynesians that first brought this edible bird with them! The proof is conclusive…. America was discovered prior to Columbus!

hates coffee. In fact, she says the smell of it gags her. But here she stands, cinnamon mocha latte in hand, as I snap a photo with her smartphone. She extends her left arm because it has to look like a selfie. A perfect selfie, which is where I come in. A normal selfie is subject to silly things like an arm’s length and faulty lighting, so we have to