Pita Quotes

Pita mene Amerikanac šta ti je to dunjaluk, ja ga pogledam, stvarno mu ne znam naći neku englesku riječ, nasmijem se i kažem mu - to ti je, moj novinaru, nešto kao all over the world. Nekome je all over the world od Baščaršije do Marijindvora, a nekome je oko zemaljske kugle.

I am a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a pita. Why the pita? That counts as another mystery.

Covek se nikad ne pita za razloge dobrih stvari koje mu se desavaju.Zanimaju ga jedino uzroci rdjavih.

Živi što ljepše, ali tako da te nije stid. I radije pristani da te Bog pita: zašto nisi to učinio?

It is, after all, almost a miracle they are here. Not because they've survived the booze, the hashish, the migraines. Not that at all. It's that they've survived everything in life, humiliations and disappointments and heartaches and missed opportunities, bad dads and bad jobs and bad sex and bad drugs, all the trips and mistakes and face-plants of life, to have made it to fifty and to have made it here: to this frosted-cake landscape, these mountains of gold, the little table they can now see sitting on the dune, set with olives and pita and glasses and wine chilling on ice, with the sun waiting more impatiently than any camel for their arrival. So, yes. As with almost any sunset, but with this one in particular: shut the fuck up.

My name is Mr Bread." He began writing his name neatly on the board. "But you can call me Peter." Suddenly there was quiet, as thirty little brains whirred. "Pita Bread!" proclaimed a ginger-haired boy from the back.

O Pita tinha piedade dos grotescos que nunca amaram nem viveram, e que trazem na alma apenas restos de frases, detritos de ideias, concepções em feto.

Sjetio sam se priče, nena mi je pričala, davno, o karanđolozu, crnom demonu, koji o Božiću sačekuje ljude na mračnim raskršćima, i popne im se na leđa, smrdljiv i težak. Čovjek ga nosi i posrće pod težinom, zagušen smradom, obamro od straha, a karanđoloz ga pita: jesam li težak? Čovjek stenje i kaže ono što misli: težak si. Karanđoloz postane još teži. Ujutru nađu čovjeka mrtva. Ali ko odgovori: nisi težak, spašće se, jer karanđoloza odmah nestane, i čovjek je slobodan. Zbog te riječi hrabrosti, zbog riječi prkosa. Docnije sam mislio da je to priča o životu: ako se tužimo kako nam je teško, klonućemo; ako kažemo životu: izdržaću, nećeš me slomiti, muka postaje lakša.

Is there anyone there with you?" she asked. He turned his phone so she could see that he was in his bedroom at Vallejo Street, alone except for Pita sleeping on his pillow. "I thought she wasn't allowed on your pillow." "She's not," he said. "But apparently she's the ruler and I'm just her bitch.

Ukoliko si direktor pogrebnog zavoda, nikako ne smes da pitas ljude za zdravlje. Pomislice da ispitujes teren za posao.

Ljubav ne pita kakav si, ni tko si, nego jesi li onaj za koga srce kuca.

Zohra's voice comes loudly from her camel: "Shut the fuck up! Enjoy the fucking sunset on your fucking camels! Jesus!" It is , after all, almost a miracle they are here. Not because they've survived the booze, the hashish, the migraines. Not that at all. It's that they've survived everything in life, humiliations and disappointments and heartaches and missed opportunities, bad dads and bad jobs and bad sex and bad drugs, all the trips and mistakes and face-plants of life, to have made it to fifty and to have made it here: to this frosted-cake landscape, these mountains of gold, the little table they can now see sitting on the dune, set with olives and pita and glasses and wine chilling on ice, with the sun waiting more patiently than any camel for their arrival. So, yes. As with almost every sunset, but with this one in particular: shut the fuck up.

Suviše je ovaj narod patio od nereda, nasilja i nepravde, i suviše navikao da ih podnosi sa podmuklim roptanjem ili da se buni protiv njih, već prema vremenima i okolnostima. Između zlokovarnih, osvetničkih misli i povremenih pobuna prolazi im gorak i pust vek. Za sve drugo oni su neosetljivi i nepristupni. Ponekad se čovek pita da nije duh većine balkanskih naroda zauvek otrovan i da, možda, nikad više neće ni moći ništa drugo do jedno: da trpi nasilje ili da ga čini.

Jika ada yang ingin kuberikan untukmu, itu hanyalah sekotak Crayon. . . Untuk mewarnai langitmu yang kelabu. Dipagi hari. . .kamu bisa mewarnainya dengan merah muda yah langit dengan matahari terbit memang indah. Disiang hari buatlah banyak cahaya matahari dengan kuning keemasan dan campurkan juga biru yang menenangkan. Namun jika kau ingin cuaca sejuk segar, kau boleh gunakan warna perak dan putih untuk cahaya kilat dan hujan yang lebat. Ada apa dibalik hujan? kutemukan jawaban. . .mari gunakan semua warna yang kau punya, ciptakan Pelangi. Pita indah warna-warni. Biarkan harimu berseri. Dan senja datang. . . ayo gunakan sang Jingga yang jelita, ucapkan selamat tinggal pada bola cahaya raksasa. Hari menggelap?belum! mari kita torehkan Ungu dengan titik-titik cahaya . . .selanjutnya kau boleh menghitamkannya, biarkan gelap menemani mimpimu tapi jangan lupa simpan sebuah bintang díbawah bantal, bersama dengan kotak warnamu . . . Esok warnai lagi langitmu dengan warna apapun yang kau mau. . . Berjanjilah jangan biarkan langitmu kelabu!

A prayer from Shri Vishwanatha Suprabhata Morning Salutations to Shiva त्वमेव माता च पिता त्वमेव, त्वमेव बन्धुश्च सखा त्वमेव । त्वमेव विद्या द्रविणं त्वमेव, त्वमेव सर्वं मम देव देव ॥ tvameva mata cha pita tvameva, tvameva bandhush-cha sakha tvameva tvameva vidya dravinam tvameva tvameva sarvam mama deva deva You my mother and father be, You are kin and friend to me; You my knowledge, wealth be, God of gods! You my all do be.

Vai assim, vem outro café, se pita um bom cigarro.

Usamljenost traži saputnika i ne pita ko je on. Ko to ne zna, taj nikad nije bio usamljen, samo sam.

Everyone else bites pita, but with my darling, the pita bites back,” said Aviva.

Had a cold hummus with pita bread, Under a delicious food, yellow or red. Might just have the appetite to cook Urgent dinner by hook or crook. So that's just a humus humor spread.

Nikako ne može da se sabere. Prisjeća se da je htio nekog da bije; htio je nekog da upita što je ovo s njim, ali bilo se naoblačilo, i kasna noć; i nikog nije bilo, ni koga da pita, ni s kim da se bije.

Ali, čovjek, sam, sitna je zvjerčica što se koprca oko teških čizama koje sudbinu kroje. Povremen ponos sobom je zabluda pijanog miša o lavovskoj ulozi svojoj. Trajna i vječita je samo istina o potpunoj nemoći žitelja pred gluhom i nadmenom silom što se ukopala u zakone vremena, prostora, nastanka i opstanka. Ona ne pita želiš li se roditi, ni namjeravaš li umrijeti. Čovjek je samo svirepe igre posljedica kažnjena sviješću o svom položaju.

Imam klaustrofobiju*, slažem ga u idućem koraku. “Što ti e tova?", pita me. “Strah od zatvorenog prostora... Da završim u zatvoru, ne znam kako bih. “Pusti glupost“, reče on nabravši čelo. “Misli malo za evre.? “I nisu zatvori mnogo teški“, reče. “Najgore kad si unutra a kad si nevin.

Ali za ljubavnog čina ni jedna žena ne ostaje u tom uzvišenom položaju. Vrlo brzo i šarmantno mlada si gospoda uzimaju neka prava koja vrijede izvan njihova stana. Ženi odjednom zaboravljaju pridržati vrata, a do-godi li joj se neka nespretnost, obasiplju je porugom. Zatim joj počinju lagati, počinju je varati i mučiti te je napokon prestaju nazivati. Namjerno se ne žele očitovati o svojim namjerama.-Slijede dva-tri pisma na koja ne žele odgovoriti. Žena čeka i čeka, no čeka uzalud. I ne pita se zašto čeka, jer se odgovora boji više od čekanja. A za to vrijeme muškarac u nekom drugom životu odlučno počinje obrađivati neku drugu ženu.

hvar/glagoli muškarac ulazi u vinograd, sjeda i plače na rubu otoka, gdje Bog više ne čeka zvijezde da bi se objavio moru, žena ustaje i skače u more, Jedan i Drugi šute ja sada znam da se nije moglo dogoditi ništa: skok je skok, more samo more, jedna zvijezda samo Bog, koji uopće i ne želi da ga se, sada, bilo što o tome pita

Ništa na ovome svijetu nije gore nego biti mlad...Ali od šesnaeste postaje ozbiljno. Zapravo si još dijete, ali svi u tebi vide odraslu osobu koju je lakše gaziti nego nekoga starijeg i iskusnijeg. Nitko te više ne štiti. Neprekidno ti tovare nove zadaće na vrat. Nitko te ne pita jesi li shvatila išta od toga što od sada trebaš raditi.

Edelweis ini bukan hanya sekedar bunga. Tapi ia memiliki filosofi yang indah. Makna sebuah perjuangan, ketulusan dan ketegaran. Itulah yang membuatnya disebut bunga keabadian,” sahut kakek itu sembari merentangkan tangan menikmati semilir angin yang datang. “Keindahan edelweis bukan saat ia berjejer di dalam vas. Bukan pula saat tersusun rapi dalam buket bunga dengan kain dan pita berwarna cerah. Tapi ia akan amat indah bila tetap di alam bebas, bermekaran di tengah hamparan sabana luas. Indah saat bergoyang diterpa angin pegunungan, memutih laksana salju di tanah lapang,” pungkasnya membiarkan Vidi termangu sendirian. (Tujuh Buket Bunga Keabadian, Dunia Tanpa Huruf R)

Not because they’ve survived the booze, the hashish, the migraines. Not that at all. It’s that they’ve survived everything in life, humiliations and disappointments and heartaches and missed opportunities, bad dads and bad jobs and bad sex and bad drugs, all the trips and mistakes and face-plants of life, to have made it to fifty and to have made it here: to this frosted-cake landscape, these mountains of gold, the little table they can now see sitting on the dune, set with olives and pita and glasses and wine chilling on ice, with the sun waiting more patiently than any camel for their arrival. So, yes. As with almost every sunset, but with this one in particular: shut the fuck up.

To illustrate toaster righteousness, let’s say God decides to use toasters to spread His messages. He incorporates his love into an LLC called God’s Toasters, LLC. Toasters are now the legal and spiritual messengers of God. Different toaster brands are made all over the world. It doesn’t matter where the toasters are introduced in the world, some people support them and others oppose them. It is God’s will to have different toasters made in different countries. Toaster Righteousness comes into play when people start believing that if we do not eat a specific bread recipe and shaped bread, we cannot receive authentic holy toast. Exceptions are made with pita lovers, but everyone else in the world is doomed to live in eternal burnt-toast hell, not golden-brown toast heaven. Throughout history, bread is a staple of peoples’ diets. The introduction of toasters is supposed to support show us how to eat bread better, being grateful for the bread we are given, sharing toast with one’s neighbor, and not killing in the name of bread.

soy Guadalupe Amor que antes de ser polvo será una hoguera de palabras.

Najgore je što se čovek onda pita kako će sutra da smogne snage da radi ono što i juče, što već radi toliko dugo, i gde da nađe snage za glupe pokušaje, za hiljadu planova koji ničemu ne vode, za poduhvate koji se uvek izjalove, a sve to samo da bi se još jednom osvedočio da je sudbina nesavladljiva, da svake večeri mora da sklizne do podnožja zida, pritisnut strahom od sutrašnjice, sve neizvesnije i sve mračnije. A možda svemu doprinose i godine, podmuklo nam preteći najcrnjim. Nema više u čoveka dovoljno muzike da bu mi život zaigrao, eto. Sva je mladost već otišla, da umre na kraju sveta, u tišini istine. A kuda poći, pitam ja vas, kad čovek više u sebi ne nosi dovoljnu količinu ludosti? Istina je agonija bez kraja. Istina ovoga sveta je smrt. Treba izabrati, umreti ili lagati. Ja nikad nisam mogao da se ubijem.

Stari Indijanac ispričao je jedne večeri unuku priču o večnoj borbi koja se odvija u ljudima. Rekao je: "Sine, borba između dva vuka događa se u svima nama. Jedan je zločest, u njemu prevladavaju gnev, zavist, ljubomora, pohlepa, oholost, samosažaljenje, ljutnja, inferiornost, laž, lažni ponos i egoizam. Drugi je dobar i u njemu prevladavaju radost, mir, ljubav, nada, vedrina, poniznost, ljubaznost, ljubav, saosećanje, darežljivost, istina i vera." Pita unuk: "Koji vuk pobeđuje?" Indijanac odgovara: "Onaj kojeg bolje nahraniš.

It’s that they’ve survived everything in life, humiliations and disappointments and heartaches and missed opportunities, bad dads and bad jobs and bad sex and bad drugs, all the trips and mistakes and face-plants of life, to have made it to fifty and to have made it here: to this frosted-cake landscape, these mountains of gold, the little table they can now see sitting on the dune, set with olives and pita and glasses and wine chilling on ice, with the sun waiting more patiently than any camel for their arrival. So, yes. As with almost every sunset, but with this one in particular: shut the fuck up.

because they’ve survived the booze, the hashish, the migraines. Not that at all. It’s that they’ve survived everything in life, humiliations and disappointments and heartaches and missed opportunities, bad dads and bad jobs and bad sex and bad drugs, all the trips and mistakes and face-plants of life, to have made it to fifty and to have made it here: to this frosted-cake landscape, these mountains of gold, the little table they can now see sitting on the dune, set with olives and pita and glasses and wine chilling on ice, with the sun waiting more patiently than any camel for their arrival. So, yes. As with almost every sunset, but with this one in particular: shut the fuck up.

Stariji oficir, koji ne voli rodomontade svog mlađeg druga pita, ima li nešto, osim violin, da se vidi u Kremoni ? Ima nešto da se čuje, kažem, u Kremoni. Tamo se rodio jedan veliki Talijan, koji se zvao Monteverdi. Prvi put sam ga slušao, u mladosti, u Parizu. Zatim, sa svojom mladom ženom, u Fiorenci. Vanredno su ga svirali, iako ne meni, nego svima – u Štokholmu. A sa gospođom Martom, sa domaćicom, išli smo, da ga slušamo, i u Rimu, u Svetoj Ceciliji. Domaćica na to kaže tužno : Nećemo više slušati Monteverdija u Rimu. Rat je. Gleda nas. Pita se gde ćemo kroz godinu dve biti ? Ljudska reč, čovečji glas, katkad, i pri običnom razgovoru, može da unese u razgovor neku jezu. Duboku. Tako i ta fraza domaćice, sa tim imenom, unosi među nas “nikad više”, jezivo. Došao je kraj jednoj Evropi. Došao je kraj i našem krugu u Rimu. Ona zatim, valjda i sama uplašena, uzvikuje : Dosta s tim – basta ! Uplašili su se smrti buržuji. A smrt je prirodna pojava, kao i rat. Umire bilje, umiru laste, zašto bi ljudi trebalo da budu besmrtni ? Za nama će ostati, lešina, smrad, kaljuga, hemijska formula. Milioni će, međutim, opet živeti. Večno živeti. Nijedna violina u Kremoni ne zvuči lepše, nego detinji plač – prvi. Pošto se zna, među nama, da ta žena nema dece, taj zvuk nam je tim tužniji i neshvatljiviji. Njen muž, ušeprtljavši, predlaže, da prekinemo te lude razgovore id a se to ostavi, i reši sutra, a da se sad čita, malo, Vergilije.

Ja sam odlučio učiniti sve što je u ljudskoj moći da ne propadnem. Takva misao raste i razvija se u čovjekovoj duši poput djeteta u majčinoj utrobi. U početku je slabašna, još nema nikakvog jasnog lika, samo pobuđuje strastvenu žudnju koja čovjeka goni da ustraje i ne odustaje. Ima strahovitu moć. Postupno prožima i opsjeda onoga tko je nosi, tako da on ne vidi ništa drugo i ni na što ne misli osim na to kako da je otjelovi, kako da donese na svijet taj čudesan plod. S takvom mišlju u sebi čovjek je uistinu nalik na luđaka - ne pita je li ispravno ili nije, je li dobro ili je zlo, radi po nekoj nevidljivoj zapovijedi i zna samo da je sredstvo u vlasti nečeg što je jače od njega. I tada mu nije važno je li ta vlast nebo ili pakao!

It is, after all, almost a miracle they are here. Not because they’ve survived the booze, the hashish, the migraines. Not that at all. It’s that they’ve survived everything in life, humiliations and disappointments and heartaches and missed opportunities, bad dads and bad jobs and bad sex and bad drugs, all the trips and mistakes and face-plants of life, to have made it to fifty and to have made it here: to this frosted-cake landscape, these mountains of gold, the little table they can now see sitting on the dune, set with olives and pita and glasses and wine chilling on ice, with the sun waiting more patiently than any camel for their arrival. So, yes. As with almost every sunset, but with this one in particular: shut the fuck up.

Our Good for You portfolio was growing elsewhere, too. I got a call one day from Ofra Strauss, the CEO of Strauss-Elite Food, our snacks partner in Israel. She asked to see me in Purchase and showed up with a huge hamper of Mediterranean dips—hummus, baba ghanoush, you name it. She laid them all out with fresh pita bread on my conference table, and we enjoyed a picnic of products from Sabra, a New York–based company that Strauss had recently purchased. It was a delicious lineup—totally vegetarian—and a great potential mate to Stacy’s Pita Chips, which we’d acquired a couple of years earlier. Less than a year later, Sabra and Frito-Lay signed a joint venture, and Sabra now leads the US hummus market. More important for me, Ofra is one of my dearest friends.

Više nemam vremena za razmišljanje, jedan od oficira me upravo pita: - Prezime, ime, godina rođenja, ime oca? - Karlović, Vilim, 1970., oca nemam! - Kako bre nemaš? Umro? Kako reče ime? - Ne znam tko mi je otac. Vilim - naglašavam oficiru ime. - A jel' znaš tko je majka? - Znam, Jelena. - 'Ajmo sledeći. Na zapovijed vojnika koji nas je čuvao odlazim na kraj naše kolone. Zadovoljan sam kako je ovo prošlo i kako sam se brzo sjetio da nemam oca. Puno sam razmišljao o opasnosti svog imena, a potpuno sam zaboravio na ime svog oca, koje je za Srbe i četnike puno gore nego ijedno njemačko ime. Reći ovdje da mi se otac zove Anto bilo bi ravno tome da na sav glas počnem vikati: "Živjela Hrvatska, ja sam ustaša!" Ispalo je nekorektno prema mome ocu, ali trenutačno je to najmanje važno.

U međuvremenu Klemmer ismijava ženino tijelo zgrčeno na podu. Ruga se da joj je s obzirom na godine već pet do dvanaest! Erika ga zaklinje neka se sjeti svega lijepoga i ružnog što su prošli na nastavi. Pita ga molećivim glasom: Zar ti nije drago sjetiti se razlika medu sonatama? On se ruga muškarcima koji dopuštaju da im žene stalno prigovaraju. On nije jedan od njih, a ona je jednostavno pretjerala. I uopće, čudna je osoba. Gdje su joj sada bičevi i okovi? Klemmer joj ostavlja mogućnost izbora: ja ili ti. On je već odabrao: sebe. Ali u mojoj mržnji ti se ponovo rađaš, tješi je iznoseći naglas svoj stav. Zlostavljajući je i dalje, udarajući je po glavi, baca joj mamac: Da već nisi žrtva, ne bi mogla postati žrtva! Obasipajući je udarcima, pita je gdje joj je sada njeno divno pismo. Odgovor je suvišan.

Da... ona... to je tvoja baka. Bila je mlađa. Nikada je nisi video kao mlađu, ali ona ima... ona je imala najsilovitija osećanja koja sam ikada video kod nekog ljudskog bića, kada bi se naljutila umela je da rastera punu kafanu odraslih ljudi, a kada je bila srećna... tome se nije moglo odoleti, Noanoa. Bila je prirodna sila. Sve ono što jesam potiče od nje, ona je bila moj Veliki prasak. Kako si se zaljubio u nju?, pita dečak. Deda spušta jednu šaku na svoje koleno, a drugu na dečakovo. Mislim da se izgubila u mom srcu. Nije mogla da pronađe izlaz. Tvoja baka je oduvek imala loš smisao za orijentaciju. Umela je da se izgubi i na pokretnim stepenicama. Usledio je njegov smeh, pucketav i krckav, kao da je dim od suvih drva u njegovom stomaku. Zagrlio je dečaka. Nikada se nisam zapitao kako sam se ja zaljubio u nju, Noanoa. Samo obrnuto.

Neće ti smetati ako slušamo muziku?" pita Ošima. Neće, kažem. On pritisne dugme cd plejera. Počinje klasična klavirska muzika. Neko vreme pomno slušam tu muziku i dobijam ideju šta bi to moglo biti. Nije ni Betoven, ni Šuman. Istorijski gledano, tu je negde između. "Šubert ?" pitam ja. "Da", kaže on. I sa rukama na volanu, u položaju u kom kazaljke na satu pokazuju 10.10, pogleda me krajičkom oka. "Voliš Šubertovu muziku ?" Ne nešto naročito, kažem. Ošima klimne glavom. "Kad vozim, često odvrnem Šubertove klavirske sonate do daske. Šta misliš zašto ?" "Ne znam", kažem ja. "Zato što su klavirske sonate Franca Šuberta među najtežim kompozicijama na svetu da se savršeno izvedu. Naročito ova sonata u D-duru. Ta je strašno komplikovana. ako se izdvoji samo jedan ili dva stava tog dela, ima pijanista koji su u stanju gotovo savršeno da ih odsviraju. ali, ako slušaš sva četiri stava zaredom kao jedinstveno delo, ne postoji ni jedna njihova zadovoljavajuća interpretacija, bar ne koliko je meni poznato. Do sada su se razni čuveni pijanisti okušali u izazovu ove kompozicije, ali svaki od njih ima očigledne nedostatke. Još nije bilo nijedne izvedbe za koju možeš da kažeš 'E, to je to !' Šta misliš, zbog čega ?" "Ne znam", kažem. "Zato što je sama kompozicija nepotpuna. Robert Šuman, koji je bio odličan poznavalac Šubertove klavirske muzike, ovu je kompoziciju ocenio kao 'nebeski preopširnu'. "Ako je sama kompozicija nepotpuna, zašto su se razni čuveni pijanisti oprobavali na njoj ?" "To je dobro pitanje", kaže Ošima. Onda zastane. Tu tišinu ispunjava muzika. "Nemam konkretno objašnjenje za to. Ali mogu jedno da kažem, a to je da dela koja poseduju određenu vrstu nepotpunosti, upravo zbog te nesavršenosti privlače čovekovu dušu - bar snažno privlače dušu određene vrste ljudi. Recimo, tebe privlači 'Rudar". Zbog toga on ima moć da te usisa kakve nema u zaokruženim delima kao što je 'Duša' ili 'Sanširo'. Ti to delo pronađeš ili ono pronađe tebe. Šubertova sonata u D-duru je upravo takva. U njoj postoji nešto što veže nit tvoje duše kako nijedna druga kompozicija ne može. "Dakle", kažem ja, "da se vratim na prvo pitanje - zbog čega ti slušaš Šubertove sonate ? Naročito dok voziš automobil." "Šubertove sonate, posebno sonata u D-duru, ne mogu se smatrati umetnošću samo zato što su dobro izvedene. Kao što je Šuman ukazao, ova sonata je previše pastoralna i predugačka je, a i sa stanovišta tehnike je isuviše jednostavna. Kad se ta kompozicija dosledno odsvira, pretvori se u najobičniji bljutavi, suvoparni antikvitet. Zato joj svojom virtuoznošću svaki pijanista doda ponešto. Smisli nešto. Recimo, evo ovako pojačava artikulaciju. Ili svira rubato, ubrza tempo ili uradi varijaciju. Ako to ne učini, nema čime da popuni vreme. Ali, ako se to ne izvede pažljivo, takav jedan dodatak naruši integritet dela. To onda nije više Šubertova muzika. Bez izuzetka svi pijanisti koji sviraju sonatu u D-duru upadnu u taj paradoks. On osluškuje muziku. Pevuši melodiju. A onda nastavlja priču. "Zbog toga ja često slušam Šuberta dok vozim. Kao što sam ti malopre rekao, baš zato što su izvedbe njegove muzike u izvesnom smislu nepotpune. Kvalitetna nesavršenost puna naboja stimuliše čovekovu svest, izoštrava mu pažnju. Kad bih u vožnji slušao savršenu muziku bez premca u savršenom izvođenju, možda bih poželeo da samo zatvorim oči i tako umrem. Zauzvrat, ja slušam sonatu u D-duru i u njoj razaznajem granice čovekove moći. Spoznajem da određena vrsta savršenstva može da se otelotvori isključivo beskonačnom akumulacijom nesavršenosti. To me ohrabruje. Razumeš šta hoću da ti kažem?

Osvrnimo se, profesore, oko sebe. Šta vidimo? Šta drugi vide? Da li je prizor privlačan? Da li je, drugim rečima, lako Beograd voleti i poštovati? Sa jedne strane vlasotinačka, lužnička, nišavska, belopalanačka, svrljiška, zaglavska, timočka, rekanska, brsjačka pečalbarska duša jadnika koji će prihvatiti svaki, i najgori rad, ali tek kada ga pritisne ljuta nemaština, kad se više nema kud; ne rad već pečalovina, pečal, potmula patnja, duševna bol i poniženje, nastavak meropaškog i sebarskog, rajetinskog rada, životinjski izdržljivo slaganje pare na paru; sa druge psihoza nesite ćiftanske lakomosti, ćar i profit sa što manje rada, pravljenje »poslova« tako što se posao izbegava, pa nije nimalo neobično što i jedan i drugi, i pečalan i ćiftinski rad, dakle svaki rad, izaziva u Srba samo prezir. Beograd je postao grad u kome ni jedan čovek, ni jedan stari ni novi društveni sloj nije na svom pravom mestu. Studenti služe kao kelneri, penzionisani činovnici prodaju đinđuve i opravljaju kišobrane, ljudi koji ni svoje ime ne umeju valjano potpisati dižu mnogospratne palate, gomilaju se kapitali i imanja za koja niko ne zna odgovora na pitanje: otkud i kako? — a u isto vreme mnogi naučnik, profesor, zanatlija pita se posle petog u mesecu šta će sutra ručati. Sve je u zadihanoj jagmi i jurnjavi da bi se zahvatilo što više sa što manje zasluge i truda. Neobrazovani i nesposobni otimaju mesto kadrima i učenima, čitavo društvo izdeljeno je u grupe koje se uzajamno podržavaju rodbinskim, kumovskim, plemenskim, partijskim vezama, a sve drugo što nije u tom orijentalnom klupčetu ti meni ja tebi, bezobzino se gura u stranu, gde god pogled zaustaviš — Miloševa kurdžonska Srbija potiskuje Mihajlovu, Svetozarevu, Skerlićevu plemenitu težnju ka evropskim načinima mišljenja i ponašanja. Beograd danas liči na neki rašireni prostor, privremeni zbeg, Wild West na koji se sjurila kaza i prikaza da što pre zauzme što bolje mesto, pa najbeskrupulozniji, a ne najsposobniji, zauzimaju najviša. Oni, u osnovici svojoj još palančani, ošamućeni i neuravnoteženi novim i stranim gradom, oslobađaju nesputano biologiju samoodbrane, jagme, nestrpljenja. Atavizmi iz seljačkog vremena, rudimenti iz plemenskog patrijarhalizma, bore se sa poslednjim zapadnjačkim usmerenjima Užičana-Francuza, piroćanskih-Londonaca, Bosanaca-Bečlija.

Okay, then. Let’s win you a wish.” He takes out his phone and pulls up Google Maps. “I looked up Gen’s address before I came over here. I think you’re right--we should take our time, assess the situation. Not go in half-cocked.” “Mm-hm.” I’m in a sort of dream state; it’s hard to concentrate. John Ambrose McClaren wants to make it unequivocally clear. I snap out of it when Kitty jostles her way back into the living room, balancing a glass of orange soda, the tub of red pepper hummus, and a bag of pita chips. She makes her way over to the couch and plonks down right between us. Holding out the bag, she asks, “Do you guys want some?” “Sure,” John says, taking a chip. “Hey, I hear you’re pretty good at schemes. Is that true?” Warily she says, “What makes you say that?” “You’re the one who sent out Lara Jean’s letters, aren’t you?” Kitty nods. “Then I’d say you’re pretty good at schemes.” “I mean, yeah. I guess.” “Awesome. We need your help.” Kitty’s ideas are a bit too extreme--like slashing Genevieve’s tires, or throwing a stink bomb in her house to smoke her out, but John writes down every one of Kitty’s suggestions, which does not go unnoticed by Kitty. Very little does.

I want more, I said, putting a hand to my stomach, which rides higher than most know. Closer to the heart. I want the jiang bing that vendor will make when she runs out of nut butter. I don't think she's arrogant. I think she's right. I want to sample jian bing from every cart in Beijing, and I want to taste what those kids are eating at home, what they don't teach in cookbooks at Le Cordon Bleu. There's so much out there--- Helplessly, I said, I haven't even told you how much I love foods wrapped in other foods. Then tell me. I tried. I tried. Banh xeo in Hanoi, I said, and duck folded in the translucent bing of northern China. I spoke of tacos in Mexico City: suadero, al pastor, gringas. South Indian dosas as long as my arm, thinner than a rib of a feather. Oh, Aida, I said when I fumbled the names of the chutneys. How can I know all I've ever want? Something will get left out. I was wrong about cilantro. Tlayudas, she said stubbornly, as if she hadn't heard. Blini. Crêpes. They're basically French jian bing, I said with a strangled laugh. Pita sandwiches. Pickle roll-ups. Calzone. Bossam! I yelled, and the dogs barked and the children cheered and the streets of old Milan rang with the imported memory of pork kissed by brine, earthy with Korean bean paste, safe in its bed of red leaf lettuce.

Soon, things were heating up in the kitchen. The first course was a variation on a French recipe that had been around since Escoffier, Baccala Brandade. Angelina created a silky forcemeat with milk, codfish, olive oil, pepper, and slow-roasted garlic, a drizzle of lemon juice, and a shower of fresh parsley, then served it as a dip with sliced sourdough and warmed pita-bread wedges, paired with glasses of bubbly Prosecco. The second course had been a favorite of her mother's called Angels on Horseback- freshly shucked oysters, wrapped in thin slices of prosciutto, then broiled on slices of herb-buttered bread. When the oysters cooked, they curled up to resemble tiny angels' wings. Angelina accented the freshness of the oyster with a dab of anchovy paste and wasabi on each hors d'oeuvre. She'd loved the Angels since she was a little girl; they were a heavenly mouthful. This was followed by a Caesar salad topped with hot, batter-dipped, deep-fried smelts. Angelina's father used to crunch his way through the small, silvery fish like French fries. Tonight, Angelina arranged them artfully around mounds of Caesar salad on each plate and ushered them out the door. For the fifth course, Angelina had prepared a big pot of her Mediterranean Clam Soup the night before, a lighter version of Manhattan clam chowder. The last two courses were Parmesan-Stuffed Poached Calamari over Linguine in Red Sauce, and the piece de resistance, Broiled Flounder with a Coriander Reduction.

A Sweet Woman from a War-Torn Country" In her exile, they often describe her as that “sweet woman from a war-torn country” … They don’t know that she loved smelling roses … That she enjoyed picking spring wildflowers and bringing them home after long walks… They don’t know about that first kiss her first lover stole from her during a power outage at church on that Easter evening Before the generators were turned on… They don’t know anything about the long hours she spent contemplating life under the ancient walnut tree in her village, while waiting for her grandfather to call her to eat her favorite freshly baked pita bread with ghee and honey… They don’t know anything about her grandmother’s delicious mixed grains that she prepared every year before Easter fasting began… In exile, they try to be nice to her… They keep repeating that she is now in a “safe haven”… They attribute her silence is either to her poor language skills, or perhaps because she agrees with them… They don’t know that the shocks of life have silenced her forever… All she enjoys doing now is pressing her ears against the cold window glass in her apartment listening to the wailing wind outside … They repeatedly remind her that she is now in a place where all values, beliefs, religions, and ethnicities are honored, but life has taught her that all of that is too late… She no longer needs any of that… All she needs, occasionally, is a sincere hand to be placed on her shoulder or around her neck To remind her that nothing lasts That this too shall pass… [Published on April 7, 2023 on CounterPunch.org]

Sa druge strane tog praga je školska učionica. Ona iz srednje škole. I prazno mesto u prvoj klupi reda do prozora. Uvek sam u njoj sedeo. Sam. Lagano hodam ka njoj. Prepoznajem dečja lica. Niko me ne pozdravlja. Nikoga ni ja. Baš kao i nekada. Nečujno sedam na svoje mesto. Razdvajanje nogu velikog metalnog šestara nesnosno škripi i poziva na pažnju. 'Danas radimo krugove!' - snažnim damskim glasom vikne razredna. 'Valja dobro naučiti i shvatiti krugove!' Tad me prostreli pogledom, a ja se osetim kao da mi je zabola pikado-strelicu u čelo. Zašto? Zašto uvek to čini, kao da se lekcije odnose posebno na mene? Postiđen sam, propada mi se u zemlju. Ne volim poglede. Ne volim ih. I još ta devojčica iz druge klupe koja me ćuška olovkom u vrat da se okrenem, baš sad kad razredna govori. Okrenem se da dreknem na nju, ali ne mogu. Ona me gleda čudno. Milo. Zašto ona nešto hoće od mene? Zašto ti ne želiš da se družimo?' - šapne mi jednostavno i blago. Ja... ne znam. Odjednom mi se učini da ne znam. Duboko mi se učini da ne znam. Ne znam zašto se ne družim ni sa kim. Sladak si mi. Evo ruke, drugar!' - veselo kaže ona i pruži mi ruku. Šta sad to znači? Možda joj je ruka prljava! Možda to hoće da mi priredi neku šalu! Smeška se! Evo, sva deca zlokobno se cere, to je neki dogovor! Jedno dete je uperilo svoj šestar u mene i taj šestar je blesnuo. Očima tražim razrednu; ona demonski pilji u mene. Opet se okrećem prema devojčici iz klupe iza i sudaram se sa istim licem kао u ostale dece, neprijateljskim i pretećim. 'Zašto ti ne želiš da se družimo?' - ponovo pita, ovog puta nekakvim robotskim glasom, i tada vidim da iz njenog rukava ka meni hrli pipak sa dlakavim svinjskim papkom na kraju. U trenu se preznojim, vrisnem... i san tu skonča.

A i Burazer je umro. Kad kažem da je i on umro prosto me dođe sramota, pa i po tome vidim da je smrt bestidna. On grijeha nije imao, a hoće li gore odgovarati zato što je rakiju pio, to ne znam. Bogu, doduše, u početku nije ni na kraj pameti bilo da brani pit, ali kad je nakon šestotina godina uvidio da ljudi kvare rakiju, a rakija ljude, onda je moro. A da Burazer grijeha nije imao sudim po tome što je poštovao »nimet«. A evo kako. Pošao on jedared sa svojim pajdašima na akšamluk. Za one koji ne znaju šta je to akšamluk, a izgleda da to više niko ne zna, moram reći da je to: k a d s u n c e z a đ e k r a j k a k v e v o ­ d e u šu t n j i p i j e n j e r a k i j e u z m e z u. Može se koja i prozboriti, ali samo da bi se šutnja održala.. Svi su, određenu sumu dali »u paj«, ali Burazer nije imao sitnih, pa je ponudio đinar-dva više, što njegovi jarani odlučno odbiše. »Idi«, vele, »vrati se u čaršiju, razmijeni, pa donesi.« A bili su već preko mosta. Burazer se vrati, usitni i jedva ih stigne. To mu je već bilo načelo ćejf. Kupe rakiju, svakom polovka i jedno tridesetoro jaja. »Kako ćemo jaja?«—pitaju. »Sve u čimbur!« — odgovaraju. »Zašto sve u čimbur?«, pita Burazer, »zar nije bolje nešto skuhati?«...»Jok«, odgovaraju, »sve u čimbur.« Uzmu tepsiju, zapale vatru, ubiju tridesetoro jaja, pa onda odu još granja da sakupe, a Burazera ostave da pazi na čimbur. Krivo Burazeru što je moro u čaršiju da sitni novce, a ni oko jaja ga nisu poslušali, pa skine gaće i posere se po sred onog čimbura...»Izašlo«, tvrdio je poslije, »zdravo govno, mogli su ga okružiti, pa ono oko njega baciti, a ostalo pojesti...«Kada su se jarani pomolili i vidjeli šta je bilo s čimburom svima je ono granje poispadalo iz ruku. Uzeli su tepsiju i bacili je u potok. Burazeru su odmah odijelili njegovu polovku i taj dan sa njim nisu pili. — Da si ti kakav čovjek — govorili su — ne bi u nimet nuždu vršio! A Burazer je tvrdio: — Jaje nije nimet, jer je iz kokošije guzice izašlo...

A Mediterranean flatbread, the pita is baked at a high temperature so that puffy pockets form in the middle, which can then be stuffed with meat or beans. He did the same thing that Secretary Girl did with her turtle burger bun... ... picking something that would keep the meat juices from dripping out the bottom! Hmm. You used a handmade Tzatziki sauce to ameliorate the smelliness of the kebab meat and to create a mild base to make the spices stand out. And the burger patty... ... is kofta! A Middle Eastern meatloaf of ground beef and lamb mixed with onions and plentiful spices, its highly fragrant aroma hits the nose hard! Its scent and umami flavor are powerful enough to bring tears to the eyes!" W-what is going on here?! How could they eat all that greasy, heavy meat so quickly and easily?! "Here. Let me give you a lesson. Four things are required for a good burger. A bun, a patty, some kind of sauce and... ...pickles. The sharp smell and tart flavor of pickles is what highlights the meaty umami of the patty. Pickles are a hidden but key component of the best burgers! From what I could tell, you used ginger sticks as your pickle analogue... ... but that was a weak choice." "What?! Then what did you choose that's so much better?!" "The pickle type that I picked for my burger... ...is achaar." "Achaar?" "What kind of pickle is that?" ACHAAR South Asian in origin, achaar consists of fruits or vegetables pickled in mustard oil or brine, and then mixed with a variety of spices. Sometimes called Indian pickles, achaar is strongly tart and spicy. This is achaar I made with onions. The spicy scent of the mustard oil makes the meaty umami of the kofta patty really stands out. For the tartness, I used amchoor- also known as mango powder- a citrusy powder made from dried unripe mangoes. But that's just the base. I added lemon juice to bolster the citrusy flavor of the amchoor... ... and then some garlic, ginger and chili peppers to give it an aroma that tickles the nose. Cloves. Cumin seeds. Black pepper. Paprika. I even added a dab of honey to give it a hint of sweetness.

Sí, cabe reconocer, con respecto a las primeras obras de Dante, que en el tratamiento de la violencia prevalece una asepsia, una suavidad usual en tantas producciones Amblin: cuando los criminales asaltan los laboratorios haciéndose pasar por reparadores de teléfonos (sic), atacan con gas y no con pistolas; armas de fuego y explosiones escasean en la película. Sin embargo, esta gestión de la violencia responde, en paralelo, a la personalidad del director: Dante puede triturar a un soldado en Pequeños guerreros, explotar a un gremlin en un microondas, recrearse en el cadáver de Igoe corroído por el ácido en El chip prodigioso o en cómo niños son devorados por pirañas; en cambio, a la hora de exhibir armas de fuego objeta contra la proliferación de disparos, revólveres y ametralladoras. La banalización del efecto destructivo de la munición despoja de su significado a artilugios con una función homicida, que se convierten en meras imágenes sin sentido. Todo el metraje de Pequeños guerreros patentizará la postura del director, que en El chip prodigioso refrenda el pasmo del niño ataviado a lo Rambo ante el disparo (real) que hiere a Ozzie.

Kad se bližila zora, sjedili smo na terasi Domea. Već smo odavno zaboravili jadnog Peckovera. Doživjeli smo nešto uzbuđenja u Bal Negre i Joeov se duh vratio nijegovoj vječnoj zaokupljenosti: pički. Upravo u ovo vrijeme, kad se njegovo slobodno veče bliži kraju, njegov nemir se penje do grozničavog vrhunca. On misli na ženske, kraj kojih je prošao ranije u toku večei, i o stalnim ženskama, koje je mogao imati, samo da ih pita, i samo da ih nije već sit. Neizbježivo se podsjetio na svoju pičku iz Georgije — ona ga u posljednje vrijeme opsjeda, moleći ga da je uzme na stan, barem dok ne uspije da nađe ikakav posao. »Nije mi krivo ako je svako malo nahrainim«, kaže on, »ali ne mogu je uzeti za stalno... ona bi mi pokvarila posao s drugira mojim pičkama«. Kod nje ga najviše nervira, da se ona nimalo ne deblja. »Kao da uzimaš kostur u posteIju«, kaže. Neki dan sam je primio — od samilosti — i šta misliš, šta je ta luđakinja učinila sebi? Obrijala ju je do gola... Ni dlačice na njojl Da li si kad imao ženu, koja je obrijala minđu? Odvratno, jelda? Ali i smiješno. Nekako šašavo. Više mi ne izgleda kao minđa, prije kao crknuta školjka ili nešto slično.« On mi opisuje kako je od radoznalosti ustao iz postelje i potražio ručnu svjetiljku. »Natjerao sam je da je rastvori i upravio sam ručnu svjetiljtku ravno na nju. Trebao si me vidjeti... Bilo je komično. Toliiko sam se na to usredotočio, da sam na žensku potpuno zaboravio. Nikad u životu nisam pizdu gledao tako ozbiljno. Čovjek bi pomislio, da je nikad prije nisam vidio. I što sam je više gledao, to mi je bila manje zanimljiva. To služi samo da ti pokaže, da u svemu tome na kraju krajeva nema ništa, naročito kad je obrijana. Dlaka je čini tajanstvenom. Zbog toga te nekakaiv kip nimalo ne uzbuđuje. Jednom sam vidio pravu pravcatu pizdu na kipu — kip je Rodinov. Moraš ga jedanput pogledati... Ona je širom razmaknula noge... čini mi se, da uopće i nema glave. Moglo bi se reći, sama pizda. Isuse, sablasno je izgledala. Stvar i jest u tome — sve izgledaju jednako. Kad ih gledaš odjevene, onda zamišljaš svakakve stvari: na stanoviti način im daješ individualnost, što one naravno nemaju. Ima samo pukotinu između nogu, i zbog nje se sav zapjeniš — a većinom je uopće ni ne gledaš. Znaš da je tamo, i samo misliš kako da uguraš svog jarana unutra, kao da penis misli mjesto tebe. Ali to je aluzija! Sav si se zapalio, a ni zbog čega... Zbog pukotine s malo dlake, ili bez dlake. To je toliko besmisleno, da sam fasciniran zurio u nju. Mora da sam je proučavao bar deset minuta. Kad je tako gledaš, nekako iz daljine, smiješne ti se misli vrte po glavi. Toliko tajanstvenosti oko seksa, a onda otkriješ da to nije ništa, samo praznina. Zar ne bi bilo zgodno kad bi unutra našao kakvu harmoniku... ili kalendar? Ali unutra nema ništa... ama baš ništa. Odvratno. Gotovo sam poludio... Čuj, što misliš što sam kasnije učinio? Na brzinu •sam joj opalio metaik, a onda joj okrenuo leđa. Da uzeo sam knjigu i čitao. U knjizi se može nešto naći, čak i u lošoj knizi... ali pizda je naprosto čist gubitak vrmena... « Str 144-146

This time, I asked a mortal Israeli girl what sort of things she liked to eat. She led me to a something called a falafel stand.” Phil shrugged and his voice lilted in a question at the end. “Are you saying I’m looking at a solid brick of falafel?” Roland raised a doubtful eyebrow at Vincent’s bulging bag. “Oh, no,” Vincent said. “The Outcasts also purchased hummus, pita, pickles, a container of something called tabbouleh, cucumber salad, and fresh pomegranate juice. Are you hungry, Lucinda Price?” It was an absurd amount of delicious food. Somehow it felt wrong to eat on the altars, so they spread out a smorgasbord on the floor and everyone-Outcast, angel, mortal-tucked in. The mood was somber, but the food was filling and hot and exactly what all of them seemed to need. Luce showed Olianna and Vincent how to make a falafel sandwich; Cam even asked Phil to pass him the hummus. At some point, Arriane flew out the window to find Luce some new clothes. She returned with a faded pair of jeans, a white V-neck T-shirt, and a cool Israeli army flak jacket with a patch depicting an orange-and-yellow flame. “Had to kiss a soldier for this,” she said.

I raced around getting ingredients on the recipe Victoria had given me. I started making the dough for the Iraqi pita, which Violet on YouTube said would need two hours to rise. I used whole-wheat flour, though I'd never seen my mother touch anything but all-purpose or cake; I wasn't taking any chances. I'd do it right. I went to three different bodegas before I finally found mangoes for pickling. They were small and hard as rocks, but I'd try leaving them in a paper bag with a dozen apples to hurry up the ripening. If that didn't work, I'd read something about microwaving them until they were soft, but I was a little worried about ending up with mango mousse. I bought Meyer lemons, thinking the sweetness could be nice, but as soon as I got home, I thought of my mother, her mouth shrinking into a knot: You used Meyer lemons? Like she'd never understand why I did the things I did. I went back out, got snowed on again, bought real lemons on the corner, and then went home and pickled them with ginger, paprika, garlic, and salt. I hoped they'd taste like they'd been marinating for months but I was starting to have a bad feeling. Things weren't exactly working out. I cut myself twice, accidentally, trying to use the mandoline to slice the onions "as thin as a breath." I made a bed of them that looked like a lattice. I sprinkled thyme on top. The whole thing looked like the side of a house in Scotland where roses grew like weeds. I hoped my mother liked Scotland, but I'd never asked her. I minced garlic until my hand was shaking.

I put some flour, salt, and spices in a freezer bag and then put the pieces of lamb in and then went shake-shake-shake. The lamb was nicely covered with the flour. I browned the lamb and then put it aside. Then I fried some onion with cinnamon, cloves, and cardamom, added some tomatoes and then the lamb, and cooked until the lamb was all flaky. I mixed chopped lettuce, pieces of avocado, and pomegranate seeds, along with a little bit of lemon juice. I cut the pita bread open, put the lamb curry in, and then the lettuce-avocado mixture. All done!

Becky told Melissa over baba ghanoush, “Yesterday at church, a lady took me aside with the express purpose to tell me, ‘Don’t feel bad. When God closes a door, he opens a window.’ ” Melissa choked on some pita bread. “I kid you not. What the heck does that mean anyway? That I’m supposed to climb out a window now? Or is the window just to air out the house, which is stinking to high heaven, given the fact that the door has been shut indefinitely and NO ONE CAN GET OUT?!” “Okay,” Melissa said, fishing scrap paper and a pen from her purse, “I want name and address. Tonight I’m going to board up her doors.

- Pa uvijek najsjebaniji ljudi postanu gurui - dodam. - Karmen! Karmen u pičku daje bioenergiju. Zadnje sam je vidjela kad je pekla svoj ketamin doma. Sad mi objašnjava kak da se spojim u svemir. - Kako? - pita Janko. - Poslala sam je u kurac. Neće meni jedna narkomanka srati da sam alkosica. I još malo smijeha, spasa.

The teenager brought us a small white plate with a square slab of white cheese doused in a clear liquor. He used a lighter and after several tries flames leapt up, surely singeing the hair on his fingers, then died down to a cool, stovetop blue before going out, leaving the cheese prettily browned and crisp. I wrote, Saganaki---scary but fun. "Oh!" I said. "I forgot about the booze, Charlotte. That was insensitive of me." "It's all burned off," she said. "Besides, if I'm going to blow thirty-two years of sobriety and get drunk, it won't be on flaming Greek cheese!" We scooped it onto warm, puffy pita bread. "If I closed my eyes, I could be in Patmos right now," said Belinda. A bowl of cunning little meatballs appeared with its snow-white yogurt and fish-egg dip. Another plate held three plump, golden triangular spinach pies.

Feisty Hummus Serves: 4 (yields 1½ cups) 1 cup cooked garbanzo beans or canned, no-salt-added or low-sodium, drained ¼ cup water ¼ cup raw unhulled sesame seeds 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice 1 tablespoon VegiZest* or other no-salt seasoning blend, adjusted to taste 1 teaspoon Bragg Liquid Aminos or low-sodium soy sauce 1 teaspoon horseradish 1 clove raw garlic Blend all ingredients in a high-powered blender until creamy and smooth. Serve with raw and lightly steamed vegetables or as a filling ingredient with a whole grain wrap or pita. PER SERVING: CALORIES 103; PROTEIN 5g; CARBOHYDRATE 12g; TOTAL FAT 4.5g; SATURATED FAT 0.6g; SODIUM 54mg; FIBER 3.6g; BETA-CAROTENE 6mcg; VITAMIN C 3mg; CALCIUM 95mg; IRON 2.2mg; FOLATE 71mcg; MAGNESIUM 45mg; ZINC 1.1mg; SELENIUM 3.9mcg

Garlic Nutter Spread Serves: 4 3 bulbs garlic 1 cup raw cashews ⅓ cup water or nondairy milk 1 tablespoon nutritional yeast Preheat the oven to 300˚F. Roast garlic in a small baking dish for about 25 minutes or until soft. When cool, remove and discard skins. Combine garlic and remaining ingredients in a high-powered blender. Blend until smooth. Use to season cooked vegetables or add extra flavor to soups and sauces. Spread it on a wrap or pita sandwich. Make a salad dressing by adding tomato sauce, vinegar, and some basil. PER SERVING: CALORIES 230; PROTEIN 9g; CARBOHYDRATE 18g; TOTAL FAT 15.2g; SATURATED FAT 2.7g; SODIUM 9mg; FIBER 2g; BETA-CAROTENE 1mcg; VITAMIN C 7mg; CALCIUM 55mg; IRON 2.8mg; FOLATE 9mcg; MAGNESIUM 108mg; ZINC 2.6mg; SELENIUM 10mcg

Baba Ghanoush over Mixed Greens Serves: 4 1 (1½-pound) eggplant 1 cup cooked garbanzo beans or low-sodium or no-salt-added canned garbanzo beans 2 tablespoons raw tahini or unhulled sesame seeds 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice 2 cloves garlic, finely chopped ⅓ cup water 1 teaspoon Bragg Liquid Aminos 5 ounces romaine lettuce, chopped 5 ounces mixed baby greens Preheat the oven to 350˚F. Prick eggplant, place on baking sheet, and bake for 45 minutes, turning occasionally, until soft. Let it cool and then peel. In a high-powered blender, combine eggplant, garbanzo beans, tahini, lemon juice, garlic, water, and Bragg Liquid Aminos. Blend until smooth. Combine romaine and mixed baby greens and serve baba ghanoush on a bed of greens. Baba ghanoush and greens can also be served in a whole wheat pita or wrap. PER SERVING: CALORIES 155; PROTEIN 8g; CARBOHYDRATE 23g; TOTAL FAT 5.1g; SATURATED FAT 0.7g; SODIUM 83mg; FIBER 9.2g; BETA-CAROTENE 3954mcg; VITAMIN C 13mg; CALCIUM 104mg; IRON 2.5mg; FOLATE 190mcg; MAGNESIUM 61mg; ZINC 1.4mg; SELENIUM 2.4mcg

For Breakfast Intact grain, such as steel cut oats, hulled barley, or buckwheat groats (cooked by boiling in water on a low flame). If you soak the grain overnight, the cooking time will be much shorter in the morning. Add ground flaxseeds, hemp seeds, or chia seeds to this hot cereal, along with fresh or frozen fruit. Use mostly berries, with shredded apple and cinnamon. Or a serving of coarsely ground, 100 percent whole grain bread with raw nut butter. Or as a quick and portable alternative, have a green smoothie, such as my Green Berry Blended Salad. For Lunch A big (really, really big!) salad with a nut/seed-based dressing (see Chapter 9 for some great choices) Vegetable bean soup One fresh fruit For Dinner Raw vegetables with a healthful dip A cooked green vegetable that is simply and quickly prepared: steamed broccoli florets; sautéed leafy greens such as kale, collard greens, or Swiss chard; asparagus, frozen artichoke hearts, or frozen peas. A vegetable dish that has some starchy component or intact grain with it, such as a bean/oat/mushroom burger on a whole wheat pita or a stir-fried dish with onions, cabbage, mushrooms, and water chestnuts with wild rice or other intact grain and a sauce such as Thai peanut sauce.

U nekoj beskrajnoj nežnosti, koje muževe obuzima, posle dugog braka, prema ženi, ja čitam sa mojim beleškama, njeno pismo, kao odgovor na obećanje, da ću je čekati u Fiorenci. Da još jednom vidimo Fiorencu. Ona mi je pisala da još jednom svratimo u hotel “Aurora”. U Fijezoli. Bili smo tako sretni kad je prvi put došla, kod mene, u Italiju. Pita me da li se sećam pucnjave, u neredima, kad su napali Poštu? Kad su revolveri praštali. Kad je ona stala preda mnom i raširila preda me svoj laki, crni kaput, kao neki crni labud, na pozornici, u baletu. Kjaramonti nikad nije hteo da poveruje u to. Da li to taj poručnik veruje, ili ne, pisala mi je, nije važno. Svaka bi žena, tvrdila je ona, kada bi volela, učinila to. Za muškarca, pisala je, i kad voli, tako nešto, nije sasvim sigurno. Pisala mi je da je odvedem da još jednom vidi Fiorencu. Zaklonila me je tamo svojim telom, dok je pucnjava trajala, a ne mogu poreći, da je tako i bilo. Moram priznati da je tako bilo. Ne traži od mene ništa za to. Nije mi tražila ništa za to. Sad mi, međutim, traži da još jednom svratimo u Fiorencu. Da se naselimo tamo gore, u Fijezoli, u našem hotelu. Ja sam joj odgovorio da sam, poslom, nedavno, bio tamo. Nije priroda sad tamo ono, što je bila proletos. Nisu ni masline kao što su bile. Nebo nije plavo. Samo su čaršavi plavi u “Aurori”, i baru. U vrtu su čempresi sad u snegu. Ona je odgovarala: svejedno. Iako se čempresi crne – dole, u dolini, u daljini, krovovi Fiorence biće ipak crveni, ponegde. Kube, koje toliko volim, ona voli još više. Više čak nego Mikelanđelovo. Brda će se i sad videti talasasto, kao što su i bila, kada smo poslednji put bili tamo. Uostalom, nije to što ona traži od mene, da još jednom sagledamo. Traži samo da još jednom sačekamo na balkonu hotela veče, tamo. Mrak će pasti rano. Nestaće, polako, Fiorence, u mraku. Neće se videti ni kampanil koji je nazidao Đoto. Nije ni potrebno. Ono što bi ona želela da vidi, još jednom, to je trenutak kad u zamračenoj Fiorenci upale svetiljke. One, iznenada – ona se toga seća – blesnu. Sinu. Kao da neko zasipa zvezdama Fiorencu. Toliko svetiljki, a sinu u istom trenutku, i trepere. Kako je to bilo lepo. Iako je sad zima, iako ima snega, to bi htela još jednom da vidi, pre nego što iz Italije odemo. Da joj učinim to. To bar nije teško.

Esos “bárbaros” medievales... Imaginemos que un turista llega a París y decide ver todo lo que se pueda. Solo tiene tres días ya que la exigencia de su “tour” no le permite más. Decide no seguir con el grupo para tener más independencia (y hace bien); abre rápidamente su guía y comienza a ver qué visitará en esa jornada; es tanto lo que tiene para ver que decide cortar por lo sano; se acerca a un parisino que encuentra por la calle y en un aceptable inglés, le pregunta: -  “Buenos días; disculpe por favor... Soy turista y es mi primera vez aquí. Dígame: debo ver París en solo tres días: ¿qué me recomienda Ud.?” El parisino, un joven de apenas 25 años, con barba, boina y un bolso estilo hippie, le dice mientras pita un cigarrillo: -  “No deje de ver ‘La Sainte-Chapelle’, ‘Notre Dame’, el ‘Quartier Latin’, el Museo del Louvre, el de Cluny y la Basílica real de Saint-Denis. ¡Ah...! –agrega– si puede vaya a ver la Tour Eiffel, al menos por afuera”. Y el hippie no se equivoca... sabe que todas aquellas “construcciones medievales” no pueden dejarse de visitar. Es que la “Edad Media” construyó cosas tan horripilantes que incluso hasta el día de hoy existe gente que desea despilfarrar sus ahorros y masacrar sus sentidos con las catedrales góticas y románicas, los manuscritos iluminados, los frescos en las paredes de los claustros o iglesias, la poesía medieval, los cantares de gesta, los vitrales, las esculturas que adornan el interior y el exterior de las casas y edificios, los instrumentos, el canto y la polifonía, etc. Es todo esto lo que un turista que viaje a Europa se obstinará una y otra vez por visitar. ¡Qué masoquistas que somos! Ir a visitar la obra de unos brutos “bárbaros”... Pero... “¿bárbara la Edad Media, que ha construido Sainte-Foy-de-Conques, Cluny y el Thoronet?¿Bárbaros, los tímpanos románicos de Moissac o de Autun?¿Bárbaras las catedrales góticas de Amiens o de Beauvais?¿Bárbaro el Ángel de la sonrisa de Notre-Dame de Reims?¿Bárbaros los vitrales de Chartres o los de la Sainte-Chapelle?¿Bárbaros los manuscritos iluminados, los relicarios, los ostensorios y los vasos litúrgicos, piezas de arte sacro que conmueven todavía hoy a los incrédulos?¿Bárbaros el canto llano gregoriano, la polifonía de Guillermo de Machaut o de Josquin des Prés?¿Bárbaros esos monjes que, concibiendo la gama, el ritmo y la armonía, pusieron las bases de la música occidental? ¿Bárbaros esos clérigos que, en el siglo XIII, fundaron las grandes universidades europeas? ¿Bárbaros esos astrónomos y esos médicos que, a pesar de una técnica limitada, profundizaron el aporte de los griegos y de los árabes, preparando el inicio científico del mundo moderno?”[38]. ¡Qué genios estos bárbaros! –diría Chesterton.

[D]í kabaitan ang pagkamasunurin sa ano mang pita at hiling ñg nagdidiosdiosan, kundi ang pagsunod sa katampata't matuid, sapagka't ang bulag na pagsunod ay siyang pinagmumulan ñg likong paguutos, at sa bagay na ito'y pawang nagkakasala.

The menu was full of foods that felt like home to me, but that also had a flair of originality. Brisket and matzo balls in a hearty bowl of ramen. Lox bowls with nori and crispy rice. Savory potato kugel and boureka pastries with hummus and fried artichokes with kibbeh. Knishes with kimchi and potato filling and a gochujang aioli. "This menu is so... Jewish." "So Jewish," Seth agreed. "And make sure you're saving room for dessert. The rugelach is unreal, and the rainbow cookies are---" he looked around, then lowered his voice--- "better than my mom's." One of the things I actually missed about living in New York was seeing all the fun twists people put on Jewish and Israeli food at restaurants and in delis. Nobody was doing that in Vermont. Maybe you could do that in Vermont, something whispered in my head. I was used to just pushing that voice away, but, for once, I let myself pause and consider it. Would it be that crazy to sell babka at my café? I bet people would love a thick, tender slice of the sweet bread braided with chocolate or cinnamon sugar or even something savory with their coffee. I could experiment with fun fillings, have a daily special. Or I could rotate shakshuka or sabich sandwiches on the brunch specials menu, since they both involved eggs. My regulars might see eggs poached in spicy tomato sauce and pitas stuffed with fried eggplant, eggs, and all the salad fixings as breaths of fresh air.

Here’s who it’s okay to share a bed with: Your sister if you’re a girl, your brother if you’re a boy, your mom if you’re a girl, and your dad if you’re under twelve or he’s over ninety. Your best friend. A carpenter you picked up at the key-lime-pie stand in Red Hook. A bellhop you met in the business center of a hotel in Colorado. A Spanish model, a puppy, a kitten, one of those domesticated minigoats. A heating pad. An empty bag of pita chips. The love of your life. Here’s who it’s not okay to share a bed with: Anyone who makes you feel like you’re invading their space. Anyone who tells you that they “just can’t be alone right now.” Anyone who doesn’t make you feel like sharing a bed is the coziest and most sensual activity they could possibly be undertaking (unless, of course, it is one of the aforementioned relatives; in that case, they should act lovingly but also reserved/slightly annoyed). Now, look over at the person beside you. Do they meet these criteria? If not, remove them or remove yourself. You’re better off alone.

Week One Shopping List Vegetables 2 red bell peppers 3 jalapeño peppers 2 medium cucumbers 1 small head green cabbage 7 medium carrots 1 head cauliflower 4-inch piece fresh ginger 4 butter or Bibb lettuce leaves 1 pound fingerling potatoes 5 cups fresh spinach 6 medium tomatoes 3 cups cherry tomatoes 4 medium zucchini Herbs 1 bunch fresh basil 1 bunch fresh cilantro 1 bunch fresh flat-leaf parsley Fruit 1 large apple 5 bananas 2 pints fresh blueberries (or 1 pound frozen) 3 lemons 2 limes Meat and Fish 1 whole chicken, about 4 pounds 4 pork chops 1½ pounds flank steak 1 pound peeled and deveined shrimp Dairy 6 ounces whipped cream cheese 26 eggs 8 ounces feta cheese 14 ounces goat cheese 1 pint plain Greek yogurt 6 ounces sour cream Miscellaneous 3¼ cups plus 2 tablespoons unsweetened almond milk 16 corn tortillas 3 cups salsa verde or tomatillo salsa 2 (12-ounce) packages silken tofu 4 whole-wheat tortillas 2 whole-wheat pita breads 1 loaf of whole-grain bread

favorite recipe is Carrie Brown’s Fig and Olive Tapenade, which she serves up at the Jimtown Store in Healdsburg, California. Her recipe uses dried figs, which means less pitting and cuts the saltiness of the tapenade. I like tapenade with pita bread points that have been brushed with spiced oil, then toasted until crisp (This Page). Ice-cold rosé or vin d’orange are lovely accompaniments, too. ½ cup (85 g) stemmed and quartered dried Black Mission figs 1 cup (250 ml) water 1 cup (170 g) black olives, rinsed and pitted 1 garlic clove,

Povela me na pijacu Markale. Alma kaže da se na tom mjestu može konačno upoznati duša unutarnjeg Sarajeva. Ne govori pritom o švercu hrane, o svakodnevnim prehrambenim proizvodima koji sve više postaju nedostižni običnim građanima, nego o stvarima koje su do jučer ispunjavale stanove i kuće građana. I doista, ovdje nalazimo ljude koji već donose kućne dragocjenosti na prodaju, ili barem ono čega su se spremni odreći. Danas još prodaju knjige – mslim dok pratim Almu kroz gužvu, dok je slušam kako razgovara s ljudima, kako pozdravlja, pita, ide dalje – manje vrijedne slike, porculan, neupotrebljive lijepe predmete, domino, lule, antikvitete..., a sutra će donositi srebro, zlato, dijamante, rijetkosti, prodavat će godinama sakupljane zbirke koječega, najskupocjenije posuđe, najljepše perzijske ćilime ili porodične uspomene na ovoj burzi na kojoj će se vrijednosti svih tih stvari iz nekadašnjih života mjeriti šakom riže, kilom brašna, s dva ili tri jaja, žlicom ulja...Simon je u pravu, omča se steže. Doći će spoznaja, pa očaj.

Rabin i biskup živeli su jedan pored drugog stalno se takmičeći. Jednog jutra rabin je primetio da je biskup kupio novi auto. Rabin ga upita: - Šta to radiš? - biskup je polivao auto vodom - Kupio sam novi auto "kadilak", osveštavam ga Sledećeg dana biskup pita rabina - Šta to radiš? Najnoviji model rols ojska stajao je ispred rabinove kuće a rabin mu je sekao auspuh. - Obrezujem ga To je tačno ono što oni rade svojoj deci. A svako dete je jednako nevino i bespomoćno; ono niti zna šta mu rade niti mu je to potrebno, niti to može da spreči. POrodica je izvor svih okova svesti: ona ti daje u nasleđe svu prošlost i ogorman teret prepun stavova za koje je već odavno dokazano da su pogrešni. Pretovaren si svim time i tvoj um je zapušen tako da ne može da primi ništa novo što je u suprotnosti s već formalnim konceptima u tvojoj glavi. Tvoj um je jednostavno pun smeća.

Week 1: Too Busy to Cook a Nutritarian Menu Day 1 BREAKFAST Oatmeal with blueberries and chia seeds. Combine 1/ 2 cup old-fashioned oats with 1 cup water or nondairy milk. Heat in microwave on high for 2 minutes, stir and microwave an additional minute. Stir in thawed frozen blueberries and chia seeds. One apple or banana LUNCH Huge salad with assorted vegetables, walnuts, and bottled low-sodium/ no-oil dressing Low-sodium purchased vegetable bean soup One fresh or frozen fruit DINNER Carrot and celery sticks, cherry tomatoes, raw cauliflower, and red pepper slices with bottled low-sodium/ no-oil dressing Sunny Bean Burgers* on 100 percent whole grain pita with tomato, red onion, sautéed mushrooms, and low-sodium ketchup Black Cherry Sorbet* or fresh or frozen fruit

Day 4 BREAKFAST Thawed frozen blueberries or strawberries mixed with currants, crushed walnuts, and raw sunflower seeds LUNCH 100 percent whole grain wrap or pita with mixed greens, tomato, avocado, sliced onion, and Russian Fig Dressing* or bottled low-sodium/ no-oil dressing (add 2 ounces of baked chicken or turkey if desired) One fresh fruit. Always keep some apples on hand, because they don’t get crushed when traveling with you. DINNER Salad with bottled low-sodium/ no-oil dressing White Bean and Kale Soup* or low-sodium purchased vegetable bean soup with added frozen vegetables Apple Surprise* or fresh or frozen fruit

What do you want for lunch?" "Jag and I were talking about maybe needing a little Persian fix. What do you think?" "I think I will do an order to Noon O Kabab, and then take the dog for a walk. Can you keep an ear out for the doorbell?" "Will do?" I grab my iPad and log in to the restaurant website and place an order for hummus, baba ghanouj, spicy pomegranate wings, and skewers of chenjeh, koubideh, and lamb. The combination of grilled marinated rib eye, minced spiced beef, and tender lamb should be plenty for three hungry worker bees, with Persian rice and grilled vegetables, chunks of feta, and their delicious large pita breads.

Chicken Salad Sandwich - Shred or chop some leftover chicken, and combine it with diced celery, dice apples, cut grapes, a tiny bit of organic or vegan mayo, a squeeze of lemon, salt and pepper to taste. Serve on whole grain (or gluten-free) pita bread, sandwich slices, or bagel.

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.

I was inhaling my latest invention, “Greek” pizza—warm pita layered with black olive spread, creamy hummus, and tart tzatziki, topped with a heap of chopped and olive oil–drizzled tomatoes, feta, cucumbers, and avocado—when

O zar ne vidiš onaj uzan put Tako gusto obras'o, u trnju i žbunju? Ono je staza Pravednosti, Mada malo njih pita za nju. I zar ne vidiš onaj širok, širok drum Što se pruža preko ljiljan-gaja? Ono je staza Bezbožnosti, Mada je neki zovu Putem do Raja.

Ja tražim odgovor na nešto drugo. Nešto u sebi između srca i utrobe, nespretno smješteno, nezadovoljeno, nešto što ne dobiva odgovor već dugo, a ni pitanje ne zna postaviti, pa tako obično kao dijete pita – bi li mogla ovdje zauvijek ostati – dok gledam kuće.

Najvećim delom sveta danas krekeću pare, Umesto plodnih njiva dremaju smrdljive bare; Najvećim delom sveta danas su jedino siti Hulje i paraziti. Ostali narod je pesak, O njemu ne vode brigu; Vetar goni, Pa se pita, Pa se pita, Ko te pita!

Nuclear colonialism began in New Mexico, where the nuclear weapons complex began. If Spanish colonialism brought Spanish colonizers, and U.S. colonialism brought American colonizers, then nuclear colonialism brought nuclear colonizers—scientists, military personnel, atomic bomb testing, and nuclear waste among them. This book exposes nuclear colonialism as both the third major settler colonial period in New Mexico and as an “ism,” that is, a “form of doctrine, theory, or practice having, or claiming to have, a distinctive character or relation.”4 Rhetorician Danielle Endres defines nuclear colonialism as “a system of domination through which governments and corporations disproportionately target and devastate indigenous peoples and their lands to maintain the nuclear production process” (Endres 2009, 39). I would add to this definition what Patrick Wolfe (1999) says about settler colonialism: “the colonizers come to stay—invasion is a structure not an event” (2). In their essay “Rethinking Settler Colonialism,” Rosaura Sánchez and Beatrice Pita (2014) define colonization as a “state-sponsored settlement” and follow Wolfe’s rationale that settler colonialism is a form of colonialism in which “the colonists displace or eliminate the natives wholesale” (1041). Nuclear colonialism and settler colonialism share many of the same characteristics, but there is one major distinction: nuclear colonialism is a neocolonial framework that targets not only Indigenous people but also other ethnic minority groups in poor economic situations that have become disenfranchised because of state occupation of their homelands.5

Reuben Sandwich YIELD: 4 SERVINGS WHILE LIVING in New York City, I became a sucker for sandwiches, which for me represent the American spirit and lifestyle: easy, unstructured, and casual. They are convenient, fast, and mess-free and may well be the most versatile of all foods. Sandwiches can be healthful or decadent, light or heavy, with ingredients to please vegetarians and carnivores. Made with pita, regular bread, tortilla wraps, or baguettes, they can reflect different ethnic traditions. I believe it was James Beard who said not many people understand a good sandwich. I like to think that I still do. I first tasted this sandwich in a restaurant near 42nd Street a few weeks after I arrived in New York. With a cold beer and a bit of salad, it makes a perfect meal for either lunch or dinner. You can use commercial Russian or Thousand Island dressing on the sandwich or create your own Russian dressing. I sometimes make the Reuben with pastrami, although corned beef is the traditional choice, and I use rye as well as pumpernickel bread. Be sure to use good Swiss cheese (Emmenthaler or Gruyère). I prefer the sauerkraut available in plastic bags to the canned varieties. RUSSIAN DRESSING ½ cup mayonnaise 3 tablespoons ketchup 1 tablespoon fresh or bottled horseradish 1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce Good dash Tabasco hot pepper sauce SANDWICHES 8 large slices pumpernickel bread (each about 6 by 4 inches in diameter, ½ inch thick, and weighing about 1 ounce) 6 ounces Swiss cheese (preferably Emmenthaler or Gruyère), cut into enough slices to completely cover the bread (about 1½ ounces per sandwich) 1⅓ cups drained sauerkraut 8 ounces thinly sliced corned beef (not too lean) 2 tablespoons unsalted butter 2 tablespoons corn or peanut oil FOR THE DRESSING: Mix all the dressing ingredients together in a small bowl. FOR EACH SANDWICH: Spread 2 pieces of the bread with 1 tablespoon each of the Russian dressing, and arrange enough cheese slices on both pieces of bread to cover them. Measure out about ⅓ cup of the sauerkraut and spread half of it on top of one of the cheese-covered slices. Cover with 2 ounces of the corned beef, then spread the remaining half (⅙ cup) of sauerkraut on top. To finish, top with the other cheese-covered slice of bread. Repeat with the remaining ingredients to make 3 additional sandwiches. At serving time, melt the butter with the oil in a nonstick skillet, and sauté the sandwiches, covered, over medium to low heat for about 8 minutes, 4 minutes per side, until the cheese on the sandwiches has melted and the corned beef is hot. Serve immediately.

Serve with pitas or crusty bread to mop up the sauce.

Znate li po čemu se zna da li je čudovište sposobno da ponovo hoda zemljom, gospodine Bišope?" pita me zamišljeno. "Kako znate da li se zaista iskupilo i da ne govori samo ono što želite da čujete?" Poteže još jedan gutljaj iz čuturice. "Date mu dan bez posledica i gledate šta će uraditi s njim.

Koliko samo ljudi pogine u svakom američkom filmu?" - govorio je Mihalkov - "koliko ih izrešetaju automatima, raznesu dinamitom ili pregaze kolima, i niko se ne pita imaju li ti ljudi majke, žene, decu, šta će biti sa njima? A pre sto pedeset godina, jedan student ubije babu u Petrogradu i tu stvar opiše jedan pisac, pa se još dan-danas pišu knjige i vode rasprave o tome da li je taj student imao pravo da ubije nekorisnu babu? Razlika između Zapada i nas je u tome što oni razmišljaju kako živeti, a mi - zašto?

I am also indebted to The Nature of Horses by Stephen Budiansky; How to Think Like a Horse by Cherry Hill; The Horse in Human History by Pita Kelekna; The Eighty-Dollar Champion by Elizabeth Letts; Horse Sense by John Mettler; and Chosen by a Horse by Susan Richards. Keeping African Grey Parrots by David Aldington helped me to think about Nabokov.

Alexander may or may not have peeked out of the kitchen office to make sure Eden actually ate the rest of her Asian fusion abomination. Her delicious Asian fusion abomination. As much as it bothers him to admit, Alexander has never tasted anything so amazing before. The sauce was tangy, notes of lime coming to the forefront without being overpowering. The mini pita shells she'd used had been warmed on the skillet, offering a lovely crunchy texture to offset the softness of the Pad Thai.

Mahirap magsama ang dalawang taong pinag-iisa lang ng pita ng laman at hindi binuo ng matagal na pagkakaibigan. Misfortunes will always pursue sinners. Our sins will surely find us.

If it had been any other old acquaintance, Abby would have anchored Saturday’s tour with her favorite places to eat. There would have been brunch at Sabrina’s, then some walking, and people-watching. There might have been a trip to the Barnes or the Philadelphia Museum of Art, followed by hummus and fresh pita at Dizengoff or tahini milkshakes at Goldie, then a stroll east to Spruce Street Harbor Park for fried chicken sandwiches at Federal Donuts, ice cream from Franklin Fountain, and drinks at Oasis…

Neobrazovanih ljudi ima mnogo. To su oni što ne znaju da citiraju, nemaju odakle. Dobar svet ih se kloni pa tako ni od koga nemaju šta da nauče, i uvek žive isto, neobogaćeni legnu da spavaju, nemaju s kime da se sučeljavaju. Zato piju i puše. Ne znaju kako da se odnose, i život ih stavlja na velike muke kakve obrazovani nemaju. Pita Život: Je li, a što ti živiš? Obrazovani odmah zna, u pola pitanja več uskače kao delfin u vodu i spremno nabraja. A neobrazovani - ćuti. Velike su to razlike, kraja im nema. Kada su počele to svaki O zna. Dobro. Prošli put je bilo jednostavnije. Da imam krzno ni haljinu ne bih nosila, vukla bih rep i pucketale bi šapice po parketu. Uspomene bi stajale u velikoj kosmičkoj praznini, odložene, sveže.

I went to this meeting on the other side of town once and I kid you not, they had stale ass pita chips and hummus all up in that motherfucker. That's it!" He laughs at himself. "Like, what? Who the fuck are they catering to? We're addicts. We're disgusting human beings. We want drugs. Dirty, nasty drugs. And if we can't have drugs, we want sugar and anything else That's bad for our bodies. How hard is that to understand? I mean, read a fucking book on it. Shit.

Dok je bila živa, Leilu Tekilu uvijek su pomalo čudili, a ponekad i uznemiravali, ljudi koji su uživali u opsesivnom nagađanju o smaku svijeta. NIkako nije mogla razumjeti zašto su naizgled zdravi umovi toliko opsjednuti bezumnim scenarijima o asteroidima, vatrenim kuglama i kometima koji će razoriti planet? Ako se nju pita, apokalipsa nije najgore što se može dogoditi. Mogućnost kataklizme koja će odjednom pokositi civilizaciju nije ni upola zastrašujuća kao jednostavna spoznaja da naša pojedinačna smrt nimalo ne utječe na poredak stvari i da će se život neometano nastaviti s nama i bez nas. To je po njezinu mišljenju bilo zastrašujuće.

Mini Chicago hot dogs, with all seven of the classic toppings for people to customize. Miniature pita breads ready to be filled with chopped gyro meat and tzatziki sauce. Half-size Italian beef sandwiches with homemade giardiniera my mom put up last summer. We did crispy fried chicken tenders atop waffle sticks with Tabasco maple butter, and two-inch deep-dish pizzas exploding with cheese and sausage. Little tubs of cole slaw and containers of spicy sesame noodles. There are ribs, chicken adobo tacos, and just for kicks, a macaroni and cheese bar with ten different toppings.

Yes,’ I told Heather. Yes, I would rather eat delicious falafel at the joint around the corner than flatter my way to an intimacy with someone for whom marriage is a financial transaction, young flesh for old, security for heirs. Yes, I would rather enjoy creamy tahini, a soft pita, those perfectly fried little balls, than torture myself about what was or was not happening in my life when my life was good. Yes, I rejected marriage—as an abstract, arbitrary signifier, as a legal and social status that determined my value, as a bullshitty benchmark I’d blown past years ago anyway. Yes!” She raised a fist in the air. “I wanted pleasure. Yes, I wanted companionship. Yes, I wanted a life of meaning. Yes, this was thirty-six, goddammit, tonight I wanted falafel and tonight it would be mine. I would rather eat falafel than get married.

La poesía no tiene función social, obedece a razones divinas e infernales: Pita Amor”.

MS: ¿Tú eres divina? PA: Bueno, dentro de lo que cabe.

¿con qué fin habrá nacido, si tan sólo es una sombra a la que el vivir asombra sin encontrarle sentido?

es mejor pecar de inmodestia que de hipocresía,

en México, el reconocimiento a sus artistas femeninas se les da —si es que se les da— después de muertas.

Yo soy bruja, apóstata y hereje, bella, inquietante, blanca y alarmante. Yo soy eternamente desquiciante yo soy del mundo una antena, un eje.

Viví, viví intensamente; acepté todos los placeres y todas las amarguras. No tuve miedo ni de la vida ni del aislamiento. Al cabo de algún tiempo, en mi haber no tenía más que el vacío”.