Recipe For Disaster Quotes

Science is the key to our future, and if you don’t believe in science, then you’re holding everybody back. And it’s fine if you as an adult want to run around pretending or claiming that you don’t believe in evolution, but if we educate a generation of people who don’t believe in science, that’s a recipe for disaster. We talk about the Internet. That comes from science. Weather forecasting. That comes from science. The main idea in all of biology is evolution. To not teach it to our young people is wrong.

There's nobody to guide through the process of becoming a man... to explain to them the meaning of manhood. And that's a recipe for disaster.

Happiness as a goal is a recipe for disaster.

The first one who is immune. I smell a recipe for disaster brewing,

When ambition outstrips ability, that is always a recipe for disaster.

Creating lines that went straight into the interior [of a space station] was a recipe for disaster. Some knucklehead in an X-wing was bound to come along and drop an energy torpedo into your main power plant, and everyone knows how that ends.

You understand quite completely that the main lesson of history is: humans don’t learn from history. The twenty-first century could still turn out to be a bad cover version of the twentieth, but what could we do? People’s minds across the world were filling with utopias that could never overlap. It was a recipe for disaster, but, alas, a familiar one. Empathy was waning, as it often had. Peace was made of porcelain, as it always was.

The fact is that this happens in a white community, with a black man, a gun, and a cop who claims he can’t see the black man’s hands. That combination is a recipe for disaster. It doesn’t matter who tells who what to do.

What will seduce a person is the effort we expend on their behalf, showing how much we care, how much they are worth. Leaving things to chance is a recipe for disaster, and reveals that we do not take love and romance very seriously. It

The basic combination of these three things: (1) that the world around us tries to tempt us; (2) that we listen to the world around us (e.g., choice architecture); and (3) that we don’t deal very well with temptation… if you put all of those things together, you have a recipe for disaster. So

education without inspiration is only a recipe for desperation

Certainly, the average fashion magazine gives women ridiculous relationship advice that makes it easy to understand why women are so eager to overcompensate: “Play hard to get, then cook him a four-course meal … bake him Valentine’s cookies with exotic sprinkles shipped from Malaysia (just like Martha Stewart). Don’t forget the little doilies and the organic strawberries that you drove two hours to get. Then serve it all to him on the second date, wearing a black lace nightie.” And what is this a recipe for? Disaster.

Well that’s open to debate,’ he said. 'It sounds like a recipe for disaster to me, and I hate the thought of you throwing yourself at guys just to try and get laid. Christ, I’d do you myself if I thought it would keep you safe.’ ‘Now that’s true friendship,’ I said, cracking under the severity of his tone.

There are dinner parties ruined by guests, and there are dinner parties ruined by hosts, and then there are dinner parties when everyone contributes to the disaster.

Because he is a recipe for disaster. A literal recipe. Two cups of charm, three ounces of inappropriate flirting, and a dash of dimples make for a very, very broken heart.

Some people get married because of what they hope to receive, rather than what they want to give. This is a recipe for disaster.

You can have some, but not all. Wanting to have it all is a sure recipe for disaster

The ideology of change for its own sake is a recipe for disaster in the wrong hands. Fortune magazine named Enron the most innovative company in America from 1996 to 2001, before the energy giant’s shady accounting practices came to light.

Most girls have a recipe for disaster, but few of them actually find all the ingredients and bake them at the right temperature. If they did, they'd learn to measure more accurately and that they ought to clean up their mess as they go along.

If the militarily most powerful and least threatened states need nuclear weapons for their security, how can one deny such security to countries that are truly insecure? The present nuclear policy is a recipe for proliferation. It is a policy for disaster.

When you refuse to think about an issue, it remains unchanged, in precisely the same state as you tucked it away." "Precisely the point of boxing it. The issue dies. Can no longer affect you. It's a damned effective tactic." "Short-term yes. Long-term, a recipe for disaster. When you next encounter whatever you boxed your feeling about, you're ambushed by repressed, unresolved emotion.

And why number ten? Of all the commandments, number ten gives me the greatest pause for thought. For to put oneself above all other laws is a fundamental recipe for disaster.

WFor to put oneself above the law is a fundamental recipe for disaster.

Expensive shoes and cheap minds is a recipe for disaster" RjS

Disobedience is a sure recipe for disaster, picking up the pieces is even harder

He was making up a story, and she was buying into his bullshit. That was a recipe for disaster

Most people have reliable partners and sharing with a partner is one of the joys of life. However, basing your security on a partner or any other one individual is a recipe for disaster. When

Altering your behavior or being someone different from who you are is a recipe for disaster. He is attracted to you—the real you—just the way you are, not to some woman who has no life except for him.

What will seduce a person is the effort we expend on their behalf, showing how much we care, how much they are worth. Leaving things to chance is a recipe for disaster, and reveals that we do not take love and romance very seriously.

According to business and economics professor Paul Harvey, “a great source of frustration for people with a strong sense of entitlement is unmet expectations.”1 If you believe that you’re special, and all you have to do is find your singular passion and turn it into a perfect job, that’s a recipe for disaster. The reality is that the world owes you nothing. You only become “special” by developing skills that are in demand, which takes focus, grit, and long-term work.

A lot of people are mentally ‘not all there.’ They’ve been hurt; they’re insecure and scared to be themselves. They don’t want to let people in. We’ve all created this vicious circle of everyone fucking over everyone. We’re all making each other vulnerable. We’re all scared to look too interested. We don’t want to scare people off, but by tiptoeing around, we aren’t being ourselves, and that’s always a recipe for disaster. Then again, sometimes I feel like we’re all hypocrites in the dating world.

Given that some of the big political visions of the twentieth century led us to Auschwitz, Hiroshima and the Great Leap Forward, maybe we are better off in the hands of petty-minded bureaucrats. Mixing godlike technology with megalomaniacal politics is a recipe for disaster.

When a society removes moral responsibility by belief that the acquisition of knowledge comes from an unknown and mysterious venue, it loses its ability for rational conceptualization of values because they are stripped from the reality of this life and placed in an imaginary next life, which is a recipe for disaster.

Watching television is another high-risk situation. This might seem counterintuitive, since people often look to TV as an escape—something to take their mind off things. But here’s the problem: Most programs are simply not interesting or engaging enough to fully occupy the mind, so it’s all too easy for our thoughts to wander off when we’re sitting in front of the tube. Add to this the fact that depression impairs our ability to concentrate—including the ability to stay focused on a TV program—and it’s no surprise that watching television is often a recipe for disaster. It’s one of the most effective ways to usher in an extended bout of rumination.

I’m so bedeviled by my own ambitions that it never occurred to me that a clouded mind is a recipe for disaster or, that outside my office, there is an entire world full of colors and possibilities. To me, there is only one thing that matters: I have to reach a point where I can finally boast to myself and the whole world that I made it.

They say you have to watch out for a woman scorned . Let me tell you, a woman in mourning can be just as deadly.

I seldom end up where I wanted to go, but almost always end up where I need to be.

I’m pretty sure if Socrates ever met a Kardashian, he’d have gone into the first bar and ordered himself a double hemlock straight up with a twist.

Reese was pretty sure that this weekend was a recipe for disaster. He could just see it now. Mix one junkie pop star with a do-gooder billionaire who’s hiding a secret crush on her. Add in the lonely twin sister crushing on the billionaire, and make all three parties completely unaware of the other’s interest. Stir with that giant stick up Audrey’s ass. Watch fireworks explode.

1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1 2/3 cup sugar 3 eggs I love him 3/4 cup butter or margarine (softened) but I’m not 'in love' with him 1/2 cup cream (unsweetened) 1 cup all-purpose flour we're getting married 2/3 cup cocoa tomorrow 1/4 cup baking powder (beat until blended)

The largest culture shock was being Black in this atmosphere. We had white coaches, and they wanted the Black players to be the embodiment of who they were. They would tell us to wear our pants or shoes a certain way; this is what it meant to “be a man.” They thought our path to manhood was to be found in skinny jeans and a tucked-in shirt. (Although now Migos, getting “Bad and Boujee,” has all kinds of young players dressing like that by choice. Go figure.) But they never understood or tried to understand us. They projected their morals and thought processes onto young Black men without figuring out who we were. This struck me as a recipe for our continually being misunderstood, misguided, and misjudged, ingredients for disaster and rebellion, or at the very least for stress and self-destruction and the creation of the very PTSD that afflicts players when it’s all over.

Subject: SELF WORTH (Very Deep!!!) In a brief conversation, a man asked a woman he was pursuing the question: 'What kind of man are you looking for?' She sat quietly for a moment before looking him in the eye & asking, 'Do you really want to know?' Reluctantly, he said, 'Yes. She began to expound, 'As a woman in this day & age, I am in a position to ask a man what can you do for me that I can't do for myself? I pay my own bills. I take care of my household without the help of any man... or woman for that matter. I am in the position to ask, 'What can you bring to the table?' The man looked at her. Clearly he thought that she was referring to money. She quickly corrected his thought & stated, 'I am not referring to money. I need something more. I need a man who is striving for excellence in every aspect of life. He sat back in his chair, folded his arms, & asked her to explain. She said, 'I need someone who is striving for excellence mentally because I need conversation & mental stimulation. I don't need a simple-minded man. I need someone who is striving for excellence spiritually because I don't need to be unequally yoked...believers mixed with unbelievers is a recipe for disaster. I need a man who is striving for excellence financially because I don't need a financial burden. I need someone who is sensitive enough to understand what I go through as a woman, but strong enough to keep me grounded. I need someone who has integrity in dealing with relationships. Lies and game-playing are not my idea of a strong man. I need a man who is family-oriented. One who can be the leader, priest and provider to the lives entrusted to him by God. I need someone whom I can respect. In order to be submissive, I must respect him. I cannot be submissive to a man who isn't taking care of his business. I have no problem being submissive...he just has to be worthy. And by the way, I am not looking for him...He will find me. He will recognize himself in me. Hey may not be able to explain the connection, but he will always be drawn to me. God made woman to be a help-mate for man. I can't help a man if he can't help himself. When she finished her spill, she looked at him. He sat there with a puzzled look on his face. He said, 'You are asking a lot. She replied, "I'm worth a lot". Send this to every woman who's worth a lot.... and every man who has the brains to understand!!

I lay there unable to move, reading about disasters in the far corners of the world. What could I do? Write letters, send checks. But there will never be a time when terrible trouble is not stalking the earth, and I began to see how important it is to appreciate what you have. For too long I'd been waiting for the wonderful. But there is so much joy in everyday occurrences: a butterfly in the sun the first crisp bite of an apple, the rich aroma of roasting meat. Maybe I had to break my foot to open my eyes, but I finally understood why cooking means so much to me. In a world filled with no, it is my yes.

Which is why, ultimately, we need to flame the place, Roz. And it's also why we should be eating more meat as a species. Each new vegetarian recipe Mankind allows is a recipe for disaster.' 'That sentence would be brilliantly funny, Nick. If it weren't also terrifyingly true.' 'I know, Roz. If only I could allow myself to appreciate the stark humor of it. Yet the reality is, these vegetarian fast-food outlets are the wild west of the modern convenience snack. And we've only just begun to realize the full implications of messing about with supposedly "healthy" ingredients that Mankind can neither taste nor understand.

There is nothing wrong with believing in yourself, in your heart. It always knows the path you should take, and often, the more you fear it, the more that is probably what you should try. Even if there is the likelihood of failure. Our failures prepare us for our successes, and you never know when you start which it will be.

Above all, however, resist the temptation to cover the entire room in foam--I can't tell you how often college studios in particular succumb to this seductive error. It is quite simply a recipe for disaster, because it hoovers up the top half of the room's reverberation, making for an extremely unnatural working environment. Although it makes good sense to damp down strong early reflections that can potentially comb filter your frequency response, you also want your monitoring environment to bear at least a passing resemblance to real-world living rooms and offices. If you plaster your whole studio in foam, you'll basically be mixing for people in padded cells--perhaps not the most lucrative demographic to set your sights on!

Caroline made a steamed fig pudding with brandy hard sauce. Hedy and Jacob brought a platter of dense, moist gingerbread squares studded with chunks of candied ginger and frosted with a lemon cream cheese icing. John and Marie brought a flourless chocolate souffle cake filled with chocolate mousse, glazed with chocolate ganache and decorated with white chocolate swirls. Jag and Nageena brought a really interesting dessert called halwa that is made with carrots. And I brought Gemma's shortbread.

Because you are probably the single strongest, most capable person I've ever met, and you just had a total meltdown. I was there when you came to work the day after your stepdad's funeral. I was there when that idiot accidentally shot you through the hand with a nail gun, stapling you to a stud wall, and you calmly whipped the hammer out of your belt, got the nail out, and without batting an eyelash or dropping a tear told him to get the rest of the wall together while you went for a tetanus shot. You're a seriously tough cookie, Miss Anneke, so if you're this upset, upset enough to let my distasteful hateful personage come anywhere near you, leet alone comfort you? Things must be bad.

She's my mother. How do you say no to family?" Marie gets a dark look on her face. "There's a difference between relatives and family. You can be related to someone; that is an accident of genetics. Relatives are pure biology. But family is action. Family is attitude. That woman..." Marie's voice drips with venom. "Is NOT your family. WE are your family. That woman is just your relative." Hedy's mouth drops, and Caroline's eyes fly open so wide I think they might get stuck. "Don't hold back there, Marie," Hedy says, finding her voice. "I'm sorry, but..." Marie's eyes fill with tears. "Oh no!" Caroline leans over and takes Marie's hand. Marie shakes it off. "I hate her. I hate that she had the best daughter on the planet and never appreciated her and wasn't ever there for her and never once did anything for her. You guys don't know. She was the most self-absorbed narcissistic cold person..." "She gave me Joe." "But..." she says. I raise my hand. "She. Gave. Me. JOE. Whatever other bullshit happened, the most important thing in my life growing up was Joe. He made me who I am, he helped me find my calling, he was a gift, and everything else is just beyond my ability to get upset about." "You could get a little upset," Caroline says. "It takes nothing away from Joe, and how important he was to you, to acknowledge that your mother failed you in almost every way," Hedy says. "I think you should tell her to go fuck herself," Marie says, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms like a petulant child. I don't know that I've ever seen her so furious. "You guys don't get it, I was THERE. I MET HER. Wanna know how she screws in a lightbulb? Holds it up in the air and lets the universe just revolve around her." This makes the three of us bust out laughing. "Oh, Marie, I love you. Thank you for being so on my side." It does mean the world to me that my oldest friend is so protective.

I look over the recipe again. It sounds very simple. You boil some rice in water like pasta, I can do that. You cook some onion in butter, stir in the rice, pop it in the oven. Add some cream and grated cheese and mix it up. And voila! A real dinner. I pull out a couple of the pots Caroline gave me, and began to get everything laid out. Grant always yammered on about mise en place, that habit of getting all your stuff together before you start cooking so you can be organized. It seems to make sense, and appeals to the part of me that likes to make lists and check things off of them. I manage to chop a pile of onions without cutting myself, but with a lot of tears. At one point I walk over to the huge freezer and stick my head in it for some relief, while Schatzi looks at me like I'm an idiot. Which isn't unusual. Or even come to think of it, wrong. But I get them sliced and chopped, albeit unevenly, and put them in the large pot with some butter. I get some water boiling in the other pot and put in some rice. I cook it for a few minutes, drain it, and add it to the onions, stirring them all together. Then I put the lid on the pot and put it in the oven, and set my phone with an alarm for thirty-five minutes. The kitchen smells amazing. Nothing quite like onions cooked in butter to make the heart happy. While it cooks, I grab a beer, and grate some Swiss cheese into a pile. When my phone buzzes, I pull the pot out of the oven and put it back on the stovetop, stirring in the cream and cheese, and sprinkling in some salt and pepper. I grab a bowl and fill it with the richly scented mixture. I stand right there at the counter, and gingerly take a spoonful. It's amazing. Rich and creamy and oniony. The rice is nicely cooked, not mushy. And even though some of my badly cut onions make for some awkward eating moments, as the strings slide out of the spoon and attach themselves to my chin, the flavor is spectacular. Simple and comforting, and utterly delicious.

But every once in a great while, the pull of her heritage would hit her, and Grand-mere would cook something real. I could never figure out what it was that triggered her, but I would come home from school to a glorious aroma. An Apfel-strudel, with paper-thin pastry wrapped around chunks of apples and nuts and raisins. The thick smoked pork chops called Kasseler ribs, braised in apple cider and served with caraway-laced sauerkraut. A rich baked dish with sausages, duck, and white beans. And hoppel poppel. A traditional German recipe handed down from her mother. I haven't even thought of it in years. But when my mom left, it was the only thing I could think to do for Joe, who was confused and heartbroken, and it was my best way to try to get something in him that didn't come in a cardboard container. I never got to learn at her knee the way many granddaughters learn to cook; she never shared the few recipes that were part of my ancestry. But hoppel poppel is fly by the seat of your pants, it doesn't need a recipe; it's a mess, just like me. It's just what the soul needs. I grab an onion, and chop half of it. I cut up the cold cooked potatoes into chunks. I pull one of my giant hot dogs out, and cut it into thick coins. Grand-mere used ham, but Joe loved it with hot dogs, and I do too. Plus I don't have ham. I whisk six eggs in a bowl, and put some butter on to melt. The onions and potatoes go in, and while they are cooking, I grate a pile of Swiss cheese, nicking my knuckle, but catching myself before I bleed into my breakfast. By the time I get a Band-Aid on it, the onions have begun to burn a little, but I don't care. I dump in the hot dogs and hear them sizzle, turning down the heat so that I don't continue to char the onions. When the hot dogs are spitting and getting a little browned, I add the eggs and stir up the whole mess like a scramble. When the eggs are pretty much set, I sprinkle the cheese over the top and take it off the heat, letting the cheese melt while I pop three slices of bread in the toaster. When the toast is done, I butter it, and eat the whole mess on the counter, using the crispy buttered toast to scoop chunk of egg, potato, and hot dog into my mouth, strings of cheese hanging down my chin. Even with the burnt onions, and having overcooked the eggs to rubbery bits, it is exactly what I need.

That's too bad, Anneliese, the house is really spectacular. Anneke is a true talent." "It will be a new standard-bearer for the neighborhood," Caroline says. "I have no doubt," my mother says in a way that implies the opposite. And I? Snap. "You have every doubt, although I can't imagine why. Exactly what did you want from me, except for me not to exist? I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment, but for the love of god, why on earth did you even come here? Surely with all your experience over these many years and many husbands, you have figured out how to avoid me, why did you come this time? Why did you not just tell Alan I wasn't going to be in town and save us all the fucking painful charade?" Hedy reaches out and holds my hand, giving it a squeeze in a way that clearly says, "You go, girl." And not, "You might want to shut up now." "This is why I avoided coming here, to face your accusations. You never wanted me, Anneke, not from the moment you were born. You wouldn't take the breast; I had to bottle-feed you from day one. You never wanted to be near me, always running off, playing by yourself, going into other rooms when I came near. When I would travel, never a card or a letter. Never once did you ever tell me you missed me when I called or when I returned. I did the best I could, Anneke, but it was never good enough." And then I start to laugh. Because the whole thing is so ridiculous. "I didn't take the BREAST? You're mad at me because I didn't SUCKLE? You didn't travel, Anneliese, you LEFT. For months and years on end. You left me with your bitter, judgmental mother to go off with an endless string of men, and always made clear how uncomfortable you were on your rare visits home. Even when you married Joe and we were together for those three years, you weren't really there, were you? Not like a real mother. Do you know why I may never have kids of my own? Not because I can't or don't want to, but because I'm so afraid of being like you. Of being another in a long line of self-absorbed, cold, aloof bitches who are incapable of providing a loving home. And I will never forgive you for that. For making me think I shouldn't be a mother. But you know what? I'm beyond it. I'm beyond needing your approval or validation. So let me be clear about something, Mommy. Take whatever you need from this evening, because it is the last time you are welcome in my life. Fuck you." "Hear, hear," Hedy says under her breath.

Ignorance of the truth is a recipe for disaster.

RIGHTS RIGHTS without the sense of responsibility is the recipe for DISASTER

Expecting anyone outside of you, no matter how dear they are to your heart, to carry the key to your happiness is a recipe for disaster. Eventually you and they will suffer. We will always need exposure to the inspiration, love, courage and support of others to find our own. We all need to feel loved, supported and connected to feel stronger within ourselves. We need a sense of community. But in the end, only you hold the key to freedom from bondage. Only you can face the villain within you and become the hero of your story.

I fill Grant in on my boring day of bids, the embarrassment of the staff meeting where Murph called me out for signing off on the Rick Bayless restaurant bathrooms without noticing that we installed the women's room door on the men's bathroom. "Apparently our little Anneke can pee in a urinal with no problem, so it didn't occur to her that the other ladies might not have such great aim." This was received with a roomful of laughter, and Liam jumped right in. "Well, she does have bigger balls than you, Murph." It took five minutes before everyone stopped laughing and poking fun, and I sat there smiling and chuckling as if it didn't matter. And then I said that my balls were perfectly delicate and ladylike, but my dick was definitely bigger than Murph's, and the room went totally silent in that way where you can almost hear the needle scratching violently across the record, and he glared at me and curtly told me to get the hell over there and fix it and apologize to Rick for the error. Lucky for me, Rick Bayless is a very kind gent, and pals with Grant, so we laughed about it and he made a delicious torta that he has been experimenting with and we split it and talked about Grant's new place, and he sent me off with a bag of warm churros, so the day was somewhat saved.

Stupid dog, do you realize you have actually LITERALLY bitten the hand that feeds you?" Schatzi looks at me with a withering stare, arching her bushy eyebrows haughtily, and then turns her back to me. I stick out my tongue at her back, and go to the kitchen to freshen her water bowl. Damnable creature requires fresh water a zillion times a day. God forbid a fleck of dust is dancing on the surface, or it has gone two degrees beyond cool, I get the laser look of death. Once there was a dead fly in it, and she looked in the bowl, crossed the room, looked me dead in the eye, and squatted and peed on my shoes. I usually call her Shitzi or Nazi. I suppose I'm lucky she deigns to drink tap water. Our bare tolerance of each other is mutual, and affection between us is nil. The haughty little hellbeast was my sole inheritance from my grandmother who passed away two years ago. A cold, exacting woman who raised me in my mother's near-complete absence, Annelyn Stroudt insisted on my calling her Grand-mère, despite the fact that she put the manic in Germanic, ancestry-wise. But apparently when her grandparents schlepped here mother from Berlin to Chicago, they took a year in Paris first, and adopted many things Française. So Grand-mère it was. Grand-mère Annelyn also insisted on dressing for dinner, formal manners in every situation, letterpress stationary, and physical affection saved for the endless string of purebred miniature schnauzers she bought one after the other, and never offered to the granddaughter who also lived under her roof. Her clear disappointment in me must have rubbed off on Schatzi, who, despite having lived with me since Grand-mère died neatly and quietly in her sleep at the respectable age of eighty-nine, has never seen me as anything but a source of food, and a firm hand at the end of the leash. She dotes on Grant, but he sneaks her nibbles when he cooks, and coos to her in flawless French. Sometimes I wonder if the spirit of Grand-mère transferred into the dog upon death, and if the chilly indifference to me is just a manifestation of my grandmother's continued disapproval from beyond the grave. Schatzi wanders over to her bowl, sniffs it, sneers at me one last time for good measure, shakes her head to ensure her ears are in place, like a society matron checking her coif, and settles down to drink.

Because for all my massive appetite, I cannot cook to save my life. When Grant came to my old house for the first time, he became almost apoplectic at the contents of my fridge and cupboards. I ate like a deranged college frat boy midfinals. My fridge was full of packages of bologna and Budding luncheon meats, plastic-wrapped processed cheese slices, and little tubs of pudding. My cabinets held such bounty as cases of chicken-flavored instant ramen noodles, ten kinds of sugary cereals, Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, and cheap canned tuna. My freezer was well stocked with frozen dinners, heavy on the Stouffer's lasagna and bags of chicken tenders. My garbage can was a wasteland of take-out containers and pizza boxes. In my defense, there was also always really good beer and a couple of bottles of decent wine. My eating habits have done a pretty solid turnaround since we moved in together three years ago. Grant always leaved me something set up for breakfast: a parfait of Greek yogurt and homemade granola with fresh berries, oatmeal that just needs a quick reheat and a drizzle of cinnamon honey butter, baked French toast lingering in a warm oven. He almost always brings me leftovers from the restaurant's family meal for me to take for lunch the next day. I still indulge in greasy takeout when I'm on a job site, as much for the camaraderie with the guys as the food itself; doesn't look good to be noshing on slow-roasted pork shoulder and caramelized root vegetables when everyone else is elbow-deep in a two-pound brick of Ricobene's breaded steak sandwich dripping marinara.

That's Schatzi." "Fräulein," he says, and switches his endearments to what sounds like flawless German. In moments, she is on her back letting him rub her pale grey belly, wiggling in delight. Stupid dog. Last night when I tried to pet her she nipped me. We've been living like roommates that hate each other. She spends most of her time curled up in the front turret window seat, coming to the kitchen to get fed. Our first night I'd set up her plush little dog bed in my bedroom, and in the morning discovered she had dragged it out into the hallway while I was asleep, and there it has stayed. We take a longish walk in the morning; she gets let out at lunch into the yard so she can go to the bathroom, and then another longish walk after dinner. Other than these bits of contact, we don't really spend any time together.

In the few weeks we've been in residence, Schatzi has kicked dirt in the eye of a Chihuahua, resulting in a squealing of eardrum-perforating shrillness. She nipped the fingers of a very nice young woman walking her terrier mix when she tried to pet her. She growled at a Yorkie so menacingly the dog had immediate violently explosive diarrhea. All over my leg. It was like some invisible hand just squeezed her in the middle and hot liquid poop shot out of her with such velocity that despite being only like eight inches tall, she hit me from ankle to over the knee. I'm still grateful she wasn't a bigger dog. Schatzi was never mean to other dogs, or owners for that matter, when we were in the West Loop. She had her neighborhood pals, Otto the black Lab, who always tried to give her gifts of mangy tennis balls, Lucy, the sweet old arthritic collie who would nuzzle Schatzi like a doting grandmother, and her best buddy, Klaus, a giant schnauzer, the perfect replica of Schatzi herself, just supersized. They would romp around and then put their square bearded heads together and have what appeared to be very serious conversations about things. Jimmy, Klaus's dad, would always lean over and ask, "Do you think they're planning to invade Poland?" which never failed to make me laugh.

I head into the front room and catch Schatzi perched on the windowsill, staring out the window like a war bride waiting for her soldier to come home. When she turns to look at me her gaze is downright soulful, and from her mouth dangles a single sunflower-adorned mitten.

The situation is simple. If you want to keep our business, we'd like a different project manager. One who doesn't act like she thinks we're stupid, or insufferable. Someone who doesn't act like she hates working with us." A red haze falls over my eyes. I've never been anything but respectful with these jackasses. I've been friendly and calm and accommodating. But this? This running to my bosses and tattling like spoiled children? Asking to have me removed because I told them that I want to build their stupid house so that it doesn't fall down? This is major bullshit, and my blood pressure soars. My carefully-fought-for bit of restraint that I've been struggling so hard to maintain shatters into a zillion pieces. And before I know it, words are flying out the front of my head. "Mr. and Mrs. Manning, everyone here at MacMurphy wants you to be happy with your experience. And you should absolutely work with someone you connect with. I recommend Liam Murphy, he's your kind of ass-kissing suck-up guy. He will tell you what you want to hear, one hundred percent of the time. He will built your monstrous tasteless house and fill it with your cut-rate special-deal fell-off-the-truck fixtures that your buddies pawn off on you. He'll never tell you that you are building something with built-in lack of resale value due to your appallingly bad taste, and that you are doing it at a price nearly twice what the market in that neighborhood will ever bear. He can be the one to ignore your calls in two years when your screening room walls sprout black mold and your ghastly gold-flecked marble backsplash cracks in half as the kitchen settles six inches into your unstable leaky basement. As for your perception that I act like I think you are stupid and insufferable and I hate working with you? Let me assure you. That? Is no act.

Anneke, I don't know what the FUCK just got into you, but if you want to have a job here, I suggest you go home now and think about what you want to say to us tomorrow to make us want to keep you." I look him dead in his beady little eyes and with a deep sense of calm, I unload, pretty as you please with honeyed tones. "You don't have to worry, Murph. I don't want to have a job here. I'm tired of the bullshit kowtowing to entitled crap-buckets like the Mannings. I'm tired of you and Mac never giving me my due or having my back. I'm tired of you feeding all the good stuff to your obsequious cousin Liam and leaving me all the shit. I'm tired of your endless series of talentless legs and boobs and hair extensions that you like wandering around here despite their general incompetence. I'm finished. I'm the best you had and the only one you should have trained to replace you in three years when you want to retire and still draw income. And you've never once done anything to show that you know it. So, since it's clear that you will always take the word of the client over someone who has been a valuable employee for nearly a decade, I am fucking done." I never raise my voice; the smile never leaves my face. I deliver this blow with as much grace as I can muster, throw my bag over my shoulder, grab the small box of my personal effects, and push past him before he can even close his gaping jaw. I head out of my office, feeling flushed and nervous, but also giddy. Liam is standing next to the front desk, chatting up Pinky Tuscadero Barbie. "That's a lot of yelling back there, Annamuk." He leers at me. "That time of the month?" The Barbie giggles. "Hey, Liam? A word to the wise. That fancy truck? Doesn't mean you don't HAVE a tiny little dick. It just means that you want the WHOLE WORLD to know it." And with that, I open the door wide, letting the frigid wind blow through, leaving them both gape-jawed in a tornado of papers.

I have to hand it to you, little Annamuk, this is not what I would have expected." "Why is that?" "It's so, um, romantic." "And you don't think I'm romantic?" "I think you're refreshingly unsentimental. It's what makes you a great builder." "I don't think I follow." He pauses for a moment. "I think that your eye always goes to what will make a home function smoothly, what will make the people who live there comfortable. That is different than the romantic aspect. Romantic people get focused on things like brand names and labels that evoke a certain feel for them, or focused on elements that may or may not work well for their space. Old-world crown molding in a modern loft space, commercial kitchen appliances for a family that doesn't cook, the kinds of touches that actually make a space feel awkward or just off. Your places are always fully kitted out, with amazing attention to detail, and always designed with the actual usage and client in mind." "So why is this different?" "I don't know. Don't get me wrong, it's amazing, and still super-functional, but the chandelier? The painted floor? Very girly." "And I'm not a girl?" Liam looks me dead in my eyes. "No, my darling. You are not now and never have been a girl. You are a woman. Every inch.

At seven, Liam runs out to pick up some food for us. Her returns forty minutes later with seventy pounds of Chinese food from Orange Garden. "I didn't know what everyone liked. Plus none of us had lunch." He shrugs, unpacking egg rolls, pot stickers, barbecue ribs, pork lo mein, vegetable fried rice, sesame chicken, beef and broccoli, ma po tofu, cashew chicken, shrimp with peapods and water chestnuts, combination chow fun, and mushroom egg foo young. White rice, plenty of sauces, and about forty-two fortune cookies. A six-pack of Tsingtao beer.

There were mini Vienna hot dogs with all the classic Chicago toppings. A macaroni 'n' cheese bar with all kinds of fun add-ins. Cold sesame noodles in tiny white cardboard Chinese take-out containers, sliders served with small cones of skinny fries. Fried chicken legs, barbecued ribs, mini gyros in tiny three-inch pitas. All of it the most delicious and perfectly prepared elevated junk food, complete heaven, and just what I love. She gave us each a bamboo tray with a piece of parchment paper on it to use as plates, and large kitchen tea towels instead of napkins. There were cold beers in a tub, endless bottles of rosé, and a massive birthday cake, chocolate with fluffy vanilla frosting, and rainbow sprinkles. And then, after coffee, mini ice-cream sandwiches on chocolate chip cookies.

I can't serve SPIT to my friends." "Would you give any of them blood? A kidney?" "Of course. They can have the organ of their choice." This makes me think about Grant's friend Jenna, who gave her best friend part of her liver, sadly to no avail. Grant and I used to double-date occasionally with Jenna and her husband Elliot, and I loved them both. They live not far from here, but I didn't tell them when I moved into the Palmer house. They were his friends, not mine, and I'm sad to have lost them in the split. Although they do have the worst-behaved dog on the planet, who slobbered all over Schatzi the one time we tried to meet at the dog park, and ate my purse the last time they had us over for dinner, so maybe it isn't the worst loss.

I'm sure you'll figure out how it's all my fault," she says petulantly. "Anneliese, could you please just shut the fuck up," I say. "None of this is your business. These people are the most wonderful loving parents, they are concerned for their son, and they have every right to be. Because they have always been there for him, they have earned his love and his respect. They get to have an opinion. You on the other hand are a sack of vanity and self-absorption, and you have never ever been there for me, so you don't get to say ANYTHING.

And I have one more important thing to let go of. "Em?" I ask as we are cleaning up the dinner dishes. "Yeah?" "You mentioned that when you went to look at your apartment that your upstairs neighbor had two puggles?" "Yeah, Flotsam and Jetsam. So freaking cute." "So the place takes dogs." "Yes..." "If you want, if it wouldn't be a pain in your ass, I think maybe you should take Schatzi with you." "But... she's your dog!" "You and I both know that this dog hates me. She is more your dog than mine, and to be honest, she's lost enough this year. She loved Grant, and she lost him. She had doggie friends in that neighborhood, and she's lost them too. She loved Liam..." I don't even want to finish that sentence. "The bottom line is that she adores you and has from the moment you first arrived, and I know you love her too. I think it would be great for both of you." Emily throws her arms around me. "You are the best sister in the world." "I think you are the best sister, I'm just trying to catch up.

If nothing else, Emily gets here next week, so that will be good." "That will be great. Except she's bringing the hellbeast with her." My spring reunion with Schatzi was much as I would have expected. She bit me twice, shat in my suitcase, and ate one of my shoes. "Well, you could always make yeast rolls...

The Romantic ideas are, he knows now, a recipe for disaster. His readiness for marriage is based on a quite different set of criteria. He is ready for marriage because - to begin the list - he has given up on perfection.

Do yourself a favour. Be yourself and quit trying to be someone else. That’s a sure recipe for disaster. The Almighty has made each one of us unique & there is only one you. Focus on being the best version of yourself. Work hard at it and don’t worry what other people say!

Don’t look at me like that,” I muttered, trying to shake him off but he didn’t budge. “Like what?” “Like you didn’t take part in that whole shoving me in a pit bullshit right before the Nymph attack. Like we aren’t on two different sides of some fight I never asked to be in,” I spat, surprising myself with how angry I felt at him. “We are on two different sides of it though,” he said and there was no apology in his voice, just acceptance. “But shit, Tory you don’t understand how freaking much I like playing this game with you. Ever since we got back from that party I’ve hardly been able to think about anything else. The feeling of you in my arms, the taste of your blood on my lips, the rush I get when you run from me...” My pulse spiked in response to his words despite myself and as he drew a little closer to me, I didn’t push him back. “You’re not even sorry, are you?” I breathed. “Can’t be sorry for it. I’ve got responsibilities. To the other Heirs, my family, Solaria... I have to think of what’s best for all of them and if you take the throne then the Nymphs might just get the leg up they need to win this war. You have to know I can’t let that happen.” He hadn’t released me and I found I didn’t really want him to. “I have a bit of a weakness for assholes,” I admitted slowly. “But I’m used to them lying about what they are. At least you own it.” “I do,” Caleb said with a smirk, his hand travelling up my neck ever so slowly. “I’m an honest to god asshole. Do you want to keep playing with me, Tory?” “Maybe,” I breathed because in that moment I didn’t even know anymore. I should have been trying to keep away from him and his psycho friends but one way or another our lives all seemed to be destined to tangle up with each other's. And at least Caleb wasn’t lying to me. He wasn’t offering me the world, but he was offering me freedom, at least in this. So maybe I could try keeping the two things separate, when we were alone we could forget about being an Heir and a lost princess. And outside of that, we could stay on opposite sides of this stupid feud. It seemed kinda like a recipe for disaster but maybe I wanted a little rebellion. “I’ll take maybe.” Caleb leaned forward to kiss me and I didn’t make any move to stop him. His mouth was hot and demanding against mine and the passion that burned between us sprang to life instantly, urging me on. My heart thumped harder and his fingers twisted into my hair, tugging just enough to elicit a moan from my lips. (tory)

Modern day meal plans, are recipes for disaster.

I already find myself falling for her. Spending more time with her, sleeping in the same bed as her…it’s a recipe for disaster. And she’s the chef.

Rohm and Haas teaches its leaders that when they face a decision with broad and enduring consequences, taking speedy, narrow, and impulsive action is a recipe for disaster. Instead, Rohm and Haas preaches the Five Voices method. Before making a big decision, leaders slow down, do careful research, and talk to people until they understand five key stakeholders: the customer, the employee, the owner, the community, and the process.

If there were a recipe for accumulated disaster, it would be giving the best of ourselves to the least important things and the worst of ourselves to the most important things.

ON MY SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY, I SPAWNED THE MOST ILL-FATED idea that had ever occurred to me. Without consulting anybody, I decided to host a birthday party and invite Barceló, Bernarda, and Clara. In my father’s estimation, the whole thing was a recipe for disaster.

A diet that eliminates all your favorite foods is not a recipe for long term success. It’s a guarantee of rapid disaster.

As dawn must follow dusk, having a child without planning is a recipe for disaster. Not being able to provide for one’s own must rank amongst the most humiliating and heart-wrenching experiences that any parent can go through.

4KEEP SUBSTITUTIONS TO A MINIMUM We’ve all done it—used brown sugar when there’s no granulated sugar in the pantry, subbed in whatever cheese we have on hand for the Gruyère in the recipe, or poured the batter into a square pan when the round pan was nowhere to be found. In general, use the ingredients called for in the recipe to ensure your dish tastes the way it was intended to taste. This is especially true in baking, where even the slightest change can spell disaster.

There’s simply no way the day-to-day operations of a polity as huge as the Solarian League—even if it loses half its systems, which it won’t—can be effectively overseen by a legislative branch. And the judiciary can’t, either, because in the nature of things, the wheels of justice turn way too slowly. And letting the executive branch supervise and regulate itself is a recipe for disaster.

but your generation is the weakest, most pathetic generation of men this earth has ever known. You wear your skinny jeans, do your hair for girls and guys, you take sensitivity training and you watch your words and actions so as not to offend others around you. Your generation became polite, innocuous and virtuous. That’s no recipe for breeding hardened warriors. It’s a disaster of epic proportions.

Ares Alsford might have been God sent in this world, but together we were Hellbound. A recipe for disaster so good, you enjoyed every bite on your way to ruin.

Is it a recipe for disaster? Probably. But does it also taste so damn good? Absolutely.

Once you are confident that you can succeed, go for it. “Trying” is a recipe for disaster, whereas “doing,” is decisive and assertive.

Many members of Congress and several recent presidents have used the institutions to which they were elected as mere platforms for political performance art for the sake of their most devoted voters. From the point of view of the constitutional system, such behavior seems like dereliction and failure. But from the point of view of the modern primary system, it is both rational and effective. A party system with incentives so thoroughly out of alignment with the constitutional system is a recipe for disaster—and disaster is just what we have experienced.

Attempting to walk in the way of Jesus without actually walking with Him, without letting Him work through her, was a sure recipe for disaster.

Pursuing your greatness is amazing, but doing it on a poor foundation can be a recipe for long-term disaster.

That’s what makes them so dangerous,” said Agatha. “Secrecy and fundamentalism are a recipe for disaster.

I release her neck, sliding my palm down her beautifully arched spine before gripping her ass with a firm grasp, bending down to lick the length of her sweet, soft clit and pussy. I glide a heavy, flat tongue along her clit, over her aching hole, all the way up to her ass. She wiggles in my grasp, clearly feeling discomfort at the newfound sensation. Smacking the side of her thigh, she tenses as I tease, then plunge my tongue into her forbidden entrance. “Fuck,” she cries out, attempting to get out of my grasp, but I grip her hips, forcing her back onto my tongue. Briony rarely curses, so when I hear her innocent lips mutter the word fuck with my tongue in her ass, it’s a recipe for disaster. I lean back up, my pulse spiking in anticipation as a bead of cum drips from the tip of my cock, needing to dirty her with a pleasure we’ve both yet to discover. I slap the white porcelain skin of her ass with a rough hand, loving the bounce her flesh gives me, thirsty for the reddened marks, ultimately causing her to moan against the blanket between her white-knuckled hold.

This doesn’t mean that you must practice everything seventy times before you have it Pitch Perfect. Some people need to do it multiple times to ingrain it, while others suffer from being too rehearsed. The point is simply this: don’t delude yourself into thinking that you can skip preparation. That is a recipe for disaster. And be careful! The more accomplished you become at public speaking, the more you will be tempted to shortchange your preparation. If you succumb to that urge, you will live to regret it.

Inviting a goblin to cross your threshold was a recipe for disaster, and certainly worse than doing the same with a vampire. With the latter all you got was a nasty bite, but the company, the extraordinarily good sex and the funny stories more than made up for it—apparently.

Real life is like that - it does not follow a neat plan. sometimes you have to get things very messily wrong so you can see how to get them right.

Becoming a manager without leadership skills is a recipe for disaster.

Living a selfish life is a recipe for disaster

An idle mind was a recipe for disaster. Bathsheba wasn’t just teetering on the edge; I knew she was going to be diving right into a pool of tragedy.

He was the perfect recipe for disaster, and I was aching to be destroyed.

…statistical software will no more make one a statistician than a scalpel will turn one into a neurosurgeon. Allowing these tools to do our thinking is a sure recipe for disaster.

Liam's hash brown casserole can only be described as so over-the-top ridiculous I fear Paula Deen is sitting somewhere cackling about it. I can tell that there is cheese, butter, and sour cream in there, and do not want to know what else. It is delicious, as are the perfectly dried eggs, crispy bacon, buttery toast, and juicy sausages. The muffins are banana chocolate chip, otherwise known as breakfast cake.