Short Toast Quotes

Suddenly, in the space of a moment, I realized what it was that I loved about Britain - which is to say, all of it. Every last bit of it, good and bad - Marmite, village fetes, country lanes, people saying 'mustn't grumble' and 'I'm terribly sorry but', people apologizing to me when I conk them with a nameless elbow, milk in bottles, beans on toast, haymaking in June, stinging nettles, seaside piers, Ordnance Survey maps, crumpets, hot-water bottles as a necessity, drizzly Sundays - every bit of it. What a wondrous place this was - crazy as fuck, of course, but adorable to the tiniest degree. What other country, after all, could possibly have come up with place names like Tooting Bec and Farleigh Wallop, or a game like cricket that goes on for three days and never seems to start? Who else would think it not the least odd to make their judges wear little mops on their heads, compel the Speaker of the House of Commons to sit on something called the Woolsack, or take pride in a military hero whose dying wish was to be kissed by a fellow named Hardy? ('Please Hardy, full on the lips, with just a bit of tongue.') What other nation in the world could possibly have given us William Shakespeare, pork pies, Christopher Wren, Windsor Great Park, the Open University, Gardners' Question Time and the chocolate digestive biscuit? None, of course. How easily we lose sight of all this. What an enigma Britain will seem to historians when they look back on the second half of the twentieth century. Here is a country that fought and won a noble war, dismantled a mighty empire in a generally benign and enlightened way, created a far-seeing welfare state - in short, did nearly everything right - and then spent the rest of the century looking on itself as a chronic failure. The fact is that this is still the best place in the world for most things - to post a letter, go for a walk, watch television, buy a book, venture out for a drink, go to a museum, use the bank, get lost, seek help, or stand on a hillside and take in a view. All of this came to me in the space of a lingering moment. I've said it before and I'll say it again. I like it here. I like it more than I can tell you.

Poems are like people' I said 'There are not many authentic ones around.

Those skirts are crunchy toast! Santana Lopez bent over in hers the other day, and I swear I could see her ovaries.

Enjoy the wine, don’t spill the night…

Watching the Archer brothers eat was like watching a twister blow through the room. Meredith sat with her elbows tucked close to her side, afraid to do more than occasionally raise her fork to her mouth for fear of being rammed by a reaching arm or thumped by a tossed biscuit. The venison steak was overdone, the beans gluey, and the biscuits were dry as unbuttered toast, yet the Archers attacked their food like a pack of dogs fighting over a fresh kill. No one spoke. They just ate.

My gosh," I said, "another human being." "You'll never know how human," she said. "Maybe I will," I said. "I could try." I did try, and I do try, and I give you the toast of a happy man: May the warm springs of the girl pool never run dry. --"Girl Pool

Shortly before seven, he made Katie her sourdough toast and coffee, and woke her up with breakfast in bed. The tire shop he managed was closed on Sunday, so this was the only day he could relieve his wife of what would otherwise be a seven-day-a-week job. Taking care of the kids so she could sleep in an hour was, she frequently assured him, so romantic, and so sexy—and on most Sunday nights after the kids went to bed, she showed him exactly how much she appreciated the gesture. But

The best description of this book is found within the title. The full title of this book is: "This is the story my great-grandfather told my father, who then told my grandfather, who then told me about how The Mythical Mr. Boo, Charles Manseur Fizzlebush Grissham III, better known as Mr. Fizzlebush, and Orafoura are all in fact me and Dora J. Arod, who sometimes shares my pen, paper, thoughts, mind, body, and soul, because Dora J. Arod is my pseudonym, as he/it incorporates both my first and middle name, and is also a palindrome that can be read forwards or backwards no matter if you are an upright man in the eyes of God or you are upside down in a tank of water wearing purple goggles and grape jelly discussing how best to spread your time between your work, your wife, and the toasted bread being eaten by the man you are talking to who goes by the name of Dendrite McDowell, who is only wearing a towel on his head and has an hourglass obscuring his “time machine”--or the thing that he says can keep him young forever by producing young versions of himself the way I avert disaster in that I ramble and bumble like a bee until I pollinate my way through flowery situations that might otherwise have ended up being more than less than, but not equal to two short parallel lines stacked on top of each other that mathematicians use to balance equations like a tightrope walker running on a wire stretched between two white stretched limos parked on a long cloud that looks like Salt Lake City minus the sodium and Mormons, but with a dash of pepper and Protestants, who may or may not be spiritual descendents of Mr. Maynot, who didn’t come over to America in the Mayflower, but only because he was “Too lazy to get off the sofa,” and therefore impacted this continent centuries before the first television was ever thrown out of a speeding vehicle at a man who looked exactly like my great-grandfather, who happens to look exactly like the clone science has yet to allow me to create

I was up before the others, before the birds, before the sun. I drank a cup of coffee, wolfed down a piece of toast, put on my shorts and sweatshirt, and laced up my green running shoes. Then slipped quietly out the back door. I stretched my legs, my hamstrings, my lower back, and groaned as I took the

If you are going to start psychoanalyzing me, Legna, just stop it right now,” Noah warned her. “You have had my undivided love and attention practically since the day I was born, Noah. Has it never occurred to you that you are simply unwilling to share me with anyone else? You joke about it, but there are reasons why you are not interested in finding a companion of your own. Why should you? You have a perfectly kept home, a beautiful hostess to manage your social affairs, and she is pretty much emotionally maintenance free. I give you completely unconditional love, respect, and admiration. I keep you company when there are so many around, but none are really close enough to your heart to safely be a King’s confidant. There is only one thing I cannot do for you, and I already know you have your ways of obtaining that.” “Legna,” he protested, his face flushing. “That is not true.” “Which part?” she countered, raising a single brow. “I . . .” He hesitated, looking away from her penetrating gaze, realizing that she saw so much more than he had ever given her credit for. “Well, for one, the rafters of my ‘perfectly kept home’ are full of cobwebs,” he said sheepishly. Legna suddenly, gratefully, found herself laughing. It was a short burst of amusement that instantly defused the painful tension between them. “As if it would kill you to spare a thought to giving them a two-second toasting and getting rid of them yourself?

To Milva the Archer.' Zoltan Chivay cleared his throat, saluting with his cup, 'To the Nilfgaardian. To Regis the herbalist, he entertained the travelers in his cottage with moonshine and mandrake, and to Angoulême whom i never knew. May the earth lie lightly on them all. My they have in the beyond, plenty of whatever they were short of on earth. And may their names live forever in songs and tales. Let us drink to them.

That said, I do have my own set of beliefs. One of them is 'each to their own' and I’ve got absolutely no problem with other people believing whatever the hell they want to believe. Worship away my friends – that’s absolutely fine by me. My only problem comes when people try to force their set of beliefs on others. That’s not cool. In short, don’t try to convince me to worship your God and I won’t call bull shit on your charade.

And yet, I have half a pot of dark brown honey remaining in my bag; a half a pot of honey that is worth more than nations. (I was tempted to write, worth more than all the tea in China, perhaps because of my current situation, but fear that even Watson would deride it as cliché.) And speaking of Watson... There is one thing left to do. My only remaining goal, and it is small enough. I shall make my way to Shanghai, and from there I shall take ship to Southamptom, a half a world away. And once I am there, I shall seek out Watson, if he still live - and fancy he does. It is irrational, I acknowledge, and yet I am certain that I would know, somehow, had Watson passed beyond the veil. I shall by theatrical makeup, disguise myself as an old man, so as not to startle him, and I shall invite my old friend over for tea. There will be honey on buttered toast served with the tea that afternoon, I fancy. (from 'The Case of Death and Honey')

The Buried Bishop’s a gridlocked scrum, an all-you-can-eat of youth: ‘Stephen Hawking and the Dalai Lama, right; they posit a unified truth’; short denim skirts, Gap and Next shirts, Kurt Cobain cardigans, black Levi’s; ‘Did you see that oversexed pig by the loos, undressing me with his eyes?’; that song by the Pogues and Kirsty MacColl booms in my diaphragm and knees; ‘Like, my only charity shop bargains were headlice, scabies, and fleas’; a fug of hairspray, sweat and Lynx, Chanel No. 5, and smoke; well-tended teeth with zero fillings, revealed by the so-so joke — ‘Have you heard the news about Schrodinger’s Cat? It died today; wait — it didn’t, did, didn’t, did…’; high-volume discourse on who’s the best Bond … Sartre, Bart Simpson, Barthes’s myths; ‘Make mine a double’; George Michael’s stubble; ‘Like, music expired with the Smiths’; and futures all starry; fetal think-tankers, judges, and bankers…power and money, like Pooh Bear and honey, stick fast — I don’t knock it, it’s me; and speaking of loins, ‘Has anyone told you you look like Demi Moore from Ghost?’; roses are red and violets are blue, I’ve a surplus of butter and Ness is warm toast.

At the same time that he was devising a response to the Afghanistan incursion, Carter had to confront a much more acute crisis in Iran, where he had brought the greatest disaster of his presidency down upon himself. In November 1977, he welcomed the shah of Iran to the White House, and on New Year’s Eve in Tehran, raising his glass, he toasted the ruler. Though the shah was sustained in power by a vicious secret police force, Carter praised him as a champion of “the cause of human rights” who had earned “the admiration and love” of the Iranian people. Little more than a year later, his subjects, no longer willing to be governed by a monarch imposed on them by the CIA, drove the shah into exile. Critically ill, he sought medical treatment in the United States. Secretary of State Cyrus Vance warned that admitting him could have repercussions in Iran, and Carter hesitated. But under pressure from David Rockefeller, Henry Kissinger, and the head of the National Security Council, Zbigniew Brzezinski, he caved in. Shortly after the deposed shah entered the Mayo Clinic, three thousand Islamic militants stormed the US embassy compound in Tehran and seized more than fifty diplomats and soldiers. They paraded blindfolded US Marine guards, hands tied behind their backs, through the streets of Tehran while mobs chanted, “Death to Carter, Death to the Shah,” as they spat upon the American flag and burned effigies of the president—scenes recorded on camera that Americans found painful to witness.

The cemetery watchman left the room and returned with a tray holding three small skulls and a large one. I could feel the short hairs on the back of my neck standing up of their own accord. None of them were real though; they were wood or celluloid imitations. They all had flaps that opened at the top; one was a jug and the other three steins. The man behind the desk named the toast. 'To our Friend!' I thought he meant myself at first; he meant that shadowy enemy of all mankind, the Grim Reaper. 'We are called The Friends of Death,' he explained to me when the grisly containers had been emptied. 'To outline our creed and purpose briefly, it is this: That death is life, and life is death. We have mastered death, and no member of the Friends of Death need ever fear it. They 'die,' it is true, but after death they are buried in special graves in our private cemetery - graves having air vents, such as you discovered. Also, our graves are equipped with electric signals, so that after the bodies of our buried members begin to respond to the secret treatment our scientists have given them before internment, we are warned. Then we come and release them - and they live again. Moreover, they are released, freed of their thralldom; from then on death is an old familiar friend instead of an enemy. They no longer fear it. Do you not see what a wonderful boon this would be in your case, Brother Bud; you who have suffered so from that fear?' ("Graves For The Living")

BACON, EGG, AND CHEDDAR CHEESE TOAST CUPS Preheat oven to 400 degrees F., rack in the middle position. 6 slices bacon (regular sliced, not thick sliced) 4 Tablespoons (2 ounces, ½ stick) salted butter, softened 6 slices soft white bread ½ cup grated cheddar cheese 6 large eggs Salt and pepper to taste Cook the 6 slices of bacon in a frying pan over medium heat for 6 minutes or until the bacon is firmed up and the edges are slightly brown, but the strips are still pliable. They won’t be completely cooked, but that’s okay. They will finish cooking in the oven. Place the partially-cooked bacon on a plate lined with paper towels to drain it. Generously coat the inside of 6 muffin cups with half of the softened butter. Butter one side of the bread with the rest of the butter but stop slightly short of the crusts. Lay the bread out on a sheet of wax paper or a bread board butter side up. Hannah’s 1st Note: You will be wasting a bit of butter here, but it’s easier than cutting rounds of bread first and trying to butter them after they’re cut. Using a round cookie cutter that’s three and a half inches (3 and ½ inches) in diameter, cut circles out of each slice of bread.   Hannah’s 2nd Note: If you don’t have a 3.5 inch cookie cutter, you can use the top rim of a standard size drinking glass to do this. Place the bread rounds butter side down inside the muffin pans, pressing them down gently being careful not to tear them as they settle into the bottom of the cup. If one does tear, cut a patch from the buttered bread that is left and place it, buttered side down, over the tear. Curl a piece of bacon around the top of each piece of bread, positioning it between the bread and the muffin tin. This will help to keep the bacon in a ring shape. Sprinkle shredded cheese in the bottom of each muffin cup, dividing the cheese as equally as you can between the 6 muffin cups. Crack an egg into a small measuring cup (I use a half-cup measure) with a spout, making sure to keep the yolk intact. Hannah’s 3rd Note: If you break a yolk, don’t throw the whole egg away. Just slip it in a small covered container which you will refrigerate and use for scrambled eggs the next morning, or for that batch of cookies you’ll make in the next day or two. Pour the egg carefully into the bottom of one of the muffin cups. Repeat this procedure for all the eggs, cracking them one at a time and pouring them into the remaining muffin cups. When every muffin cup has bread, bacon, cheese and egg, season with a little salt and pepper. Bake the filled toast cups for 6 to 10 minutes, depending on how firm you want the yolks. (Naturally, a longer baking time yields a harder yolk.) Run the blade of a knife around the edge of each muffin cup, remove the Bacon, Egg, and Cheddar Cheese Toast Cups, and serve immediately. Hannah’s 4th Note: These are a bit tricky the first time you make them. That’s just “beginner nerves”. Once you’ve made them successfully, they’re really quite easy to do and extremely impressive to serve for a brunch. Yield: 6 servings (or 3 servings if you’re fixing them for Mike and Norman).

TOAST!  Joe you are so funny! I love you so much Joeywowie." "I love you so much Tinaweena.

thought he saw a brief glance down at Ellie. Everyone else took their wine glasses in hand, and murmured a second to Randall’s toast before taking a sip. David saw that Ellie hesitated before taking a sip. “I’m not usually a fan of red wine,” she whispered to him. “Linda, this is an excellent wine,” she said a bit too loud across the table to her friend. David wondered what had happened to her in her life that made her worry so much about outward appearances. He thought that the small digs that had been taken at her expense in the library may be weighing on her, and it surprised him to feel a twitch of anger. Ellie seemed so strong at times, but so frail at others. “Thank you, but I can’t take credit. Randall picked it out,” Linda said as she raised her own glass. “Of course he did,” Melanie Wilson uttered in a low undertone. “What, dear?” Linda glanced down the table at Melanie. “Nothing, nothing, Linda. I was also complimenting Randall on his fine wine selection,” Melanie said into her wine glass. From what David could tell from his short acquaintance with Melanie Wilson, it seemed almost impossible for her to keep a rein on her tongue. He saw a look on her husband’s face that

They drove together under the stars to the lake, where they sat with fishing poles in a metal rowboat and waited for something to bite. Zack ate the toast, Uncle Orson gave some pointers, and then they cast their lines, again and again, into the pale fog. Dawn broke. The sunrise cracked. Clouds settled across the sky. The fog scattered as the air heated. And they still weren’t catching anything. And that whole time, the exact same gull was circling overhead. “Nothing’s happening,” Zack complained. But Uncle Orson smiled at the clouds and smiled at the rowboat and smiled at the gull and smiled at the poles. “Nothing has to happen,” Uncle Orson had said.

Working Nine to Five   Wet, cold, miserable, Monday morning.  I had toast for breakfast, no bananas.  I think my mum is taking out her revenge on Steve’s behalf by withholding the purchase of bananas.  I stood by the sink sipping my morning tea watching the rain wash down the kitchen window.  Damn, I noticed that an eye had fallen off one of my bunny slippers.  I decided to wear the blue pencil skirt with a white blouse to work and to tie my hair up as best I could.  The journey was short and uneventful, no desperate people throwing themselves in

Now, why was diagonal cutting better than cutting straight across? Because the corner of a triangularly cut slice gave you an ideal first bite. In the case of rectangular toast, you had to angle the shape into your mouth, as you angle a big dresser through a hall doorway: you had to catch one corner of your mouth with one corner of the toast and then carefully turn the toast, drawing the mouth open with it so that its other edge could clear; only then did you chomp down. Also, with a diagonal slice, most of the tapered bite was situated right up near the front of your mouth, where you wanted it to be as you began to chew; with the rectangular slice, a burdensome fraction was riding out of control high on the dome of the tongue. One subway stop before mine, I concluded that there had been logic behind the progress away from the parallel and toward the diagonal cut, and that the convention was not, as it might first have appeared, merely an affection of short-order cooks.

Rita turned around at the stove and smiled. “Dexter,” she said. “There’s coffee. Would you like some breakfast?” “More than life itself,” I said, and seconds later I was staring down at a steaming mug of coffee and a stack of Rita’s French toast. I don’t know what she puts into it, but it tastes better than any other I’ve ever had, and after four pieces of the French toast, a slice of perfect, ripe cantaloupe, and three crisp strips of bacon, I pushed back from the table and poured a second cup of coffee, feeling like there might be some point to this short and painful existence after all.

Here in Greece, I am now surrounded by ancient memories in slabs of stone, cold and lifeless and enduring, but where I grew up, my memories could have been warm as a toast, fluffy as freshly baked muffins, and as homey as the smell of bread wafting from the ovens.

It’s maths, Poe, not luck,’ she said without a trace of irony. ‘Toast usually falls from the table and is almost always butter side up when it does. Unless there are outside factors involved, the spin rate is rarely fast enough for it to go through a full revolution before it reaches the ground. If tables were ten feet high, we would say that toast always seems to land butter side up.

The point Molly brought out was that the great American breakfast, eggs and toast and bacon and coffee, is about a deadly combination. Molly said that doctor proved that the yeast of bread and the albumen of egg and the fat of bacon and what caffeine you get in coffee would kill a guinea pig in short order.

Shortly before his death, he gave a toast to economics and economists -’trustees, not of civilisation, but of the possibilities of civilisation’. Only someone with a fine sense of language, and an Edwardian sense of life’s purpose, would have chosen exactly those words.

The point Molly brought out was that the great American breakfast, eggs and toast and bacon and coffee, is about a deadly combination. Molly said that doctor proved that the yeast of bread and the albumen of egg and the fat of bacon and what caffeine you get in coffee would kill a guinea pig in short order. It seems that you may eat all the eggs you want cooked any conceivable way, but you must not take them in combination with the yeast of bread and the acids of meat. You may eat all the starch you please at one meal; but you must not take it in combination with the acids of meat or albumen. You must keep the bread and potatoes and starchy things confined to one meal.

Yes, yes, I was thinking. This is the way to live, perfect for my short attention span. I could easily imagine doing this with chef friends in New York, ricocheting from tapas bar to tapas bar, drinking and eating and eating and drinking, terrorizing one place after another. If only New York had an entire neighborhood of tapas bars. The whole idea of the poteo wouldn't work if you had to take a cab from place to place. And the idea of sitting down at a table for pinchos, having to endure a waiter, napkins, a prolonged experience, seems all wrong. Another joint, then another, the red wine flowing, the girls getting looser and louder. I don't know how one would translate 'Uh-oh, here comes trouble' but I'm sure we heard it in our rounds as our crew swept into one tiny bar after another. I remember anchovies marinated in olive oil, tomato, onion, and parsley, cured anchovies, grilled anchovies, fried sardines, a festival of small tasty fish. More wine, more toasts. I recall stumbling through an old square that had once been a city bullring, apartments now overlooking the empty space. Past old churches, up cobblestone steps, down others, lost in a whirlwind of food.

A toast, lady, from this humble soul, to what I seriously think may be one of the great creative geniuses of our generation.”124 He was not wrong.

Expect your boys to like weapons. It’s true. You can take all their weapons away, and they will make a gun out of a piece of toast.

Mercifully, Cassian had been too busy reading some report to see her slink in and slide into her seat. She glanced toward the doorway, hoping a servant might appear. “I’ll eat toast.” “You’ll burn through that in ten minutes and be tired.” Cassian nodded toward the porridge. “Put some milk in it if you need to make it more palatable.” He added before she could demand it, “There’s no sugar.” She clenched the spoon. “As punishment?” “Again, it’ll give you energy for a short blast, and then make you crash.” He shoveled eggs into his mouth. “You need to keep your energy level constant throughout the day—foods full of sugar or flimsy bread give you a temporary high. Lean meats, whole grains, and fruits and vegetables keep you relatively steady and full.

Our cook gave a short bow and retired to the servant’s quarters. “There,” Wendell said at length, once we’d eaten our way through a large percentage of the dishes, leaning his chair back as he sipped yet another cup of coffee. “Now that is the civilized way to begin retaking a kingdom.” “You would say it is the civilized way to begin any endeavor,” I said, amused. “Or a day of lazing about.” “One needs a great deal of time to laze about after one has been poisoned,” he said in a complaining tone. “Not all of us wish to go charging off to the library to terrorize librarians and scribble out three papers or more immediately after a traumatic experience.” I merely shook my head and took another piece of toast.

after four pieces of the French toast, a slice of perfect, ripe cantaloupe, and three crisp strips of bacon, I pushed back from the table and poured a second cup of coffee, feeling like there might be some point to this short and painful existence after all.

His gaze softens, 'Do you think anyone else wanted to slash Anita's tires or do you think it was just us?' 'Anyone with their head screwed on right will have slashed all four by now.' Lawrence shakes his head. 'Three, doll face. Four is covered by insurance.' We make another toast.

Focus on King. Not that he’s gone, but all the amazing things he left us with. Let’s celebrate his courage, drink a toast to his wisdom, eat in honour of his love for us. Let’s be happy for him ’cause he can’t be any more for himself.

I pulled my hair up in a messy ponytail upon leaving the bedroom and didn’t change from my blue and white shorts and red tank top I wore to bed the night before (Go, USA!). The shirt is tight and the shorts are short, but I'm completely comfortable. Graham is presently glaring at me like he doesn’t like me too much, so I'm thinking he is not comfortable with my outfit—or he still isn't over last night. I don't think he's ever been so angry with me before—well, except for maybe that time I accidentally put salt in his girlfriend's coffee instead of sugar. I pour myself a cup of coffee, showing him my back. And I wait. He doesn't make me wait long. His voice is brittle as he snaps, “Do you have to dress like that?” “I always dress like this. You never seemed to care before.” I give my behind an extra wiggle just to irritate him. I know I've succeeded when something thumps loudly against the tabletop. “I think you should dress like that more often,” Blake immediately replies. “Did anyone ask you?” is Graham's hotheaded comeback. “In fact, I think you’re wearing too many clothes. You should remove some.” A low growl leaves Graham. When I finally face the Malone boys, it is to find them staring one another down from across the small table. Graham’s wearing a white t-shirt and black shorts; his brother is in jeans and a brown shirt. Their coloring is so different, as are their features, but they are both striking in appearance, and their expressions currently mimic one another’s. “Graham, you're being an ass,” I calmly inform him. He grabs a piece of toast off his plate and whips it at me. I duck and it lands in the sink. To say I’m surprised would be an understatement. Toast throwing now? This is what our friendship has resorted to? “I will not live with someone who throws toast at me in anger,” I announce, setting my untouched cup of coffee on the counter. Blake snorts, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as he turns his attention to the world beyond the sliding glass patio doors. Graham blinks at me, like he doesn’t understand what I just said or maybe he doesn’t understand what he just did. Either way, I grab my mug and stride out of the room and down the hall to my bedroom. I’ll drink my coffee in peace, away from the toast throwing. Only peace is not to be mine. The door immediately opens after I close it, and there is Graham, staring at me, his head cocked, his expression unnamable. “This coffee is hot,” I warn, holding the white mug out. “You wanna be a toast thrower then I can be a coffee thrower. Just saying.” “Put the coffee down.” “No.” He takes a step toward me. “Come on. Please.” “You threw toast at me,” I point out, in case he forgot. “I don’t know why I did that,” he mumbles, looking down. When he lifts his eyes to me, they are pleading. “Please?” With a sigh, I comply. I am putty in his hands—or I could be. I keep the mug within reach on the dresser, should I need it as backup. As soon as I let the cup go, I’m pulled against his hard chest, his strong arms wrapping around me, his chin on the crown of my head. His scent cocoons me; a mixture of soap and Graham, and I inwardly sigh. He should throw toast more often if this is the end result. “I’m sorry—for last night, for the toast.

There’s not a short end and a long end. There could be a pointy end and a dull end, and that might mean that there was a good end and a bad end, especially if you wanted to toast marshmallows or poke an enemy.

Van Laar wasn’t a climate change denier, nor did he talk defensively of the United States’ appetite for oil. Rather, he confessed, “I don’t give much of a fuck, and nobody I know does, either, because this industry is giving me a future, even if it’s a short one and we’re all about to toast together.

We bring champagne to Franklin and Jeffrey, and I offer a final toast, 'Wishing you all good things in your life together.' Short, simple, to the point. I look at Meredith, relaxed in her ivory gown, my sister is all grown up. I'm grateful we did our growing up together.

She always had a big pot of oatmeal going on the stove and was happy to whip up a short stack of pancakes at the drop of a hat, but she pretty much made the rest of the plates to order. After the first week she had a good handle not only on what each man liked for his morning meal, but what he needed. Mr. Cupertino still loved the occasional inspired omelet and once she had made him Eggs Meurette, poached eggs in a red wine sauce, served with a chunk of crusty French bread, which was a big hit. She balanced him out other mornings with hot cereal, and fresh fruit with yogurt or cottage cheese. Johnny mostly went for bowls of cereal washed down with an ocean of cold milk, so Angelina kept a nice variety on hand, though nothing too sugary. The Don would happily eat a soft-boiled egg with buttered toast every day for the rest of his life, but she inevitably got him to eat a little bowl of oatmeal just before or after with his coffee. Big Phil was on the receiving end of her supersize, stick-to-your-ribs special- sometimes scrambled eggs, toast, potatoes, and bacon, other times maybe a pile of French toast and a slice of ham. Angelina decided to start loading up his plate on her own when she realized he was bashful about asking for seconds. On Sundays, she put on a big spread at ten o'clock, after they had all been to church, which variously included such items as smoked salmon and bagels, sausages, broiled tomatoes with a Parmesan crust, scrapple (the only day she'd serve it), bacon, fresh, hot biscuits and fruit muffins, or a homemade fruit strudel. She made omelets to order for Jerry and Mr. Cupertino. Then they'd all reconvene at five for the Sunday roast with all the trimmings.

Short-term memory is  the memory process that allows you to do many things at once, or  ‘multitask.’ For example, when you are cooking breakfast, you can remember how long the eggs have been boiling, when the frying bacon needs to be turned, when in the process to turn on the coffee maker and start the toast, and when you can fit in peeling the oranges. In contrast, a person with short-term memory deficit can concentrate on only one thing at a time, and if a second thing distracts them, the first may leave their consciousness completely. Trying to concentrate on many things at once, as we do if we are multitasking, becomes difficult, and then impossible, for people with short-term memory loss. Think about the process of making breakfast described above. The cook has to remember to check on each item of food being prepared. They also have to recall all the steps required to cook each item from start to finish. Not only that, but they also need to use their short-term memory to remember which of those steps they’ve already done and what comes next. People with short-term memory loss due to dementia usually stop doing complex tasks like cooking very early in the disease process. These complex tasks are very common in the work world. If a person is still working when they start to develop dementia, they often lose their job because they can no longer function the way they need to in order to complete their work. Speaking from my own experience as a nurse on a hospital ward, I had to remember the names, diagnoses, room and bed number, and general health conditions of a dozen or more people; also, what medications they got and when, what care and treatments they needed to receive and how well those went, whether or not I’d recorded all this information, what I needed to ask physicians when they arrived on the ward; and, still be cooperative with the many interruptions that happened every hour. Most jobs have similar complexities. They require a reliable short-term memory.

I can’t breathe. I’m 97% sure that my nerve endings are literally on fire, and true to his promise, walking today, or the days in the near future, will be a challenge. God bless him. “God, Sarah.” If I could move right now, I’d open my eyes and look down at him, but I can’t. He’s still inside me, his body also still quivering. I didn’t think it was possible, but this round might be better than any of the previous six. Six. Rounds. Of sex. In one twelve-hour period. I collapse on his chest, bury my face in his neck, try to regain use of my extremities, and purr when he wraps his arms around my back and hugs me close. His arms make me want to bite him. In the best sexual way possible. I don’t know what he does to keep them so…awesome, but dear sweet Moses, am I thankful. “I’ll make you breakfast,” he murmurs against my neck, sending a fresh round of goose bumps over my skin. “Okay. I’ll get off of you in about a month.” He chuckles and slaps my ass, and then before I know it, I’m flat on my back and he’s leaning over me, smiling down at me with those amazing green eyes of his. “How can you move?” “Quick recovery,” he says and kisses my nose. “You stay here and collect yourself and I’ll go cook.” “Cook what?” I ask. “There’s nothing in your fridge.” “The bagel place delivers.” He winks, places a smacking kiss on my lips, then jumps up and saunters out of the bedroom. Naked. Holy shit. I cover my face with my hands and can’t help but smile. What a night! Adam didn’t wait until this morning to have his way with me again. No, that happened sometime around 2:00 a.m. It seems that man can’t keep his hands off of me, and that doesn’t hurt my feelings in the least. I was so right. One night with Adam Spencer was unforgettable and a giant boost to my ego. I giggle and sit up, sighing when my muscles complain. Good lord, muscles I didn’t even know existed are protesting after the night of exhausting sex I just had. I had sex. A lot. With the hottest man ever. I giggle once more and stand, groaning now at the uncomfortable pull of my inner thigh muscles, and walk into his bathroom to clean up. The shower is quick, and before I know it, I’m in his kitchen, wearing last night’s clothes, kind of excited about the walk of shame I’ll do when he drops me off. “I like that smile,” Adam says as he walks into the kitchen holding a brown bag that was just delivered. “You put it there,” I reply with a wink. “You put on shorts.” He raises a brow. “I can take them back off.” “No.” I shake my head and laugh as Adam opens the bag of food. He smirks and passes me a bagel, already toasted with cream cheese. “How do you feel?” “Sore.” I lick cream cheese off my thumb and grin at the sexy man taking a bite of his breakfast. “Well sexed.” “Mission accomplished then.” He reaches over the island and drags his thumb down my cheek. He kisses my forehead, then pulls away. “Thank you.” “For?” “Dinner. Breakfast.” The most amazing sex of my entire life. “You’re welcome.

What would Kay do if he were here?” “Oh, he’d be toasted,” Lam said, and Ari barked a surprise laugh. “Just permanently mead-drunk. And let’s be honest, even though he’s the preferred gender of this hostile island, he’d fit in the least well of all of us. Stomping around with that silver space rat hair, telling stories about grand things like cargo shorts and high fructose corn syrup.

It's so cold here now that I think I will make some sort of braise, although it can't be one of her recipes, it can't be duck with green olives or Boeuf Bourgignon. Maybe I'll do short ribs with mashed potatoes, or something even simpler, maybe even your fried chicken. Alice likes things simple; this I know from reading her book. And it must be comforting, and provide her with a little taste of the South. I'm thinking of banana pudding for dessert, but instead of using Nilla wafers, I'm going to use cut-up cubes of toasted pound cake made from your recipe, layering them with homemade vanilla pudding and ripe bananas, and topping the whole thing with meringue. Maybe I'll make little individual puddings in ramekins, to honor the mousse Alice Stone made famous at the café.

Afancy party on the Fourth of July feels un-American. We should be gathered around a grill or open fire, wearing shorts and tekkies, toasting weenies and drinking beers from cans. A proper South African braai would feel more patriotic. My reflex is to tighten my bun or pull my hair out and redo it. It’s a nervous habit I’ve had

I am a whore in the bedroom but I’m pretty useless around the house and I can’t cook. Sorry, I’m not husband material at all.” I wink to show him I’m not serious about all this. Ali’s eyes sparkle. “I love you anyway, Liam Murphy. It’s not about sex or how good you are at making toast.” He laughs. “I love your sense of humour. I love your vulnerability. You always listen to me when I need to talk. I like how you make me feel better. Shall I go on?” I freeze. Boyfriend is one thing. I’m still scared by the declaration of love. I’m all these things to him? I had no idea! I want to run out of his house once again. My heart is thumping, from fright or excitement I can’t tell. But Ali’s not letting my rambling thoughts fester. He makes short shrift of his clothes ready for his brand of love making. Why has it taken me months to realise he is the one I want? The only one.

Getting ready on the day of launch takes much longer than you’d think it would, like so many aspects of spaceflight. First I take a final trip to the banya to relax, then go through the preflight enema ritual—our guts shut down in space initially, so the Russians encourage us to get things cleaned out ahead of time. The cosmonauts have their doctors do this, with warm water and rubber hoses, but I opt for the drugstore type in private, which lets me maintain a comfortable friendship with my flight surgeon. I savor a bath in the Jacuzzi tub, then a nap (because our launch is scheduled for 1:42 a.m. local time). When I wake, I take a shower, lingering awhile. I know how much I’ll miss the feeling of water for the next year. The Russian flight surgeon we call “Dr. No” shows up shortly after I’m out of the shower. He is called Dr. No because he gets to decide whether our families can see us once we’re in quarantine. His decisions are arbitrary, sometimes mean-spirited, and absolute. He is here to wipe down our entire bodies with alcohol wipes. The original idea behind the alcohol swab-down was to kill any germs trying to stow away with space travelers, but now it seems like just another ritual. After a champagne toast with senior management and our significant others, we sit in silence for a minute, a Russian tradition before a long trip. As we leave the building, a Russian Orthodox priest will bless us and throw holy water into each of our faces. Every cosmonaut since Yuri Gagarin has gone through each of these steps, so we will go through them, too. I’m not religious, but I always say that when you’re getting ready to be rocketed into space, a blessing can’t hurt.

Ten Things I Need to Know" The brightest stars are the first to explode. Also hearts. It is important to pay attention to love’s high voltage signs. The mockingbird is really ashamed of its own feeble song lost beneath all those he has to imitate. It’s true, the Carolina Wren caught in the bedroom yesterday died because he stepped on a glue trap and tore his wings off. Maybe we have both fallen through the soul’s thin ice already. Even Ethiopia is splitting off from Africa to become its own continent. Last year it moved 10 feet. This will take a million years. There’s always this nostalgia for the days when Time was so unreal it touched us only like the pale shadow of a hawk. Parmenedes transported himself above the beaten path of the stars to find the real that was beyond time. The words you left are still smoldering like the cigarette left in my ashtray as if it were a dying star. The thin thread of its smoke is caught on the ceiling. When love is threatened, the heart crackles with anger like kindling. It’s lucky we are not like hippos who fling dung at each other with their ridiculously tiny tails. Okay, that’s more than ten things I know. Let’s try twenty five, no, let’s not push it, twenty. How many times have we hurt each other not knowing? Destiny wears her clothes inside out. Each desire is a memory of the future. The past is a fake cloud we’ve pasted to a paper sky. That is why our dreams are the most real thing we possess. My logic here is made of your smells, your thighs, your kiss, your words. I collect stars but have no place to put them. You take my breath away only to give back a purer one. The way you dance creates a new constellation. Off the Thai coast they have discovered a new undersea world with sharks that walk on their fins. In Indonesia, a kangaroo that lives in a tree. Why is the shadow I cast always yours? Okay, let’s say I list 33 things, a solid symbolic number. It’s good to have a plan so we don’t lose ourselves, but then who has taken the ladder out of the hole I’ve dug for myself? How can I revive the things I’ve killed inside you? The real is a sunset over a shanty by the river. The keys that lock the door also open it. When we shut out each other, nothing seems real except the empty caves of our hearts, yet how arrogant to think our problems finally matter when thousands of children are bayoneted in the Congo this year. How incredible to think of those soldiers never having loved. Nothing ever ends. Will this? Byron never knew where his epic, Don Juan, would end and died in the middle of it. The good thing about being dead is that you don’t have to go through all that dying again. You just toast it. See, the real is what the imagination decants. You can be anywhere with the turn of a few words. Some say the feeling of out-of-the-body travel is due to certain short circuits in parts of the brain. That doesn’t matter because I’m still drifting towards you. Inside you are cumulous clouds I could float on all night. The difference is always between what we say we love and what we love. Tonight, for instance, I could drink from the bowl of your belly. It doesn’t matter if our feelings shift like sands beneath the river, there’s still the river. Maybe the real is the way your palms fit against my face, or the way you hold my life inside you until it is nothing at all, the way this plant droops, this flower called Heart’s Bursting Flower, with its beads of red hanging from their delicate threads any breeze might break, any word might shatter, any hurt might crush. Superstition Reviews issue 2 fall 2008