Snacks Happiness Quotes

Money can't buy happiness but it can buy chocolate, which is kind of the same thing.

If I could spend every night of my life eating snacks and watching something silly in a giant bed with one of my best friends, I'd be happy.

We have to learn to turn off the autopilot that’s steering us in an endless loop. We all know people who snack while talking on the phone or watching the news. You ask them if the omelet they just ate had onion in it, and they can’t tell you,

The flowers are so beautiful, but God's love is infinitely stronger for us than the beauty of ALL flowers and all beautiful things combined!

Think about it. Why does one eat a snack? Why is a snack necessary? The answer—and we’ve done a million studies on this—is because our lives are filled with tedium and drudgery and endless toil and we need a tiny blip of pleasure to repel the gathering darkness. Thus, we give ourselves a treat. “But here’s the thing,” Periwinkle continues, his eyes all aglow, “even the things we do to break the routine become routine. Even the things we do to escape the sadness of our lives have themselves become sad. What this ad acknowledges is that you’ve been eating all these snacks and yet you are not happy, and you’ve been watching all these shows and yet you still feel lonely, and you’ve been seeing all this news and yet the world makes no sense, and you’ve been playing all these games and yet the melancholy sinks deeper and deeper into you. How do you escape?” “You buy a new chip.” “You buy a missile-shaped chip! That’s the answer. What this ad does is admit something you already deeply suspect and existentially fear: that consumerism is a failure and you will never find any meaning there no matter how much money you spend. So the great challenge for people like me is to convince people like you that the problem is not systemic. It’s not that snacks leave you feeling empty, it’s that you haven’t found the right snack yet. It’s not that TV turns out to be a poor substitute for human connection, it’s that you haven’t found the right show yet. It’s not that politics are hopelessly bankrupt, it’s that you haven’t found the right politician yet. And this ad just comes right out and says it. I swear to god it’s like playing poker against someone who’s showing his cards and yet still bluffing by force of personality.

Bruno Rebelle, head of Greenpeace France, summed up the outpouring of national support: “You see, in the United States, food is fuel. Here, it’s a love story.

Cooking can be an act of love and delight, or it can be yet another exercise in racing through life on automatic pilot—never stopping for a moment to notice, feel, or taste. Cooking performed as an act of love brings us renewed energy and vigor.

When did your flight plan become a holding pattern, always circling happiness, but never allowed to land? Distracted by in-flight movies, drinks, and snacks, until the fuel runs out. Is this really all there is? Is this what you want out of life?

On Friday night, you stole the life of an exceptional being, the love of my life, the mother of my son, but you will not have my hate. I don’t know who you are and I don’t want to know. You are dead souls. If that God for whom you blindly kill made us in his image, every bullet in my wife’s body will have been a wound in his heart. So, no, I will not give you the satisfaction of hating you. That is what you want, but to respond to your hate with anger would be to yield to the same ignorance that made you what you are. You want me to be scared, to see my fellow citizens through suspicious eyes, to sacrifice my freedom for security. You have failed. I will not change. I saw her this morning. At last, after days and nights of waiting. She was as beautiful as when she went out on Friday evening, as beautiful as when I fell madly in love with her more than twelve years ago. Of course I’m devastated by grief, I grant you that small victory, but it will be short-lived. I know that she will be with us every day and that we will see each other in the paradise of free souls to which you will never have access. There are only two of us – my son and myself – but we are stronger than all the armies of the world. Anyway, I don’t have any more time to waste on you, as I must go to see Melvil, who is waking up from his nap. He is only seventeen months old. He will eat his snack as he does every day, then we will play as we do every day, and all his life this little boy will defy you by being happy and free. Because you will not have his hate either.

French parents are provided with very different information about food, and about children's eating habits, than American parents. This is because French doctors, teachers, nutritionists, and scientists, view the relationship between children, food and parenting very differently than do North Americans. They assume, for example, that all children will learn to like vegetables. And they have carefully studied strategies for getting them to do so. French psychologists and nutritionists have systematically assessed the average number of times children will have to taste new foods before they willingly agree to eat them: the average is seven, but most parenting books recommend between ten and fifteen.

Only the middle class and the wealthy have access to good food and eat well. No one else! In France, everyone eats well—good food is for everyone, no matter rich or poor.

If you want to be truly happy in life, surround yourself with people who make you laugh. And also, people who bring snacks.

While munching on my afternoon snack—a piece of bread smeared with chicken fat—I joyfully looked into the bright parlor.

eyes. Josh has been head-over-heels for Layla ever since they met, but he won’t admit it. It’s obvious, though. When she’s happy about something, he’s wandering around the flat, humming under his breath. When she’s stressed, he gets all moody. He’s filled our kitchen cupboard with all of her favourite snacks, and lights up whenever she texts him. Seeing her cry probably killed him.

Was this how you were going to awaken the creatures?" Machiavelli,clutching the bars of his cell,smiled but said nothing. Virginia stood in front of Dee and stared into his eyes,using herwill to calm him down. "So you tried to use the pages to awaken the cratures.Tell me what happened." Dee jabbed a finger into the nearest cell. It was empty. Virginia stepped closer and discovered the pile of white dust in the corner. "I don't even know what was in the cell-some winged monstrosity.Giant vampire bat,I think.I said the words,and the creature opened its eyes and immediately crumbled to dust." "Maybe you said a word wrong?" Virginia suggested. She plucked a scrap of paper from Josh's hands. "I mean,it looks difficult." "I am fluent," Dee snapped. "He is," Machiavelli said, "I will give him that.And his accent is very good too, though not quite as good as mine." Dee spun back to the cell holding Machiavelli. "Tell me what went wrong." Machiavelli seemed to be considering it; then he shook his head. "I don't think so." Dee jerked his thumb at the sphinx. "Right now she's absorbing your aura,ensuring that you cannot use any spells against me. But she'll be just as happy eating your flesh.Isn't that true?"he said, looking up into the crature's female face. "Oh,I love Italian," she rumbled. She stepped away from Dee and dipped her head to look into the opposite cell. "Give me this one," she said,nodding at Billy the Kid. "He'll make a tasty snack." Her long black forked tongue flickered in the air before the outlaw, who immediately grabbed it,jerked it forward and allowed it to snap back like an elastic band. She screamed,coughed, and squawked all at the same time. Billy grinned."I'll make sure I'll choke you on the way down." "It might be difficult to do that if you have no arms," the sphinx said thickly,working her tongue back and forth. "I'll still give you indigestion." Dee looked at Machiavelli. "Tell me," he said again, "or I will feed your young American friend to the beast." "Tell him nothing," Billy yelled. "This is one of those occasions when I am in agreement with Billy.I am going to tell you nothing." The Magician looked from one side of the cell to the other. Then he looked at Machiavelli."What happened to you? You were one of the Dark Elders' finest agents in this Shadowrealm. There were times you even made me look like an amateur." "John,you were always an amateur." Machiavelli smiled."Why, look at the mess you're in now.

There’s a heavenly bakery in one corner, and a whole local snacks section, and between the six of us, it’s like shopping with very bougie, somewhat drunk toddlers, one person wandering off every time the rest of us are ready to go.

If I could spend every night of my life eating snacks and watching something silly in a giant bed with one of my best friends, I'd be happy. My future still terrified me. But everything seemed a little brighter when my best friends were around.

Opposition to food can’t persist if there is no opponent. In the face of a child’s refusal to eat, the best parental response is serene indifference. Parents should remind themselves: ‘I know this will pass. My child will not continue refusing to eat if I simply refuse to react.

In the car, I’m contemplating the idea that Jack researched, bought, and packed a diabetes-friendly snack just for me when he asks, “Where to for dinner?” “Oh.” Something happy and surprised flips in my chest at the idea of the night not being over yet. “I like everything.” He merges into traffic. “Excellent. Some of my favorite stuff is everything. Now tell me what you want to eat.

Was this boring? Yes, she knew it was, and she wanted someone, anyone, to understand the monotony, the mind-numbing routine, the way in which her mental activity began to slow the moment she woke each morning, beginning with high hopes, thoughts of art projects and energy, a sunny day and happy boy and goals fulfilled, and the slow yet steady grinding down of hopes to rote considerations of what to eat and what to clean, the slow agony of The Schedule- time for breakfast and time for a walk and time for lunch and time for nap and time for snack, time for pooping, time for dinner- this and then that and then this again, until every single thought had been emptied from her head and left in its place only the physical sensations of exhaustion, a pain in her lower back, greasy hair, a bloated feeling from eating too many fish-shaped, sodium-laden crackers. She spoke in toddler talk and was constantly asking different questions about poop.

I would always snack because I thought I was starving all the time. Kashey taught me that hunger can be deceptive. I learned I often just had a psychological need to eat. He taught me that it’s okay to be hungry. My response was ‘WHAT???’ He told me to ‘embrace the suck.’ Now, yeah, I’m hungry sometimes. It is what it is. I’m OK with being uncomfortable now. I remind myself that I’m safe, have food, and will eat when it’s time to eat.” She’s down about 150 pounds and still losing. “I swim, lift weights, hike, walk miles at a time, and am off my medications,” said Bunge.

When anxious subjects are shown happy, neutral and angry faces on a computer screen, their attention is drawn to the angry faces signaling a potential threat Conversely, good moods broaden attention and make people inclined to seek out information and novelty. In one study, participants in good moods sought more variety when choosing among packaged foods, such as crackers, soup, and snacks. Moods have the power to influence behavior because they have such wide purchase on the body and mind. They affect what we notice, our levels of alertness and energy, and what goals we choose.

Nightbitch wanted to say, You don’t even know what the grumpies are! Have you ever yelled at your twins, in full voice, in the middle of the night? Yelled at them to go back to sleep, pumping your diaphragm with rage and sound? Have you sobbed beside them when they asked for another glass of water, another snack, at ten at night, just really let go and had a full-on snot fest in front of your children, so they were the ones comforting you? Have you ever locked yourself in the bathroom for twenty whole minutes to peruse your phone while your child bangs on the door and yells MAMA as loud as he can, until he is sobbing and, probably, permanently traumatized? Sometimes- Nightbitch longed to say, stunning all of them into a sweet-smelling silence- I fantasize about getting in my car and driving through night and day, as far south as I can go, until I get to a dirty beach and check in at a cut-rate motel where I’ll drink horrible pina coladas all day in a faded beach chair. Sometimes- Nightbitch imagined uttering plainly to their beautiful, happy faces- I imagine abandoning my family, abandoning this entire life. So don’t invoke the grumpies unless you’ve really got them, she wanted to scream. Just don’t.

I’m sure you’re stuck on something right now—it’s page 332, you can’t go any further, but you know you should finish the book. So what do you do? You give up reading books for a while. For me, giving up reading was a tragedy. I grew up on books, then I switched to blogs, then I switched to Twitter and Facebook, and I realized I wasn’t actually learning anything. I was just taking little dopamine snacks all day long. I was getting my little 140-character burst of dopamine. I would Tweet, then look to see who retweeted my Tweet. It’s a fun and wonderful thing, but it’s a game I was playing. I realized I had to go back to reading books. [6]

...I drag the kids to the farmers' market and fill out the week's cheap supermarket haul with a few vivid bunches of organic produce...Once home, I set out fresh flowers and put the fruit in a jadeite bowl. A jam jar of garden growth even adorns the chartreuse kids' table...I found some used toddler-sized chairs to go around it...It sits right in front of the tall bookcases...When the kids are eating or coloring there, with the cluster or mismatched picture frames hanging just to their left, my son with his mop of sandy hair, my daughter just growing out of babyhood...they look like they could be in a Scandinavian design magazine. I think to myself that maybe motherhood is just this, creating these frames, the little vistas you can take in that look like pictures from magazines, like any number of images that could be filed under familial happiness. They reflect back to you that you're doing it - doing something - right. In my case, these scenes are like a momentary vacation from the actual circumstances of my current life. Children, clean and clad in brightly striped clothing, snacking on slices of organic plum. My son drawing happy gel pen houses, the flourishing clump of smiley-faced flowers beneath a yellow flat sun. To counter the creeping worry that I am a no-good person, I must collect a lot of these images, postage-stamp moments I can gaze upon and think, I can't be fucking up that bad. Can I?

Little Moments that bloom in Christmas hue. How beautiful the night shines in the hue of dreams, as if lulling along a distant breeze, wrapped in a cold warmth of a solitary winter's eve! To me, Christmas is always about a bunch of happy moments, simple yet ornate in a colour of joy, something that connects our hearts to all that is pure and pristine, all that is beautifully simple and soulfully happy. And if we look closely, we can find those moments, every day in our regular lives, from sipping on our early morning coffee to munching on our midnight snack, from taking a moment to gaze at the sunset to simply sitting silent listening to our soul, beautiful unfiltered unadulterated moments that often go unnoticed yet remain forever warmed up in the cold embrace of our heart, frozen in a niche of a dream called Life. After all, Life is a beautiful dream. La vie est un beau rêve Stay in Love.

YOU ARE THE BOSS. Hosting is not democratic, just like design isn’t. Structure helps good parties, like restrictions help good design. Introduce people to each other A LOT. But take your time with it. Be generous. Very generous with food, wine, and with compliments/introductions. If you have a reception before people sit, make sure there are some snacks so blood sugar level is kept high and people are happy. ALWAYS do placement. Always. Placement MUST be boy/girl/boy/girl, etc. And no, it does not matter if someone is gay. Seat people next to people who do different things but that those things might be complementary. Or make sure they have something else in common; a passion or something rare is best. And tell people what they have in common. Within each table, people should introduce themselves, but it must be short. Name, plus something they like or what they did on the weekend or maybe something that can relate to the gathering. For dessert, people can switch, but best to have it organized: tell every other person at the table to move to another seat.

We have snacks, everybody!” “Where’d you get them from, Delaware?” Ben asked. He was glaring behind me, where Sage leaned casually against the wall. “Practically,” I said. “My fault-I was dying for Red Hots. Pretty much impossible to find. So what movie are we watching?” Back in the cave, Sage had told me I wasn’t much of an actress, and apparently he was right. I thought I put on a brilliant show, but Ben’s eyes were filled with suspicion, Rayna looked like she was ready to pounce, and Sage seemed to be working very hard to stifle his laughter. Rayna yawned. “Can’t do it. I’m so tired. I’m sorry, but I have to kick you guys out and get some sleep.” She wasn’t much better at acting than I was. I knew she wanted to talk, but the idea of being away from Sage killed me. “No worries,” I said. “I can bring he snacks to the guys’ room. We can watch there and let you sleep.” “Great!” Ben said. Rayna gaped, and in the space of ten seconds, she and I had a full conversation with only our eyes. Rayna: “What the hell?” Me: “I know! But I want to hang out with Sage.” Rayna: “Are you insane?! You’ll be with him for the rest of your life. I’m only with you until morning!” I couldn’t fight that one. She was right. “Actually, I’m pretty tired too,” I said. I even forced a yawn, though judging from Sage’s smirk, it wasn’t terribly convincing. “You sure?” Ben asked. He was staring at me in a way that made me feel X-rayed. “Positive. Take some snacks, though. I got dark chocolate M&Ms and Fritos.” “Sounds like a slumber party!” Rayna said. “Absolutely,” Sage deadpanned. “Look out, Ben-I do a mean French braid.” Ben paid no attention. He had moved closer and was looking at me suspiciously, like a dog whose owner comes from after playing with someone else’s pet. I almost thought he was going to smell me. “G’night,” he said. He had to brush past Sage to get to the door, but he didn’t say a word to him. Sage raised an amused eyebrow to me. “Good night, ladies,” he said, then turned and followed Ben out. It hurt to see him go, like someone had run an ice cream scoop through my core, but I knew that was melodramatic. I’d see him in the morning. We had our whole lives to be together. Tonight he could spend with Ben. I laughed out loud, imagining the two of them actually cheating, snacking, and French braiding each other’s hair as they sat cross-legged on the bed. Then a pillow smacked me in the side of the head. “’We can watch there and let you sleep’?” Rayna wailed. “Are you crazy?” “I know! I’m sorry. I took it back, though, right?” “You have two seconds to start talking, or I reload.” Before now, if anyone had told me that I could have a night like tonight and not want to tell Rayna everything, I’d have thought they were crazy. But being with Sage was different. It felt perfectly round and complete. If I said anything about it, I felt like I’d be giving away a giant scoop of it that I couldn’t ever get back. “It was really nice,” I said. “Thanks.” Rayna picked up another pillow, then let it drop. She wasn’t happy, but she understood. She also knew I wasn’t thanking her just for asking, but for everything. “Ready for bed?” she asked. “We have to eat the guys to breakfast so they don’t steal all the cinnamon rolls.” I loved her like crazy.

Why can't we sit together? What's the point of seat reservations,anyway? The bored woman calls my section next,and I think terrible thoughts about her as she slides my ticket through her machine. At least I have a window seat. The middle and aisle are occupied with more businessmen. I'm reaching for my book again-it's going to be a long flight-when a polite English accent speaks to the man beside me. "Pardon me,but I wonder if you wouldn't mind switching seats.You see,that's my girlfriend there,and she's pregnant. And since she gets a bit ill on airplanes,I thought she might need someone to hold back her hair when...well..." St. Clair holds up the courtesy barf bag and shakes it around. The paper crinkles dramatically. The man sprints off the seat as my face flames. His pregnant girlfriend? "Thank you.I was in forty-five G." He slides into the vacated chair and waits for the man to disappear before speaking again. The guy onhis other side stares at us in horror,but St. Clair doesn't care. "They had me next to some horrible couple in matching Hawaiian shirts. There's no reason to suffer this flight alone when we can suffer it together." "That's flattering,thanks." But I laugh,and he looks pleased-until takeoff, when he claws the armrest and turns a color disturbingy similar to key lime pie. I distract him with a story about the time I broke my arm playing Peter Pan. It turned out there was more to flying than thinking happy thoughts and jumping out a window. St. Clair relaxes once we're above the clouds. Time passes quickly for an eight-hour flight. We don't talk about what waits on the other side of the ocean. Not his mother. Not Toph.Instead,we browse Skymall. We play the if-you-had-to-buy-one-thing-off-each-page game. He laughs when I choose the hot-dog toaster, and I tease him about the fogless shower mirror and the world's largest crossword puzzle. "At least they're practical," he says. "What are you gonna do with a giant crossword poster? 'Oh,I'm sorry Anna. I can't go to the movies tonight. I'm working on two thousand across, Norwegian Birdcall." "At least I'm not buying a Large Plastic Rock for hiding "unsightly utility posts.' You realize you have no lawn?" "I could hide other stuff.Like...failed French tests.Or illegal moonshining equipment." He doubles over with that wonderful boyish laughter, and I grin. "But what will you do with a motorized swimming-pool snack float?" "Use it in the bathtub." He wipes a tear from his cheek. "Ooo,look! A Mount Rushmore garden statue. Just what you need,Anna.And only forty dollars! A bargain!" We get stumped on the page of golfing accessories, so we switch to drawing rude pictures of the other people on the plane,followed by rude pictures of Euro Disney Guy. St. Clair's eyes glint as he sketches the man falling down the Pantheon's spiral staircase. There's a lot of blood. And Mickey Mouse ears. After a few hours,he grows sleepy.His head sinks against my shoulder. I don't dare move.The sun is coming up,and the sky is pink and orange and makes me think of sherbet.I siff his hair. Not out of weirdness.It's just...there. He must have woken earlier than I thought,because it smells shower-fresh. Clean. Healthy.Mmm.I doze in and out of a peaceful dream,and the next thing I know,the captain's voice is crackling over the airplane.We're here. I'm home.

I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face/ I felt giddy all the way back to the hotel. I giggled. I was happy. Sage leaned back in his seat and studied me, an amused smile on his face. “What?” I asked. He shook his head. “You’re making fun of me,” I said. “I’m not,” Sage assured me. I knew he was telling the truth. His eyes were affectionate. I was his, not just in the past but today and forever, and nothing had ever made me feel more secure. I was about to pull into the hotel when Sage reminded me of the snacks-the whole reason we’d supposedly gone out. I swung a wild U-turn that slammed Sage against his door. “Taking up stunt driving?” he asked. “Can you imagine walking in without the snacks? Rayna would be all over me.” “You don’t think she will be anyway? It’s been a long snack run.” “It hasn’t been that long,” I said. “Has it?” He scrunched his brows. “What are you trying to say?” I giggled again, and we pulled into a gas station market. Sage wrapped his arm around my shoulders and I leaned against his chest as we walked in step into the store; he held my hand as I cruised the tiny aisles; he stood behind me and rubbed my shoulders as we paid. I felt normal. I imagined how things would be after everything was over: after we met the dark lady, after we got the Elixir, after we found my dad. Sage and I could travel the world together: me taking pictures, him painting, always coming back together at the end of the day to share what we’d done and lie in each other’s arms.

Prayer for the Dads Enduring the Epic Winter Rains Along the Muddy Sidelines at Pee Wee Soccer Games Brothers, I have stood where you stand, in ankle-deep mud, trying not to call instructions and warnings to my child, trying to restrict myself to supportive remarks and not roars of fury at the gangly mute teenage referee who totally missed an assault upon my beloved progeny; and I have also shuffled from leg to leg for an entire hour in an effort to stay warm; and I have also realized I was supposed to bring snacks at halftime five minutes before halftime, and dashed to the store for disgusting liquids in colors unlike any natural color issued from the Creator; and I too have pretended not to care about the score, or about my child’s athletic performance, but said cheery nonsense about how I did not care; and I too have resisted the urge to bring whiskey to the game in a thermos, and so battle the incredible slicing wet winds; and I too have resisted the urge to bring the newspaper or a magazine and at least get some reading done during the long periods of languor as small knots of children surround the ball like wolves around a deer and happily kick each other in the shins; and I too have carefully not said a word when my child and six mud-soaked teammates cram into my car and bang out their cleats on my pristine car floor and leave streaks of mud and disgusting plastic juice on the windows; and I too know that this cold wet hour is a great hour, for you are with your child, and your child is happy, and the Coach of all things gave you that child, and soon enough you will be like me, the father of teenagers who no longer stands along the sidelines laughing with the other dads in the rain. Be there now, brothers, and know how great the gift; for everything has its season, and the world spins ever faster. And so: amen.

James Whitehorn Honeycutt would simply have to find another way to merge Honeycutt Foods with Reedwater Snacks. Regardless of what her father thought, the merger wasn’t worth her freedom, or her happiness. She wasn’t some medieval bride to be bartered off like a herd of cattle and a milk goat, for pity’s sake. She was a woman who wanted more, who wanted to make her own decisions, her own choices. It saddened

IMAGINE RECLAIMING ALL THE ENERGY that could be available to us but isn’t because we scatter it, squandering it on endlessly regretting the past, worrying about the future, berating ourselves, blaming others, checking Facebook yet again, throwing ourselves into serial snacking, workaholism, recreational shopping, recreational drugs.

Some things should be so routine that they don’t even ask questions! Especially about eating!” I shrugged it off at the time, but I later began to wonder. Maybe Janine was right. I had encouraged my children to express their individual views, and to use their questions to dispute parental orders, allowing them to exert control where they could. One of the places where they did this, early on, was at the table. Meals at our house were usually rushed, as we were either herding the children out the door in the morning or rushed getting home after work. Hurried and harried, I’d usually accept the kids’ rejections of my cooking and meet their demands for substitutes. Bread and butter, or pasta, became our routine. My kids learned that they—not I—decided what to eat.

The history of the land is a history of blood. In this history, someone wins and someone loses. There are patriots and enemies. Folk heroes who save the day. Vanquished foes who had it coming. It’s all in the telling. The conquered have no voice. Ask the thirty-eight Santee Sioux singing the death song with the nooses around their necks, the treaty signed fair and square, then nullified with a snap of the rope. Ask the slave women forced to bear their masters’ children, to raise and love them and see them sold. Ask the miners slaughtered by the militia in Ludlow. Names are erased. The conqueror tells the story. The colonizer writes the history, winning twice: A theft of land. A theft of witness. Oh, but let’s not speak of such things! Look: Here is an eagle whipping above the vast grasslands where the buffalo once thundered bold as gods. (The buffalo are here among the dead. So many buffalo.) There is the Declaration in sepia. (Signed by slave owners. Shhh, hush up about that, now!) See how the sun shines down upon the homesteaders’ wagons racing toward a precious claim in the nation’s future, the pursuit of happiness pursued without rest, destiny made manifest? (Never mind about those same homesteaders eating the flesh of neighbors. Winters are harsh in this country. Pack a snack.) The history is a hungry history. Its mouth opens wide to consume. It must be fed. Bring me what you would forget, it cries, and I will swallow it whole and pull out the bones bleached of truth upon which you will hang the myths of yourselves. Feed me your pain and I will give you dreams and denial, a balm in Gilead. The land remembers everything, though. It knows the steps of this nation’s ballet of violence and forgetting. The land receives our dead, and the dead sing softly the song of us: blood. Blood on the plains. In the rivers. On the trees where the ropes swing. Blood on the leaves. Blood under the flowers of Gettysburg, of Antioch. Blood on the auction blocks. Blood of the Lenape, the Cherokee, the Cheyenne. Blood of the Alamo. Blood of the Chinese railroad workers. Blood of the midwives hung for witchcraft, for the crime of being women who bleed. Blood of the immigrants fleeing the hopeless, running toward the open arms of the nation’s seductive hope, its greatest export. Blood of the first removed to make way for the cities, the factories, the people and their unbridled dreams: The chugging of the railways. The tapping of the telegram. The humming of industry. Sound burbling along telephone wires. Printing presses whirring with the day’s news. And the next day’s. And the day after that’s. Endless cycles of information. Cities brimming with ambitions used and discarded. The dead hold what the people throw away. The stories sink the tendrils of their hope and sorrow down into the graves and coil around the dead buried there, deep in its womb. All passes away, the dead whisper. Except for us. We, the eternal. Always here. Always listening. Always seeing. One nation, under the earth. E Pluribus unum mortuis. Oh, how we wish we could reach you! You dreamers and schemers! Oh, you children of optimism! You pioneers! You stars and stripes, forever! Sometimes, the dreamers wake as if they have heard. They take to the streets. They pick up the plow, the pen, the banner, the promise. They reach out to neighbors. They reach out to strangers. Backs stooped from a hard day’s labor, two men, one black, one white, share water from a well. They are thirsty and, in this one moment, thirst and work make them brothers. They drink of shared trust, that all men are created equal. They wipe their brows and smile up at a faithful sun.

Blood glucose instability is a huge problem that affects the moods of millions of people. The brain accounts for only about 2 percent of body weight, but requires 25 percent of all blood pumped by the heart (up to 50 percent in kids). Therefore, low blood sugar hits the brain hard, causing depression, anxiety, and lassitude. If you often become uncomfortably hungry, you’ve got a serious problem and should solve it. Eat high-protein, nutrient-dense meals, and snack enough to keep your blood sugar up, but not with insulin-stimulating sweets or starches. Remember that hunger kills brain cells, just like getting drunk. Be careful of caffeine, which causes blood sugar swings, and never crash diet. Food sensitivities are common reactions that are not classic food allergies, so most conventional allergists underestimate the damage they do. They play a major role in mood disruption, much more frequently than most people realize. They cause chemical reactions in the body that destabilize blood sugar and wreak havoc upon hormonal and neurotransmitter balance. This can trigger depression, anxiety, impaired concentration, insomnia, and hyperactivity. The most common sensitivities, unfortunately, are to the foods people most often overconsume: wheat, milk, eggs, corn, soy, and peanuts. The average American gets about 75 percent of her calories from just 10 favorite foodstuffs, and this narrow range of eating disrupts the digestive process and causes abnormal reactions. If a particular food doesn’t agree with you and commonly causes heartburn, gas, bloating, water weight gain, a craving for more, or a burst of nervous energy, you’re probably reactive to it. There are several good books on the subject, and there are many labs that test for sensitivities. Ask a chiropractor, naturopath, or doctor of integrative medicine about them. Don’t expect much help from a conventional allergist. Exercise and Mood Dozens of studies indicate that exercise is often as effective for depression as medication, partly because it increases production of stimulating hormones, such as norepinephrine, and also because it increases oxygen flow to the brain. Exercise can, in addition, help relieve and prevent anxiety, creating a so-called tranquilizer effect that persists for about 4 hours after exercising. Exercise also decreases the biological stress response, which dampens the automatic fear reaction. It is also uniquely effective at causing secretion of Nerve Growth Factor, one of the limited number of substances that cause brain cells to grow. Another benefit of exercise is that it increases endorphin output by about 500 percent and decreases the incidence of major and minor illnesses. For mood, the ideal amount is 30 to 45 minutes of cardiovascular exercise daily. Studies show that exercising less than 30 minutes or more than 1 hour decreases mood benefits.

But I have to tell you something. It's important." He froze, teetered on the tiles, his eyes glistening in the morning light. "What?" "I hacked Guitar Hero. There was no possible way I could have lost." A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "I know." Puzzled, she frowned. "Then why did you keep playing?" "It made you happy," he said simply. "Same reason I brought you math puzzles, played video games with you when Sanjay wasn't around, tried to guess the after-school snack instead of looking at your meal plan, and offered to take you to the prom when you didn't have a date. I wanted you to be happy, Daisy. I still do.

One reason that recovering survivors attain greater emotional intelligence is that they eventually see through the mainstream media’s indoctrination that people should be happy all the time. Much of the general populace, however, becomes increasingly dissociated from their full emotional experience by anxiously pushing to pump up their mood. Many “normal” people strive to fulfill the pursuit of happiness as if it were a patriotic duty. More and more they employ socially acceptable addictions to accomplish this. Snacking, spending, self-medicating, and online puttering are widespread addictions that seem to be ever on the rise.

Our chief biologist has had five tours of duty here at Base Tanaka and in his tenure has discovered, identified, and classified hundreds of the species of this planet. But as we learned today, in all that time, the one thing he has not discovered is that any of the creatures he's identified and named will be happy to eat him!" Laughs all around, and why not. Ardeleanu wasn't dead; it's easy to make jokes when you live. “To commemorate his escape from the literal jaws of death, and to remind him to be more careful the next time, I am proud to this evening induct Ion into the Ancient and Sacred Order of the Tasty Snack Cake.

I never had to be their best friend, I never had to be cool or funny, I didn’t have to make all those snacks or bring them treats from the grocery store or lavish them with gifts the Christmas that JP and I split; I didn’t have to drive them to the beach, picking up half a dozen friends on the way, when they could just as easily have ridden their bikes. All I had to do was hug them, kiss them, rock them to sleep, read to them, tell them I was proud of them and that I was happy, so happy, that they were mine.

In a world addicted to immediate satisfaction, it's tempting to lounge on our sofas, snack mindlessly, and get lost in endless television episodes, all while nurturing a vague hope that our dreams will just happen. We might think we want success, love, and happiness served to us on a silver platter, maybe even with a side of fries. But the reality is far more demanding. If we truly want to achieve the kind of life-altering fulfillment that transcends the ordinary, we need to ignite a "keen pulsating desire" within us. That means rolling up our sleeves, stepping beyond the familiar, and taking the audacious, extraordinary actions that turn desires into reality.

When anxious subjects are shown happy, neutral and angry faces on a computer screen, their attention is drawn to the angry faces signaling a potential threat. Conversely, good moods broaden attention and make people inclined to seek out information and novelty. In one study, participants in good moods sought more variety when choosing among packaged foods, such as crackers, soup, and snacks. Moods have the power to influence behavior because they have such wide purchase on the body and mind. They affect what we notice, our levels of alertness and energy, and what goals we choose.

That’s not information I want. Leave me in the dark. I’m happy there. It’s quiet, and I have snacks.

Staying healthy is like playing the long game in Monopoly. You've got to make those strategic moves now if you want to build those fancy hotels on Park Place later. So, instead of Boardwalk, think salad bowl. Swap out those late-night snacks for some shut-eye, hydrate like you're a plant on the verge of wilting, and get those steps in like you're auditioning for 'Dancing with the Stars.' And hey, if all else fails, remember: laughter is the best medicine. Stay healthy, stay happy!

Yet moods are more than a summary readout of the status quo—they set the stage for specific emotional behaviors. Most of us have experienced a situation in which an irritable mood made it easier for a minor slight to trigger an outburst of rage, or when an anxious mood made us so jumpy that just a few strange noises in the night provoked full panic and terror.24 Confirming scientists’ intuitions, controlled experiments find that an anxious mood narrows the focus of attention to threats. When anxious subjects are shown happy, neutral, and angry faces on a computer screen, their attention is drawn to the angry faces signaling a potential threat.25 Conversely, good moods broaden attention and make people inclined to seek out information and novelty.26 In one study, participants in good moods sought more variety when choosing among packaged foods, such as crackers, soup, and snacks.27 Moods have the power to influence behavior because they have such wide purchase on the body and mind. They affect what we notice, our levels of alertness and energy,28 and what goals we choose. Finally, once a goal is embarked upon, the mood system monitors progress toward its attainment. It will redouble effort when minor obstacles arise. If progress stops entirely because of an insuperable obstacle, the mood system puts the brakes on effort.29 Experiments have successfully tested the idea that negative mood mobilizes effort when tasks become challenging. When participants are put in a negative mood and subsequently are given a difficult task to perform, they can be expected to show a larger spike in blood pressure, a key index of bodily mobilization. Yet if the task is made significantly more difficult, to the point that success is no longer possible, participants no longer demonstrate the sharp spike, a sign that the mood system de-escalates effort for impossible (or seemingly impossible) tasks.30

Two minutes later, the ball whizzed by Pedro again. This time the ball struck the lower right corner of the net. At the end of the second quarter, the Cougars were down by two goals. Pedro’s eyes were downcast as he walked off the field for the halftime break. His teammates did not look happy. “Okay,” the coach called out. “Time for some refreshments and a snack.” The Cougars gathered around the bench on the sideline.  Pedro opened the tin of coconut brownies that his mother had made. Then he passed the tin to Giles Boucher, who was beside him. Giles stared into the tin… and passed it along to the next kid. The next kid did the same thing. Meanwhile, Pedro started pouring passion fruit juice into cups. He set the cups on the bench. Pedro had filled half a dozen cups when he realized that nobody was taking them. Nor was anybody eating the coconut brownies. His teammates just stood around sipping water from their water

His voice had a rough note to it as he said, “Tienes una chocha tan linda.” “What?” she mumbled behind her gag. “I said you have a beautiful pussy. And it is. Do you want me to suck on that pretty pussy?” She nodded vigorously and drew in a deep breath of anticipation as he rolled her over to her front. “If I untie your hands, do you promise to behave?” Giving him a pleading look she nodded again. “If you’re a bad girl I’ll just tie you up again and continue teasing you.” She tried to keep from glaring at him, but he must have noticed because he chuckled as he unbound her hands. <...>She smiled at him, feeling too good to fight. “I do.” He laughed and cuddled her close, his dick jumping inside of her when she involuntarily squeezed him. “Good God, woman, you’re going to kill me.” A giggle escaped her and she wondered at the light, happy sound. “Stop being such a whiner.” ''Mmm, feisty,” he gave her neck a sharp nip. “I like it.” “You won’t like it when I kill you for letting her touch you,” she grumped, but cuddled closer. “Why do you love me?” “Fishing for compliments?” she teased. “No…I just want to know why so I can keep doing whatever it is that makes you love me.” “Oh, baby,” she lifted her head to kiss his chin, the note of vulnerability in his voice touching her deeply. “Just be you. You’re the man I fell in love with. All of you. The UFC fighter, the businessman, the asshole—” “Hey now.” She shook her head against his chest. “Admit it, you can be an asshole.” “I plead the fifth.” “All of you,” she continued. “I love all of you.” He made a pleased sound and began to move inside of her again. The man must be snacking on Viagra because he seemed to have a permanent hard-on. His voice had a teasing tone as he said, “Do you love my dick?” Warm tingles raced through her and she licked at the slightly salty skin of his chest. “It’s one of my favorite parts.” “Hmmm, what are your other favorite parts?” Once again she wondered if he was fishing for compliments, but it occurred to her that he’d dated woman who always wanted something from him, not Dallas himself. “I love your lips because they kiss me, your hands because they touch me, but most of all I love your mind and your heart because they define who you are, a strong, smart, and compassionate man. My man.” His grunt made her smile as she continued to kiss her way across his chest as he moved slowly inside of her, a constant stroke that made her want to moan with pleasure. “My Amanda.” Kissing her way up to his lips, she whispered against his mouth, “Love you.” “Love you too, mi querida.

Every time he returned from a trip to Lebanon, I wanted to sit him down and discuss, in detail, every bite of food he’d eaten. He was happy to oblige, but nothing he described, even the elaborate meals with family and more family, made his eyes go wide like the man’oushe. It’s street corner bakery food, he said. you get it wrapped in paperand off you go. They’d stopped on a whim because they were hungry and needed a snack, and it turned out to be the best Lebanese food he’d ever put in his mouth. The flatbread was chewy, but with a crisp exterior. It was blistered (okay, my word, not his) and warm, topped with za’atarorcheese, filled with tomatoes and pink pickled turnips and mint and folded over on itself. I had to stop him. I couldn’t take it. Breads like this were not unfamiliar to me; I’d had them before. But those were breads that came in plastic bags. No matter how fresh they say the bread is, it’s still bread that you get in a plastic bag. Warmfrom-the-oven man’oushe is something breaddreams are made of, something you are only going to get from your own kitchen.

Humph. Like hell. James Whitehorn Honeycutt would simply have to find another way to merge Honeycutt Foods with Reedwater Snacks. Regardless of what her father thought, the merger wasn’t worth her freedom, or her happiness. She wasn’t some medieval bride to be bartered off like a herd of cattle and a milk goat, for pity’s sake. She was a woman who wanted more, who wanted to make her own decisions, her own choices. It saddened her

Humph. Like hell. James Whitehorn Honeycutt would simply have to find another way to merge Honeycutt Foods with Reedwater Snacks. Regardless of what her father thought, the merger wasn’t worth her freedom, or her happiness. She wasn’t some medieval bride to be bartered off like a herd of cattle and a milk goat, for pity’s sake. She was a woman who wanted more, who wanted to

French parents think about healthy eating habits the way North American parents think about toilet training, or reading. If your children consistently refused to read, or even learn the alphabet, would you give up trying to teach them? Would you be content to wait for your children to toilet train by themselves, assuming that they’d eventually “grow out of it” or “figure it out”?

And even if the “sneaky” method had worked, it made me wonder: Would my kids keep putting cauliflower puree in their brownies after they had left home? I didn’t think so.

From the French perspective, this was not attachment parenting. This was indulgent parenting. Traditionally, the French believe that children who have not yet reached the age of reason (l’âge de la raison, which the French believe occurs at the age of seven) shouldn’t be allowed to decide about many things, most certainly not what and how they eat.

Food Rule #4: Food is social. Eat family meals together at the table, with no distractions. This rule seems to turn North

You practiced that dance so many times and the effort really showed today! You danced really well!” “I am so proud of you for how you shared your snack with your brother. It makes me so happy to see you sharing.” “It was a long, difficult assignment, but you stayed at it and got it done. I am so proud of you for how you stayed focused and kept working. Well done!

Gosh, I loved a dress with pockets. That was really all a woman needed to be happy. Pockets. Real ones. Big enough for snacks.

▪ Stop snacking between meals ▪ Eat sweets only once a week ▪ Gradually pay off all debt ▪ Avoid spending time with toxic people ▪ Avoid spending time doing things we don’t enjoy, simply because we feel obligated to do them ▪ Spend no more than twenty minutes on Facebook per day

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Walk to work, or just go on a walk for at least twenty minutes each day. ▪ Use your feet instead of an elevator or escalator. This is good for your posture, your muscles, and your respiratory system, among other things. ▪ Participate in social or leisure activities so that you don’t spend too much time in front of the television. ▪ Replace your junk food with fruit and you’ll have less of an urge to snack, and more nutrients in your system. ▪ Get the right amount of sleep. Seven to nine hours is good, but any more than that makes us lethargic. ▪ Play with children or pets, or join a sports team. This not only strengthens the body but also stimulates the mind and boosts self-esteem. ▪ Be conscious of your daily routine in order to detect harmful habits and replace them with more positive ones.

In America, particularly in non-unionized workplaces, this sort of chronic understaffing acquires a logic all its own. If you can stand to lose employee weight, you should; if you don’t, you’re leaving profits on the table. Appropriately staffing isn’t a way to create a better work environment; it’s “bloat.” Workplaces attempt to counter the negative effects of understaffing with professional development, bonuses, perks, snacks, therapy dogs, subsidized gym memberships, swag, happy hours, access to meditation apps; the list is truly endless. One HR person told us that she was always amazed that employees complained about stress and overwork but then never took advantage of the perks. It makes sense, though. They don’t have the time. What would really make their lives better isn’t a meditation app, but adding a few more employees without also adding the expectation of more work.

You can disrupt a behavior you don’t want by removing the prompt. This isn’t always easy, but removing the prompt is your best first move to stop a behavior from happening. A few years ago I went to the South by Southwest conference in Austin, Texas. I walked into my hotel room and threw my bag on the bed. When I scanned the room, I saw something on the bureau. “Oh nooooo,” I said out loud to absolutely no one. There was an overflowing basket of goodies. Pringles. Blue chips. A giant lollipop. A granola bar. Peanuts. I try to eat healthy foods, but salty snacks are delicious. I knew the goody bin would be a problem for me at the end of every long day. It would serve as a prompt: Eat me! I knew that if the basket sat there I would eventually cave. The blue chips would be the first to go. Then I would eat those peanuts. So I asked myself what I had to do to stop this behavior from happening. Could I demotivate myself? No way, I love salty snacks. Can I make it harder to do? Maybe. I could ask the front desk to raise the price on the snacks or remove them from the room. But that might be slightly awkward. So what I did was remove the prompt. I put the beautiful basket of temptations on the lowest shelf in the TV cabinet and shut the door. I knew the basket was still in the room, but the treats were no longer screaming EAT ME at full volume. By the next morning, I had forgotten about those salty snacks. I’m happy to report that I survived three days in Austin without opening the cabinet again. Notice that my one-time action disrupted the behavior by removing the prompt. If that hadn’t worked, there were other dials I could have adjusted—but prompts are the low-hanging fruit of Behavior Design. Teaching the Behavior Model Now that you’ve seen how my Behavior Model applies to various types of behavior, I’ll show you more ways to use this model in the pages that follow.

The body receives a surge of energy in the form of sugar when consuming unhealthy snacks. What goes up must come down.

Cuddling, snacks, and movie nights are my favorite kinds of nights.

she wanted someone, anyone, to understand the monotony, the mind-numbing routine, the way in which her mental activity began to slow the moment she woke each morning, beginning with high hopes, thoughts of art projects and energy, a sunny day and happy boy and goals fulfilled, and the slow yet steady grinding down of hopes to rote considerations of what to eat and what to clean, the slow agony of The Schedule—time for breakfast and time for a walk and time for lunch and time for nap and time for snack, time for pooping, time for dinner—this and then that and then this again, until every single thought had been emptied from her head and left in its place only the physical sensations of exhaustion, a pain in her lower back, greasy hair, a bloated feeling from eating too many fish-shaped, sodium-laden crackers

for the rest of the night. Other than to refuel with holiday leftovers. “Would you still love me if I told you I didn’t know what tasted better, Christmas leftovers or you?” Jana cocked her eyebrow with a sexy smile on her face. Damn, she was beautiful. “No but I will be mad unless you do some very thorough research and come up with a satisfying answer…” I grinned. This Christmas was unlike any of the others Jana and I had spent together. This time we had two little boys, a bigger family and we’d faced our biggest threat yet and come out on top. “If it’s for the sake of research, consider me in babe.” And I spent the rest of the night doing science. Between the gorgeous legs of my beautiful wife. I was pretty sure in that moment, life for the Reckless Bastard’s couldn’t get any better. Merry friggin’ Christmas to us! * * * * If you think the Reckless Bastards are spicy bad boys, they’re nothing compared to the steam in my next series Reckless MC Opey, TX Chapter where Gunnar and Maisie move to Texas! There’s also a sneak peek on the next page.   Don’t wait — grab your copy today!  Copyright © 2019 KB Winters and BookBoyfriends Publishing Inc Published By: BookBoyfriends Publishing Inc Chapter One Gunnar “We’re gonna be cowboys!” Maisie had been singing that song since we got on the interstate and left Nevada and the only family we’d had in the world behind. For good. Cross was my oldest friend, and I’d miss him the most, even though I knew we’d never lose touch. I’d miss Jag too, even Golden Boy and Max. The prospects were cool, but I had no attachment to them. Though I gave him a lot of shit, I knew I’d even miss Stitch. A little. It didn’t matter that the last year had been filled with more shit than gold, or that I was leaving Vegas in the dust, we were all closer for the hell we’d been through. But still, I was leaving. Maisie and I’d been on the road for a couple of days. Traveling with a small child took a long damn time. Between bathroom breaks and snack times we’d be lucky to make it to Opey by the end of the month. Lucky for me, Maisie had her mind set on us becoming cowboys, complete with ten gallon hats, spurs and chaps, so she hadn’t shed one tear, yet. It wasn’t something I’d been hoping for but I was waiting patiently for reality to sink in and the uncontrollable sobs that had a way of breaking a grown man’s heart. “You’re not a boy,” I told her and smiled through the rear view mirror. “Hard to be a cowboy if you’re not even a boy.” Maisie grinned, a full row of bright white baby teeth shining back at me right along with sapphire blue eyes and hair so black it looked to be painted on with ink. “I’m gonna be a cowgirl then! A cowgirl!” She went on and on for what felt like forever, in only the way that a four year old could, about all the cool cowgirl stuff she’d have. “Boots and a pony too!” “A pony? You can’t even tie your shoes or clean up your toys and you want a pony?” She nodded in that exaggerated way little kids did. “I’ll learn,” she said with the certainty of a know it all teenager, a thought that terrified the hell out of me. “You’ll help me, Gunny!” Her words brought a smile to my face even though I hated that fucking nickname she’d picked up from a woman I refused to think about ever again. I’d help Maisie because that’s what family did. Hell, she was the reason I’d uprooted my entire fucking life and headed to the great unknown wilds of Texas. To give Maisie a normal life or as close to normal as I was capable of giving her. “I’ll always help you, Squirt.” “I know. Love you Gunny!” “Love you too, Cowgirl.” I winked in the mirror and her face lit up with happiness. It was the pure joy on her face, putting a bloom in her cheeks that convinced me this was the right thing to do. I didn’t want to move to Texas, and I didn’t want to live on a goddamn ranch, but that was my future. The property was already bought and paid for with my name

Names are erased. The conqueror tells the story. The colonizer writes the history, winning twice: A theft of land. A theft of witness. Oh, but let’s not speak of such things! Look: Here is an eagle whipping above the vast grasslands where the buffalo once thundered bold as gods. (The buffalo are here among the dead. So many buffalo.) There is the Declaration in sepia. (Signed by slave owners. Shhh, hush up about that, now!) See how the sun shines down upon the homesteaders’ wagons racing toward a precious claim in the nation’s future, the pursuit of happiness pursued without rest, destiny made manifest? (Never mind about those same homesteaders eating the flesh of neighbors. Winters are harsh in this country. Pack a snack.)

Even the things we do to escape the sadness of our lives have themselves become sad. What this ad acknowledges is that you’ve been eating all these snacks and yet you are not happy, and you’ve been watching all these shows and yet you still feel lonely, and you’ve been seeing all this news and yet the world makes no sense, and you’ve been playing all these games and yet the melancholy sinks deeper and deeper into you. How do you escape?

Left unsatisfied, the craving for sensations can become an actual hunger. A few years ago on a trip to Kauai, I noticed something funny. Five days in, I hadn’t had a single snack between meals. This was strange because, at home, I’m an inveterate grazer. There’s nearly always a packet of trail mix or a bowl of popcorn on my desk. But on this vacation, not a nibble. I realized that in Hawaii I was surrounded all day by the lush textures of the jungle, the whoosh of the ocean, and the smell of salt water. I had my feet in volcanic sand and a lei of plumeria flowers around my neck. I was satiated, head to toe. Sure enough, by 11:00 a.m. on that first day back in the office, I had my head in the snack cabinet, hunting for almonds. People are quick to blame habits, and to dismiss this as mindless eating, but I believe that ignores the root cause. In our humdrum environments, we live with a sensorial hunger, and without any other means to satisfy it, we feed it.

When I do have a snack craving, I try to pause and ask myself if what I’m feeling is a food hunger or a sense hunger and, if the latter, if there’s anything else I can do about it.

Watching children experience hurt and failure is excruciating for parents. We will go to great lengths to protect ourselves from that pain. Therefore we carry bags of snacks to prevent hunger. We equip our furniture with padding to prevent bumps and bruises. We sign our kids up for extra soccer camps to “get a leg up.” We buy them favored toys and gadgets to see more smiles and prevent envy. We do, do, do. More, more, more.

Luperón Papaya Salsa There is no such thing as a small papaya in Luperón. I created this salsa to take advantage of the half we regularly had left after breakfast. Serve it alongside grilled chicken or fish—or with cream cheese on crackers, as a happy hour snack. 1⁄2 large ripe papaya, diced (about 2 cups) 1⁄2 cucumber, peeled, seeded, and diced 1⁄2 small red onion, thinly sliced and separated into rings, and rings cut in half 3 tablespoons finely chopped fresh cilantro 1⁄2–1 small hot red or green pepper, seeded and finely chopped (or to taste) 1 lime, juiced 3 tablespoons fruity olive oil Salt and freshly ground black pepper 1. Combine the papaya, cucumber, onion, cilantro, and hot pepper. Set aside. 2. Whisk together the oil and half the lime juice, and season to taste with salt and pepper. Toss with papaya mixture. 3. Taste before serving and adjust flavor with additional lime juice. Serves 4 Tips • This salsa works equally well with ripe mango, or a combination of mango and papaya.

A good wine smells and even tastes like its terroir, the landscape where it was born. And people are the same: where we come from is always part of who we are.

Kenjan’s not a man,” Gaia replied. “And besides Kenjan is convenient. It’s right there, twenty feet away from me at all times. Wave is practically in my underwear with me. All in all, the Kishocha are pretty convenient. It’s just that they’re also foreign and scary.” “It’s a lot of work to understand them, but it’s worth it in the long run,” Fitzpatrick said. “Do you think they’re going to like the Mini-Snak?” “I do. I’m thinking of building a customer base. I want them to be happy, and I want them to have snacks. That’s the whole idea of Happy Snak. Do you know that they don’t even have the basic concept of snacks? It’s kind of sad.” “That they don’t like fatty, salty food?” “No! They don’t have the concept that they deserve a treat. It doesn’t have to be greasy and salty. It could be sweet or wriggly or crunchy or slippery, but it has to be fun. It has to be cheap and special. It’s the—” Gaia faltered, remembering what Wave had told her and suddenly feeling the truth of her words. Owning them. “It’s the most basic personal freedom.

When anxious subjects are shown happy, neutral, and angry faces on a computer screen, their attention is drawn to the angry faces signaling a potential threat. Conversely, good moods broaden attention and make people inclined to seek out information and novelty. In one study, participants in good moods sought more variety when choosing among packaged foods, such as crackers, soup, and snacks. Moods have the power to influence behavior because they have such wide purchase on the body and mind.