Snacks With Family Quotes

You're right. This is a lot. I faced him. I thought that you were normal. And you're not. You're telling me that I have the DOD gunning for me. That if I ever decide to leave this place, I'm going to be a Snack Pack for an Arum. And better yet, I am going to lose complete control over whatever powers I have and wipe out a family of four, then be put down! All I wanted to do today was eat some god damn fries and be normal!

Trojan, Durex, Lifestyles, Trojan Magnum (oh yeah, my three foot cock definitely needed those), Contempo, Vivid and Rough Rider. Seriously? There was a condom brand called Rough Rider? Why not just go with Fuck Her Hard and be done with it? I stood in the "Family Planning" aisle of the grocery store, trying to decide which condom brand was more effective. Family Planning…give me a break. How many people came to this aisle because they were planning a family? They came to this aisle to AVOID planning a family. --Carter

But I'm hungry. I bypass the line and smile to myself when the peeps behind me mumble complaints. Telling their families and friends about "this dick in the snack line" will be the highlight of their day.

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.

How Do I Deal with My Toddler’s Behavior? Do what most parents do and drown your frustrations in doughnuts and beer come bedtime. Personal trainers and fitness nuts will tell you that eating before bed is bad for your health and waistline. What these idiots don’t understand is that you need to snack so that you don’t abandon your family in the night. When it comes down to it, isn’t it preferable to inhale a bag of Doritos and be forty or fifty pounds overweight than to leave your toddler without a parent? You’re doing the right thing by eating your emotions. Living with a toddler isn’t the time for you to be worried about having a thigh gap. Fun fact: You can actually create a thigh gap no matter what you weigh just by standing with your legs apart. See? Gap. (But, remember, thigh gaps are dangerous because toddlers can use them to climb back into your uterus.)

I would like there to exist spaces that are stable, unmoving, intangible, untouched and almost untouchable, unchanging, deep-rooted; places that might be points of reference, of departure, of origin: My birthpalce, the cradle of my family, the house where I may have been born, the tree I may have seen grow (that my father may have planted the day I was born), the attic of my childhood filled with intact memories . . . Such places don't exist, and it's because they do'nt exist that space becomes a question, ceases to be self-evident, ceases to be incorporated, ceases to be appropriated. Space is a doubt: I have constantly to mark it, to designate it, It is never mine, never given to me, I have to conquer it. My spaces are fragile: time is going to wear them away, to destroy them. Nothing will any longer reseble waht was, my memories will betray me, oblivion will infiltrate my memory, I shall look at a few old yellowing photographs with broken edges without recognising them. The words 'Phone directory available within' or 'Snacks served at any hour' will no longer be written up in a semi-circle in white porcelain letter on the window of the little café in the Rue Coquillière. Space melts like sand running through one's fingers. Time bears it away and leaves me only Shapeless shreds: To write: to try meticulously to retain something, to cause something to survive; to wrest a few precise scraps from the void as it grows, to leave somewhere a furrow, a trace, a mark or a few signs. Paris 1973-1974

Is your family terrible? I need to know whether to compliment my snack with a shot of something strong." "Get yourself two shots. Actually, bring the whole bottle. We'll share.

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.

So neither massive head injuries, nor finding out you’re a member of this family thirty freaking minutes ago-and therefore have very little experience handling weapons-gets you out of patrol?” I asked as I met Finley and Izzy by the backdoor. After Aislinn had made her announcement, Mom had tried to argue on my behalf, saying that A) I was still processing the whole “being a Brannick” thing, and B) I had gone through a lot, so maybe I could use a nap. Or a snack. Aislinn’s answer was to give me ten minutes to take a shower, some of Finley’s clothes, and a flask full of that Pine-Sol-tasting liquid.

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.

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.

The North Korean capital, Pyongyang, is a city consecrated to the worship of a father-son dynasty. (I came to think of them, with their nuclear-family implications, as 'Fat Man and Little Boy.') And a river runs through it. And on this river, the Taedong River, is moored the only American naval vessel in captivity. It was in January 1968 that the U.S.S. Pueblo strayed into North Korean waters, and was boarded and captured. One sailor was killed; the rest were held for nearly a year before being released. I looked over the spy ship, its radio antennae and surveillance equipment still intact, and found photographs of the captain and crew with their hands on their heads in gestures of abject surrender. Copies of their groveling 'confessions,' written in tremulous script, were also on show. So was a humiliating document from the United States government, admitting wrongdoing in the penetration of North Korean waters and petitioning the 'D.P.R.K.' (Democratic People's Republic of Korea) for 'lenience.' Kim Il Sung ('Fat Man') was eventually lenient about the men, but not about the ship. Madeleine Albright didn't ask to see the vessel on her visit last October, during which she described the gruesome, depopulated vistas of Pyongyang as 'beautiful.' As I got back onto the wharf, I noticed a refreshment cart, staffed by two women under a frayed umbrella. It didn't look like much—one of its three wheels was missing and a piece of brick was propping it up—but it was the only such cart I'd see. What toothsome local snacks might the ladies be offering? The choices turned out to be slices of dry bread and cups of warm water. Nor did Madeleine Albright visit the absurdly misnamed 'Demilitarized Zone,' one of the most heavily militarized strips of land on earth. Across the waist of the Korean peninsula lies a wasteland, roughly following the 38th parallel, and packed with a titanic concentration of potential violence. It is four kilometers wide (I have now looked apprehensively at it from both sides) and very near to the capital cities of both North and South. On the day I spent on the northern side, I met a group of aging Chinese veterans, all from Szechuan, touring the old battlefields and reliving a war they helped North Korea nearly win (China sacrificed perhaps a million soldiers in that campaign, including Mao Anying, son of Mao himself). Across the frontier are 37,000 United States soldiers. Their arsenal, which has included undeclared nuclear weapons, is the reason given by Washington for its refusal to sign the land-mines treaty. In August 1976, U.S. officers entered the neutral zone to trim a tree that was obscuring the view of an observation post. A posse of North Koreans came after them, and one, seizing the ax with which the trimming was to be done, hacked two U.S. servicemen to death with it. I visited the ax also; it's proudly displayed in a glass case on the North Korean side.

Lizzie was leaving for Ever After High, and Shuffle was going with her, like it or not. Good-bye, family. Good-bye, hedgerow. Good-bye, tea cakes, sugar hearts, and Cheshire chocolates! Shuffle's dream about that fateful day faded away and was replaced by the image of a big bowl of Farmer-in-the-Dell brand granola. Granola was so boring! But ever since coming to Ever After High, Lizzie had insisted that Shuffle eat healthy snacks.

The balance of family duty, as he knew from vast experience, lay in simply showing up. Just being there through it all, whether your presence was wanted or not. Nobody with family—any decent family anyway—suffered alone. It simply wasn’t allowed. Your family sat there with you in your misery, propping you up, renting DVDs, serving snacks and making bad jokes until you were ready to venture out again on your own wobbly legs, blinking against the sunlight. Bel

National Park. This I must keep reminding myself. Our parks serve a great purpose, not just for preservation, but also as a funnel. The Designated Route. Mobs of tourists, RVs, buses, and family station wagons out on summer vacation need a place to go. Our national parks serve this purpose, complete with entrance fees, advance reservation campgrounds, snack bars, game rooms, bowling alleys, roped-off viewpoints, paved trails, lodges, and reserved backcountry campsites. Permit required. For a fee.

The lesson applies as well to the politics of family as country. The parent who grants privileges or enforces rules erratically invites rebelliousness by unwittingly establishing freedoms for the child. The parent who only sometimes prohibits between-meal sweets may create for the child the freedom to have such snacks. At that point, enforcing the rule becomes a much more difficult and explosive matter because the child is no longer merely lacking a never-possessed right but is losing an established one.

You’re right. This is a lot.” I faced him. “I thought you were normal. And you’re not. You’re telling me that I have the DOD gunning for me. That if I ever decide to leave this place, I’m going to be a Snack Pack for an Arum. And better yet, I may lose complete control of whatever powers I have and wipe out a family of four, then be put down! All I wanted to do today was eat some goddamn fries and be normal!” Daemon let out a low whistle and Blake winced. “You’re never going to be normal, Katy. Never again.

A note about me: I do not think stress is a legitimate topic of conversation, in public anyway. No one ever wants to hear how stressed out anyone else is, because most of the time everyone is stressed out. Going on and on in detail about how stressed out I am isn’t conversation. It’ll never lead anywhere. No one is going to say, “Wow, Mindy, you really have it especially bad. I have heard some stories of stress, but this just takes the cake.” This is entirely because my parents are immigrant professionals, and talking about one’s stress level was just totally outlandish to them. When I was three years old my mom was in the middle of her medical residency in Boston. She had been a practicing obstetrician and gynecologist in Nigeria, but in the United States she was required to do her residency all over again. She’d get up at 4:00 a.m. and prepare breakfast, lunch, and dinner for my brother and me, because she knew she wouldn’t be home in time to have dinner with us. Then she’d leave by 5:30 a.m. to start rounds at the hospital. My dad, an architect, had a contract for a building in New Haven, Connecticut, which was two hours and forty-five minutes away. It would’ve been easier for him to move to New Haven for the time of the construction of the building, but then who would have taken care of us when my mom was at the hospital at night? In my parents’ vivid imaginations, lack of at least one parent’s supervision was a gateway to drugs, kidnapping, or at the very minimum, too much television watching. In order to spend time with us and save money for our family, my dad dropped us off at school, commuted the two hours and forty-five minutes every morning, and then returned in time to pick us up from our after-school program. Then he came home and boiled us hot dogs as an after-school snack, even though he was a vegetarian and had never eaten a hot dog before. In my entire life, I never once heard either of my parents say they were stressed. That was just not a phrase I grew up being allowed to say. That, and the concept of “Me time.

What about their family? How many boys you know here got family? Or got family that cares about them? Not everyone is you, Elwood. Turner got jealous when Elwood's grandmother visited and brought him snacks, and it slipped out from time to time. Like now. The blinders Elwood wore, walking around. The law was one thing-- you can march and wave signs around and change a law if you convinced enough white people. In Tampa, Turner saw the college kids with their nice shirts and ties sit in at Woolworths. He had to work, but they were out protesting. And it happened-- they opened the counter. Turner didn't have the money to eat there either way. You can change the law but you can't change people and the way they treat each other. Nickel was racist as h***--half the people who worked here probably dressed up like the Klan on the weekends--but the way Turner saw it, wickedness went deeper than skin color. It was Spencer. It was Spencer and it was Griff and it was all the parents who let their children wind up here. It was people. Which is why Turner brought Elwood out to the two trees. To show him something that wasn't in books.

Her young son was adorable, and he loved Mamaw. At all times of the day—one time, past midnight—he would wander to her doorstep and ask for a snack. His mother had all the time in the world, but she couldn’t keep a close enough watch on her child to prevent him from straying into the homes of strangers. Sometimes his diaper would need changing. Mamaw once called social services on the woman, hoping they’d somehow rescue the young boy. They did nothing. So Mamaw used my nephew’s diapers and kept a watchful eye on the neighborhood, always looking for signs of her “little buddy.

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’ve certainly scolded myself for an hour or more blown on a flow of dog videos, family updates, shallow political expressions, and pleas for funds. Every one of those items has some value to me, just as each potato chip delivers some pleasure, some flavor. I savor them. But I lose count. And upon reflection I feel just horrible. But the thing is, snack foods are explicitly designed to make us behave this way. Food producers have studied, mastered, and tinkered with the ratios of salt, sugar, and fat to keep us coming back, even when the taste of much of the food is unremarkable. Facebook is designed to be habit-forming in just the same way.

Both Granny and Pa smoked all the time, and I think it affected Granny’s taste buds because she liked to snack on some very strange things—many a time I saw her eat a whole, raw Vidalia onion, just like you’d eat an apple, and straight up drink a glass of chunky buttermilk to go with it. Maybe the buttermilk-onion combination was the culprit for one of her signature moves—every time she got up off the couch, she’d hold her stomach and then fart. Loud. She never laughed or cracked a smile, but it always made me laugh, and I pictured her using intestinal gas like a turbocharged engine to propel her off the couch. Maybe that combo helps you live until you’re ninety-six, like Granny!

...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?

But Aunt Petunia didn’t know what was hidden under the loose floorboard upstairs. She had no idea that Harry was not following the diet at all. The moment he had got wind of the fact that he was expected to survive the summer on carrot sticks, Harry had sent Hedwig to his friends with pleas for help, and they had risen to the occasion magnificently. Hedwig had returned from Hermione’s house with a large box stuffed full of sugar-free snacks. (Hermione’s parents were dentists.) Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, had obliged with a sack full of his own homemade rock cakes. (Harry hadn’t touched these; he had had too much experience of Hagrid’s cooking.) Mrs. Weasley, however, had sent the family owl, Errol, with an enormous fruitcake and assorted meat pies.

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

We had no compunction toward our enemies [the ants] and took to increasingly desperate and violent means of dealing with them. If we noticed they'd laid siege to a snack, we might trap them in a circle drawn with water and take away whatever they were eating, then watch them scurry about in confusion before wiping them off the floor with a wet cloth. I took pleasure in seeing them shrivel into black points when burning coals were rolled over them. When they attacked an unwashed pan or cup they'd soon be mercilessly drowned. I suppose initially each of us did these things only when we were alone, but in time, we began to be openly cruel. We came around to Amma's view of them as demons come to swallow our home and became a family that took pleasure in their destruction. We might have changed houses since, but habits are harder to change.

crispy baked wontons Brianna Shade | BEAVERTON, OREGON These quick, versatile wontons are great for a crunchy afternoon snack or paired with a bowl of soothing soup on a cold day. I usually make a large batch, freeze half on a floured cookie sheet, then store them in an air-tight container for a fast bite. 1/2 pound ground pork 1/2 pound extra-lean ground turkey 1 small onion, chopped 1 can (8 ounces) sliced water chestnuts, drained and chopped 1/3 cup reduced-sodium soy sauce 1/4 cup egg substitute 1-1/2 teaspoons ground ginger 1 package (12 ounces) wonton wrappers Cooking spray Sweet-and-sour sauce, optional In a large skillet, cook the pork, turkey and onion over medium heat until meat is no longer pink; drain. Transfer to a large bowl. Stir in the water chestnuts, soy sauce, egg substitute and ginger. Position a wonton wrapper with one point toward you. (Keep remaining wrappers covered with a damp paper towel until ready to use.) Place 2 heaping teaspoons of filling in the center of wrapper. Fold bottom corner over filling; fold sides toward center over filling. Roll toward the remaining point. Moisten top corner with water; press to seal. Repeat with remaining wrappers and filling. Place on baking sheets coated with cooking spray; lightly coat wontons with additional cooking spray. Bake at 400° for 10-12 minutes or until golden brown, turning once. Serve warm with sweet-and-sour sauce if desired.

The wars break out and die down, but then there’s a flareup elsewhere. Houses cracked open like eggs, their contents torched or stolen or stomped vindictively underfoot; refugees strafed from airplanes. In a million cellars the bewildered royal family faces the firing squad; the gems sewn into their corsets will not save them. Herod’s troops patrol a thousand streets; just next door, Napoleon makes off with the silverware. In the wake of the invasion, any invasion, the ditches fill up with raped women. To be fair, raped men as well. Raped children, raped dogs and cats. Things can get out of control. But not here; not in this gentle, tedious backwater; not in Port Ticonderoga, despite a druggie or two in the parks, despite the occasional break-in, despite the occasional body found floating around in the eddies. We hunker down here, drinking our bedtime drinks, nibbling our bedtime snacks, peering at the world as if through a secret window, and when we’ve had enough of it we turn it off. So much for the twentieth century, we say, as we make our way upstairs. But there’s a far-off roaring, like a tidal wave racing inshore. Here comes the twentyfirst century, sweeping overhead like a spaceship filled with ruthless lizard-eyed aliens or a metal pterodactyl. Sooner or later it will sniff us out, it will tear the roofs off our flimsy little burrows with its iron claws, and then we will be just as naked and shivering and starving and diseased and hopeless as the rest. Excuse this digression. At my age you indulge in these apocalyptic visions. You say, The end of the world is at hand. You lie to yourself – I’m glad I won’t be around to see it – when in fact you’d like nothing better, as long as you can watch it through the little secret window, as long as you won’t be involved. But why bother about the end of the world? It’s the end of the world every day, for someone. Time rises and rises, and when it reaches the level of your eyes you drown. What happened next? For a moment I’ve lost the thread, it’s hard for me to remember, but then I do. It was the war, of course. We weren’t prepared for it, but at the same time we knew we’d been there before. It was the same chill, the chill that rolled in like a fog, the chill into which I was born.

exhausts himself and falls asleep in our faces. When that happens, Chase puts a blanket over him and we tiptoe out. On this particular day, we decide to grab a snack and screen our video footage. I suggest frozen yogurt at Heaven on Ice—the words are out of my mouth before I remember what happened the last time we were in that place together. He looks worried, so I add, “I promise not to dump anything over your head.” Heaven on Ice is just a few blocks away. We load up sundaes, pick a corner booth, and start to preview the day’s efforts on the flip-cam. It’s good stuff. Mr. Solway is ranting about how the designated hitter has ruined baseball, so we’re both holding back laughter as we watch. We already have enough footage for five videos. I can’t shake the feeling that we keep going back for more just because we don’t want it to end. Chase is having the same thoughts. “I’m going to keep visiting Mr. Solway even after we finish.” “I’ll come with you.” My response is instant, even though I had no idea I was going to say that. “Shosh?” I look up and there’s my mother in line at the register, carrying a small frozen yogurt cake. Suddenly, an expression of utter horror spreads across her face. “Mom? What’s wrong—?” Then I realize that she’s just recognized the person that I’m with, our heads together as we watch the tiny flip-cam screen. I never told anybody in my family who my partner is for the video contest, so I know how this must seem to Mom: that I’m cozied up, practically cheek to cheek, with the horrible bully who made Joel’s life unbearable and forced him out of town. “It’s not what it looks like!” I blurt. Her expression is carved from stone. “The car’s outside. I’ll drive you home.” “But, Mom—” “I said get in the car.” Chase stands up. “Mrs. Weber—” She’s been quiet up to now. But being addressed directly by Chase is too much for her. “How dare you speak to me?” she seethes, her entire body shaking. “Everyone in my family is off-limits to you! If I had my way, you and your filthy friends would be in juvenile hall!” I speak up again. “This is my fault, not his! If you have to blame someone, blame me!” “I am blaming you!” She hustles me out the door, tossing over her shoulder at Chase, “Stay away from my daughter!” “Can’t we talk about this?” I plead. “Oh, we’ll talk about this,” she agrees. “Trust me, by the time we’re through, your ears will be blistered.” We’re halfway home before either of us realizes that she never paid for the frozen yogurt cake.

lived in the house. There were aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and friends. A grill was set up on the patio, and delicious smells wafted from platters of burgers on picnic tables in the yard. It was the perfect sort of day for Munchy to get her fill of people blood. Who would have thought that giving a person one tiny bite could result in such a delightful snack? Munchy was aware that most people thought she was a pest. They tried to swat her whenever she got near, but Munchy was fast and an expert at dodging humans’ flailing fingers. I don’t want to hurt anyone, Munchy thought. But a mosquito bite just takes a second, and then I fly off to find the next person. Satisfied at last, Munchy buzzed back to the garden where she lived with her best friends Wiggly Worm, Rattles Snake, and Snarky Snail. “I’m full!” she announced. “I don’t think I’ll eat for a week!” “There’s some kind of celebration going on over there,” remarked Wiggly, who was playing in the dirt. “I know!” smiled Munchy. “The family has so many guests over—so many guests with delicious blood.” Snarky made a face. “I think it’s the Fourth of July or something—but, Munchy, do you really have to do that to people? Mosquito bites make them awfully uncomfortable.” “Only for a second,” Munchy replied. “It’s just an itty-bitty sting.” “No, it isn’t,” protested Snarky, who ventured into the backyard more than any of his friends. “Mosquito bites are itchy and uncomfortable for a long time—sometimes several days. I’ve seen those two little kids scratching and complaining about bites you’ve given them.” “I think that’s true,” agreed Rattles, who also went into the yard more often, now that the humans knew he was a friendly rattlesnake. “Oh, no,” murmured Munchy. Mosquito bites hadn’t seemed like a big deal before—but they did now. She didn’t want to be responsible for making people feel itchy all the time! With a sigh, Munchy said, “I guess I’ve got to quit. From now on, I’ll stick to sugar-water shakes at the Garden Town soda fountain—but it isn’t going to be easy!” With some help from her friends, Munchy was able to stop biting people once and for all. And, when the other mosquitoes that lived in the garden heard about her new lifestyle, they decided to give it a shot, as well. In no time, the backyard was practically a mosquito-safe zone! The kids and their friends could now play in the yard for hours with no worries about being bitten. They had no more itchy skin and no more discomfort. Munchy felt like she had done a wonderful thing. And no one ever tried to swat her away again! Just for Fun Activity Make itty-bitty bugs using circles of Fun Foam for bodies, tissue paper cut-outs for wings, googly eyes (you can find them at craft stores), and shortened pipe cleaners for long, skinny noses and legs. Have fun!

Certain moments from that week do stand out in my mind. I remember Malia and Sasha and three of Joe’s granddaughters rolling around on a pile of air mattresses in our hotel suite, all of them giggling, lost in their secret games and wholly indifferent to the hoopla below. I remember Hillary stepping up to the microphone representing the New York delegates and formally making the motion to vote me in as the Democratic nominee, a powerful gesture of unity. And I remember sitting in the living room of a very sweet family of supporters in Missouri, making small talk and munching on snacks before Michelle appeared on the television screen, luminescent in an aquamarine dress, to deliver the convention’s opening night address.

I was never scared of romantic heartbreaks. To slide my body behind a closed door and cry. To leak my feelings and angst into my journal and snacks. Nope. It was the familial heartbreaks and the ripping of long term friendships that made quiver something horrid.

Self-control isn’t always about emotions and feelings. It can also involve danger, peer pressure, or family values. For example, maybe your family taught you to share what you have with those who are less fortunate. If one of your friends forgot to pack their lunch, your first reaction might be you’re sure they won’t do that again after fighting hunger pains all afternoon. Besides, you want to eat your entire lunch because you’re starving, and it sure looks good. However, you were taught good manners, and you sympathize with your friend’s plight. Practicing good self-control, in this case, might be sharing half your lunch with your friend, so you each have something to eat to hold you over until you get your hands on a huge after-school snack. Another example is if your friends encourage you to do something dangerous that you know is not okay.

If whelk is the first name on the list, it will almost definitely be course number one – unless the chef sends out three or four unadvertised courses beforehand, boosting the eight-course lunch up to twelve. I realise that nowadays almost all five-course tasting menus are actually around eight courses, because the chef will send ‘palate cleansers’ and ‘amuse-bouches’ and ‘snacks’ and ‘extra courses’. This will seem generous but is actually just the restaurant buying time – a bit like when you go to a Beyoncé gig and three of the tracks are videos of her daughter at a family party, which is really cute, but it’s just filler so Beyoncé can sit down and change her wig.

Getting away and asking ourselves who we want to become, who we want our families to become, and then backtracking and choosing one little step that is doable, to implement. One little step at a time. If you want to be a woman who loves Jesus and trusts him, then you need to spend time with him. Open his Word and read, one verse at a time. One prayer at a time. If you want to be a mom who is present with her kids, then you may need to put your phone in the cabinet for an hour from 3 to 4 p.m. each day. If you want to have intentional time together as a family, you might spend snack time each afternoon reading a story with your kids. If you want to be a family who uplifts one another and cheers one another on, you might go around the dinner table one night a week and each of you say one thing you love about a certain family member. If you want to be a runner, you don’t sign up for a marathon tomorrow, but you do need to put some running shoes on and get outside and start running. Doesn’t have to be every day. Doesn’t have to be five miles at a time. It could be ten minutes twice a week, but that makes you a runner. You don’t have to aim for perfection, or 100 percent even. We’re not looking for A+’s. We’re simply learning to be the people we want to be—living in the 80 percent rule. Rhythms over goals. Intentionality over reacting. Being present over distraction. Grace over legalism.

Dinner?" "No." "Jalebi ice cream sandwich?" he called out, referring to one of her favorite childhood treats. Her betraying lips quivered at the corners. "No." "How about a snack? French toast crunch? Scooby Snacks? Trix with extra sugar? Pakoras and pretzels? Roast beef on rye with mustard and three thinly sliced pickles with a side of chocolate milk?" Laughter bubbled up inside her. He had done this almost every day to guess the after-school snack even though she had always taped the weekly family meal plan to the refrigerator door. "Pav bhaji, chaat, panipuri...?" Liam had loved her father's Indian dishes. "I'm not listening." But of course, she was. "Two grilled cheese sandwiches with ketchup and zucchini fries? Masala dosa...?" His voice grew faint as she neared the end of the block. "Cinnamon sugar soft pretzels, tomato basil mozzarella toasts...

I can’t sleep easy if there’s an open container of savoury snacks in the house.

I can sit down for hours and read a book straight through; forgo sleep and even snacks if a romance book has the right balance of steam and anticipation for that happily ever after. And a great upside-down latte, or my new favorite, a Hungry Eye. Iced is always preferred. I can escape with caffeine and dirty words. It’s so simple and it can act as such a source of therapy for me.

They’re waiting for us in the… room,” Cora sniffs, pulling back to glance at me through red-rimmed eyes. She swipes at the tears along her cheekbone. “Mandy’s at work. She said it was too hard to be here. Mom and Dad are going to wait out here, but… did you want to come in with me? To say goodbye?” “Of course.” I don’t hesitate. We rescued this dog together, and I’ll be damned if I’m not with Cora when Blizzard takes her last breath. Goddamn. Cora gives a tight nod, then alerts one of the staff that we’re ready to go in. I follow her, a solemn silence settling between us. It’s a quiet, peaceful room, adorned with electronic candles and soft music. Blizzard is lying very still on a dog bed in the center of the floor, her fluffy chest heaving ever so slowly with each breath. I feel my emotions get stuck in my throat when I lay eyes on the dog that has felt like my own for the last ten years. I’d dog-sit her when the Lawsons took family vacations. I’d take her to the dog park with Mandy and Cora, watching her chase tennis balls and make new friends. Blizzard always greeted me first when I’d walk through the front door with Mandy, collapsing onto my feet and rolling over for belly rubs. She always sat beside me at the dinner table, waiting for the snack I’d inevitably offer her, and she always wagged her tail in adoration as I sang karaoke in the Lawson’s living room.

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.

Well, don't worry, darling,” the old hag croaked. “We bagged enough of the annoying little creeps on the playground right before school closed for the whole family. We hid them in an abandoned graveyard. They’ll keep nicely until morning, and we can have one for breakfast. You can help us load the rest of their carcasses into the dump truck for cold storage. You’ll feel better after a good nightmare.” “Did you chop off any of their fingers and toes?” Norma asked, licking her slimy lips, “You know I have a sweet tooth.” “Yes, we knew you’d want something to snack on this evening,” her mother said, dragging a black sack from behind her back and putting it down on the front porch.

When Bush—code-named Timberwolf—was vice president, agent William Albracht was on the midnight shift at the vice president’s residence. While agents refer to the President’s Protective Detail as the Show, they call the Vice President’s Protective Detail the Little Show with Free Parking. That’s because, unlike the White House, the vice president’s residence provides parking for agents. Albracht was new to the post, and Agent Dowling filled him in. “Well, Bill, every day the stewards bake the cookies, and that is their job, and that is their responsibility,” Dowling told him. “And then our responsibility on midnights is to find those cookies or those left from the previous day and eat as many of them as possible.” Assigned to the basement post around 3 A.M., Albracht was getting hungry. “We never had permission to take food from the kitchen, but sometimes you get very hungry on midnights,” Albracht says. “I walked into the kitchen that was located in the basement and opened up the refrigerator. I’m hoping that there are some leftover snacks from that day’s reception,” the former agent says. “It was slim pickin’s. All of a sudden, there’s a voice over my shoulder.” “Hey, anything good in there to eat?” the man asked. “No, looks like they cleaned it out,” Albracht said. “I turned around to see George Bush off my right shoulder,” Albracht says. “After I get over the shock of who it was, Bush says, ‘Hey, I was really hoping there would be something to eat.’ And I said, ‘Well, sir, every day the stewards bake cookies, but every night they hide them from us.’ With a wink of his eye he says, ‘Let’s find ’em.’ So we tore the kitchen apart, and sure enough we did find them. He took a stack of chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk and went back up to bed, and I took a stack and a glass of milk and went back to the basement post.” When Albracht returned to the post, Dowling asked, “Who the hell were you in there talking to?” Albracht told him what had happened. “Oh yeah, sure, right,” Dowling said. When

Lion Daily Schedule 5:30 a.m.: Wake up, no snooze. 5:45 a.m.: Breakfast: high-protein, low-carb. 6:15 a.m. to 7:00 a.m.: Big-picture conceptualizing and organizing. Morning meditation. 7:00 a.m. to 7:30 a.m.: Sex. If you have kids who need help getting ready for school, make it a quickie. 7:30 a.m. to 9:00 a.m.: Cool shower, get dressed, interact with friends or family before heading to work. 9:00 a.m.: Small snack: 250 calories, 25 percent protein, 75 percent carbs. Ideally, have it at a breakfast meeting. 10:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m.: Personal interactions, morning meetings, phone calls, emails, strategic problem solving. 12:00 p.m. to 1:00 p.m.: Balanced lunch. Go outside for sunlight exposure, if possible. 1:00 p.m. to 5:00 p.m.: Creative thinking time. Listen to music, catch up on reading and journaling. In a workplace setting, lead or attend brainstorming meetings. 5:00 to 6:00 p.m.: Exercise, preferably outdoors, followed by a cool shower. 6:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m.: Dinner. Keep it balanced—equal parts protein, carbs, and healthy fats. A carb-heavy meal like pasta might make you crash. 7:30 p.m.: Last call for alcohol. A drink after this hour will knock you out. 7:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m.: Socialize on the town, or connect with loved ones online while relaxing at home. You bought yourself an extra hour, so make the most of it! 10:00 p.m.: Be in your home environment by now. Turn off all screens to begin the downshift before bed. 10:30 p.m.: Go to sleep.

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.

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

In 1985, an ABC News poll showed that 60 percent of parents worried that their children might be victimized. To this day, many parents warn their children not to eat any snacks that aren’t prepackaged. This is a sad story: a family holiday sullied by bad people who, inexplicably, wish to harm children. But in 1985 the story took a strange twist. Researchers discovered something shocking about the candy-tampering epidemic: It was a myth. The researchers, sociologists Joel Best and Gerald Horiuchi, studied every reported Halloween incident since 1958. They found no instances where strangers caused children life-threatening harm on Halloween by tampering with their candy. Two children did die on Halloween, but their deaths weren’t caused by strangers. A five-year-old boy found his uncle’s heroin stash and overdosed. His relatives initially tried to cover their tracks by sprinkling heroin on his candy. In another case, a father, hoping to collect on an insurance settlement, caused the death of his own son by contaminating his candy with cyanide. In other words, the best social science evidence reveals that taking candy from strangers is perfectly okay. It’s your family you should worry about.

So?” I say, kneeling down on the floor and sticking Charade in the DVD player. “So you don’t have any friends. You don’t know what it’s like.” Mom unfolds one of Gran’s afghans and drapes it over the back of the couch. “That’s not true. Alex has friends.” Claire fists her hands on her hips. “Name one.” Mom’s face goes a little blank as she thinks about it. Then she says, “Paisley,” and smiles at me. “She sits next to you in Sunday School.” I turn my head to the side so she can’t see me grimace. Paisley isn’t exactly my friend. She does sit next to me in Sunday School, but we never speak. She’s weird, even for my standards. For one, she always wears flannel pajamas and hiking boots. To church and to school. And two? She always has a handful of mayonnaise packets in her backpack. Which she snacks on. During class. I shudder just thinking about the sound she makes sucking on those packets. “And what about Jensen?” Mom says. “He’s been your friend since you two were in the church nursery together.” I roll my eyes. “Mom, just because Paisley and Jensen are in my general vicinity at church and school doesn’t mean they’re my friends.” “See?” Claire says.“Jensen isn’t her friend. She just has that huge crush on him still.” I don’t even attempt to dispute it like I normally would. Claire’s like a pit bull when it comes to arguing. Once she sinks her teeth in, she doesn’t let go. And I don’t have the energy to spar with her tonight. Besides, it’s not like my crush on Jensen was ever a secret in this family. Even Pops knows about it. He used to pinch me right above my knee where it tickles, and if I laughed, it meant I was “boy crazy.” Boy crazy for Jensen Peters. I laughed every time, dammit.

I’ve noticed a fascinating story playing out in churches, workplaces, and family gatherings, which you will likely identify with: most people are unlikely to say anything to a person who eats terribly. Doughnuts and a sugary coffee drink for breakfast, constant snacking on sweets, a lunch that could not be identified as “food

Strategies for Welcoming Children Here are some ideas to consider for welcoming children in services: •   Encourage parents to prepare a “shul bag” to bring to the service. In it should be some reading or picture books, a quiet toy, a favorite stuffed animal, a snack and a drink (to be eaten in the hallway), extra diapers, fresh wipes, a pretend tallit, and a kippah. •   Create a children’s area in the rear of the shul by taking out a few pews and establishing a play space for babies and toddlers while parents and grandparents participate in the service. Proximity to the door allows for a quick getaway. •   Offer children a basket of appropriate Shabbat toys to play with at the entrance of the sanctuary. •   Keep a cart of Jewish children’s books for parents to share with children during the service. •   Encourage parents to take the children to babysitting and youth services, clearly sending a message that the main service is geared for adults. The babysitting is first rate, offered in a clean, well-stocked nursery. •   Take a strategy from the megachurches and establish a family room, sometimes called a crying room, in the congregation: a closed-off space constructed of glass where families can make noise, but still hear the service. At Saddleback, young children are most definitely not encouraged in the main sanctuary. But families can use the four family rooms in the building that receive live televised broadcasts of the service or sit just outside the glass walls of the sanctuary where speakers allow the adults to hear the service.

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.

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.

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”?

FIVE SIGNS OF OIKOS Another pattern we’ve seen is that MCs that really become extended families on mission have several common elements. We call these the Five Signs of oikos. These five markers give us an indication that we are functioning well together as an extended family on mission. If these five things are happening fairly regularly (perhaps weekly or so), in organized or organic ways, we will be on our way to cultivating oikos. 1) EATING TOGETHER Families on mission eat together a lot. There’s something inherently community-fostering about sitting down at a table together, or hanging around a barbecue grill, or just talking with snacks and drinks around. We often add food to the gathering even if it isn’t at a prescribed mealtime. It’s worth the preparation and cleanup required. 2) PLAYING TOGETHER Families on mission laugh together a lot because they are often having fun. It should be fun to belong to the family. All purpose and no play make for a dull MC! Make sure you’re playing as hard as you’re working. 3) GOING ON MISSION TOGETHER Families on mission have a mission, obviously, so they are often engaging in mission together, in organized events as well as informal conversations. All play and no purpose make for a pointless MC! Make sure people know why you exist as a community. 4) PRAYING TOGETHER Families on mission pray and worship together regularly, reading Scripture and listening to God together, because our connection to Jesus and one another is what makes our MC something worth belonging to. 5) SHARING RESOURCES Families on mission share their resources. This doesn’t necessarily mean we have a common purse, but there is some degree of sharing our resources with one another, because this is what families do. This might be people sharing a lawnmower, or pitching in to help someone pay an unexpected medical bill, or simply bringing food to share when we eat together. There is something about economic sharing that fosters a sense of family.

watching TV when your children are around, snacks, exercise, and bringing their own kids to the job matter a lot to some families but not to others. Of course the big ones are yelling at a child, ignoring a child, lying, stealing, cursing, and any form of physical or verbal abuse. Whatever you feel strongly about, your nanny needs to know just how strongly you feel up front, and you need to present these issues to her in the interview as definite Deal-Breakers—no excuses.

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.

Food in a castle was served in the great hall, a large room usually on an upper floor. The lord’s table was set up along one wall on a small dais, the rest of the tables were positioned in a perpendicular fashion to the lord’s dais. Lower tables were called trestle tables, and when the meals were not being eaten, these tables were taken down and stacked in designated areas. The lord, his guests and family who all sat at the lord’s table were the only ones to have chairs; everyone else sat on a bench. Breakfast was a small snack usually served after morning mass. It consisted of a hunk of bread and ale or cider for the retainers and servants. The lord, his family and guests might be served white bread with a

Like the tobacco industry, the food industry has a problem. So does the diet industry. Both of them would rather have their customers believe that we’re the ones with the problem—we’re too weak willed to control our appetites and refuse to take responsibility for our weight. So far, the companies have done a good job at selling that message. It’s a clever way to distract us from their problem, which is that they need to persuade individuals to buy their products, but they can’t afford to admit where the profits lie in the industry. How many people would sign up for a diet program or buy a weight-loss book if they knew that the business model depends on repeat customers who come back after they’ve regained the weight they lost the previous time? Who would feel good about buying their family a nice snack of Hyperprocessed Heart-Attack Crisps if the package were labeled accurately? Yet diet plans don’t make money by making people permanently thin, and food companies don’t make money by selling crunchy fresh apples. Both

What to remove? Dairy. From cows, goats, and sheep (including butter). Grains. For the more intensive version of this 30-day diet, eliminate all grains. This is important for those with digestive or autoimmune conditions. If this feels undoable for a full month, add in a small serving a day of gluten-free grains like white rice or quinoa. If that still feels undoable, consider a whole-foods diet rich in vegetables that is strictly gluten- and dairy-free. Legumes. Beans of all kinds (soy, black, kidney, pinto, etc.), lentils, and peanuts. Green peas and snap peas are okay. Sweeteners, real or artificial. Sugar, high-fructose corn syrup, maple syrup, honey, agave, Splenda, Equal, NutraSweet, xylitol, stevia, etc. Processed or refined snack foods. Sodas and diet sodas. Alcohol in any form. White potatoes. Premade sauces and seasonings. How to avoid common pitfalls: Prepare well beforehand. Choose a time frame during which you will have limited or reduced travel, and that doesn’t include holidays or special occasions. Study the list of foods allowed on the diet and make a shopping list. Remove the foods from your pantry or refrigerator that aren’t allowed on the diet, if that makes it easier. Engage the whole family to try this together, or find a friend to join you. Success happens in community. Set up a calendar to mark your progress. Print out a free 30-day online calendar, tape it to the refrigerator door, and mark off each day. Pack snacks with you, pack your lunch, call ahead to restaurants to check their menu (or check online). Get enough vegetables and fats. If you feel jittery or lose too much weight, increase your carbohydrates (starchy vegetables like yams, taro, sweet potatoes). Don’t misread withdrawal-type symptoms as the diet “not working.” These symptoms usually resolve within a week’s time. Personalize it. Start with the basics above and: * If you’re having trouble with autoimmune conditions, eliminate eggs, too. * If you’re prone to weight gain, eat less meat and heavier foods (ex: stews, chili), more vegetables and raw foods. * If you’re prone to weight loss or having trouble gaining weight, eat more meats and heavier foods (ex: stews, chili), less raw foods like salads. * If you’re generally healthy and wanting a boost in energy, try short-term fasts of 12–16 hours. Due to the circadian rhythm of the digestive tract, skipping dinner is best (as opposed to skipping breakfast). Try this 1–2 times a week. (This fast also means no supplements or beverages other than tea or water during the fasting time.)

When I was growing up, the taste of pancakes meant the kind that my great-uncle made for me from Bisquick. If condensed cream of mushroom soup was the Great Assimilator, then this "instant" baking mix was the American Dream. With it, we could do anything. Biscuits, waffles, coffee cakes, muffins, dumplings, and the list continues to grow even now in a brightly lit test kitchen full of optimism. My great-uncle used Bisquick for only one purpose, which was to make pancakes, but he liked knowing that the possibilities, the sweet and the savory, were all in that cheery yellow box. Baby Harper wasn't a fat man, but he ate like a fat man. His idea of an afternoon snack was a stack of pancakes, piled three high. After dancing together, Baby Harper and I would go into his kitchen, where he would make the dream happen. He ate his pancakes with butter and Log Cabin syrup, and I ate my one pancake plain, each bite a fluffy amalgam of dried milk and vanillin. A chemical stand-in for vanilla extract, vanillin was the cheap perfume of all the instant, industrialized baked goods of my childhood. I recognized its signature note in all the cookies that DeAnne brought home from the supermarket: Nilla Wafers, Chips Ahoy!, Lorna Doones. I loved them all. They belonged, it seemed to me, to the same family, baked by the same faceless mother or grandmother in the back of our local Piggly Wiggly supermarket. The first time that I tasted pancakes made from scratch was in 1990, when Leo, a.k.a. the parsnip, made them for me. We had just begun dating, and homemade pancakes was the ace up his sleeve. He shook buttermilk. He melted butter. He grated lemon zest. There was even a spoonful of pure vanilla extract. I couldn't bring myself to call what he made for us "pancakes." There were no similarities between those delicate disks and what my great-uncle and I had shared so often in the middle of the afternoon.

As important as it is to set time aside for spiritual “exercise,” it is even more important to recognize that our spiritual selves require ongoing attention. Morning prayers may not provide all of the spiritual sustenance we need for the entire day any more than a mid-morning snack will satisfy all of our nutritional needs. We seek to make our Higher Power a constant companion, turning to the God of our understanding for guidance and spiritual nourishment throughout the day and night.

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

Bruce watched the chickenboat following Kate, wondering if he could leap across the water in a powerful ninja-jump and get a boat snack. He drooled at the thought, but realized that if he missed,

Lottie's cake is last. This one is layered three deep, impressive for a moist, snacking-style cake, which normally couldn't be stacked. The bottom layers are bound together by a thick cream cheese icing, while the top is coated with a thick streusel crumble held in place by a circle of decorative piping. "It's a layered blueberry buckle," Lottie says, looking at Betsy hopefully. "Now that is another unconventional choice from you," Betsy says, eyeing the streusel topping, an odd choice for a layer cake. A buckle is a humble sort of cake--- old-fashioned in its simplicity--- that she hasn't seen around in years. Nowadays most prefer a thick layer of icing, buttercream they can decorate, or the scraped edge of a naked cake. Something meant to impress on a table or in a photograph rather than just be eaten at a family dinner or on a picnic. Secretly it's kind of a relief to see such a normal person's cake given its due. "The decoration is lacking," Betsy tells her flatly, though the completely bare sides show an even sprinkling of blueberries, which is impressive. It can be difficult to keep berries from falling to the bottom of a cake, but these are evenly distributed throughout. The knife glides into the cake, which has a springy sort of give to it. She cleaves a slice away, leaving a small avalanche of streusel crumbs in its wake. The cake inside is plump and golden, studded with juicy blueberries. Betsy can tell before she even takes a bite that it has been cooked to perfection. The flavors hit her tongue and bring on a wave of nostalgia so strong that she has to steady herself against the table. It is heavenly, the sweet and sour of the blueberries wrapped in the soft vanilla-y cake. She is instantly transported back in time, back to her childhood. It is unquestionably the best cake of the bunch, simple and satisfying, the kind that if you were to bake it at home would leave you wanting more, taking secret trips to the kitchen to cut another slice.

I shoot Staphanie an apologetic glance. She and her family must think we’re cavepeople, but they’re busy grappling with the numerous carry-ons and passports and an assortment of snacks and drinks they’ve bought outside the gate. Well, at least they’re not witnessing this.

Adults are so often like children. She knows everyone thinks she's crazy for bringing them snacks all the time, but there's really nothing worse than being around a bunch of hangry people. It's best to keep feeding them proactively.

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So, reindeer are very similar to dads: they can both grow beards, find snacks where no one else can, and often look completely ridiculous.

He cried when she tried to leave him with a family friend, and then cried when she successfully left him with a babysitter, and then cried even when she left him with her husband because she had to go get groceries and really just wanted to enjoy it, get a coffee and put it in the little holder that attached to the side of the cart, and really examine the produce, you know, look at it and touch it and take her time. She just wanted one shopping trip to herself, and yet they all wound up going together—packing up the diaper bag with snacks and wipes and a bottle of water and a change of clothes and a selection of toys and should we bring a book?—

What is important to notice here is not the exact times or durations, as those will vary with each family, but rather the rhythm that is in place. There is a clear start to the day; a routine that is always followed, then educational time is started with circle time. The child understands that this first circle time marks the beginning of the instructional period. Clear breaks allow the child to transition from one activity to the next. By having a set number of activities before breaks such as snack time, your child begins to understand the concept of time. Eventually, this will become so second nature even to the youngest child that they will begin to transition by themselves. Allow for a range in flexibility in your routine. The exact minutes on the clock do not matter as much as the rhythm. If your child is losing interest in his or her self-directed activity ten minutes early, you may try to keep them interested a bit longer. However, it is acceptable to acknowledge that your child has gained all that they require from that lesson today and it is time to move on to the next phase. The same is true for extending activities. There is no need to interrupt a child that is engrossed in discovery. Simply let the interest and curiosity be satisfied in its own time and then carry on with the day. This is the beauty of Montessori home school, being able to tailor the experience to each child.

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There’s the famous Legoland, known for its plastics, and during the holidays, we Roncallis build our own version, Tupperware Land. After the table is cleared, the dishes are done, the silver is carefully placed into its chamois sleeves, and the piles of shells from the nuts are swept off the tablecloth, we disburse the leftovers in various plastic containers, which are handed out as guests, three to five pounds heavier than when they arrived, depart. Our family never leaves a dinner party without providing a full takeout meal to reheat and serve the following day. For the ride home, you can count on our additional to-go snacks: a napkin shaped like a cone and filled with cookies, or a slab of cake in a sheet of tinfoil, or a paper sack filled with dinner rolls, just a little something to tide us over until the next food tsunami. I went home with a tray of manicotti to freeze and a bag of biscotti for breakfast. Aunt Feen asked for cannoli, so she got a container of shells dipped in chocolate and nuts, with another snap lid bowl with the extra filling.

But despite the fact that I'd let the house get so run down, and despite the fact that it was old-fashioned and impractical, and cold and drafty in the winter and damp and stuffy in the summer, at least it was my very own home, my sanctuary, a place over which I and no one else had control, where my dog could run free and I could work in peace most of the time: no noisy neighbors on the other side of the wall, no footsteps clattering up and down an echoing stairwell, no squabbling kids in the shared courtyard, no communal outdoor spaces were families with children or friends could come along and sit down just as I was relaxing in the sun, noisily snacking or partying around me as if I didn't exist.

Pantry Staples Our pantry is organized to stock a limited and set amount of jars, which contain either a permanent staple or rotational staple. Permanent staples will vary from family to family. Ours include: • Flour, sugar, salt, baking soda, cornstarch, baking powder, yeast, oatmeal, coffee, dry corn, powdered sugar • Jam, butter, peanut butter, honey, mustard, canned tomatoes, pickles, olives, capers • Olive oil, vegetable oil, apple cider vinegar, wine vinegar, tamari, vanilla extract • A selection of spices and herbs Rotational staples represent groups of foods that we used to buy in many different forms. In the past, our legume collection consisted of chickpeas, lentils, peas, red beans, fava beans, pinto beans, etc. Even though stocking many types of food appears to stimulate variety, the contrary is often the case. Similar to wardrobe items, pantry favorites get picked first while nonfavorites get pushed back and forgotten, take up space, and ultimately go bad (i.e., become rancid or bug infested). Today, instead of storing many versions of a staple, we have dedicated one specific jar and adopted a system of rotation. For example, our rotating jar of grain might be filled with rice one week, couscous another. Our rotating collection includes: • Grain • Pasta • Legume • Cereal • Cookie • Nut • Sweet snack • Savory snack • Tea This system has proved not only to maintain variety in our diet and free up storage space; it has also been efficient at keeping foods from going bad.

Iris's favorite item at Tenta is anago, sea eel. Unlike its freshwater cousin unagi, anago is neither endangered nor expensive. A whole anago at Tenta is about $7.50. I ordered one, and the chef pulled a live eel out of a bucket. It wriggled like, well, an eel. Iris screamed as water droplets flew toward us. The chef managed to wrestle the unruly thing into the sink and knocked it unconscious before driving a spike into its head and filleting it. He unzipped two fillets in seconds. A Provençal saying holds that a fish lives in water and dies in oil; in the world of tempura, a fish can go from watery cradle to oily grave in ten seconds. Iris loved fried eel meat, dipped in salt, but this is not her favorite part of the anago. After filleting the eel, the chef takes its backbone- hone in Japanese- ties it in a simple overhand knot, and tosses it into the frying oil. "Hone," he says, presenting it to Iris, who considers it the ultimate in crispy snack food- and this is a kid who considers taco-flavored Doritos a work of genius (OK, so do I).

But Tokyo offers cat cafes, a commercial solution to the problem of wanting to commune with cats but being unwilling or unable to have one at home. Iris's favorite cat cafe is Nekorobi, in the Ikebukuro neighborhood. When I first heard about cat cafes, I imagined something like Starbucks with a cat on your lap. Wrong. Nekorobi is what you'd get if you asked a cat-obsessed kid to draw a floorplan of her dream apartment: a bathroom, a drink vending machine(free with admission), a snack table, video games, and about ten cats and their attendant toys, scratching posts, beds, and climbing structures. Oh, and the furniture is in the beanbag chic style. Considering all the attention they get, the cats were amazingly friendly, and I'd never seen such a variety of cat breeds up close. (Nor have I ever spent more than ten seconds thinking about cat breeds.) My favorite was a light gray cat with soft fur, which curled up and slept near me while I sat on a beanbag and read a book. Iris made the rounds, drinking a bottomless cup of the vitamin-fortified soda C.C. Lemon and making sure to give equal time to each cat, including the flat-faced feline that looked like it had beaned with a skillet in old-timey cartoon fashion.

Or worse, they leave them home—to spend their days playing video games and eating sugary snacks. That’s what my family does.

My whole family...spoke of this "Canada" as if it were some sort of idyllic paradise, a place of abundant snacks and endless affection....Looking back, it felt kind of cult-y, like gospel from the Church of Canadology that I was supposed to just accept.

What she had wanted to do with her summer was simple: she wanted to spend all day in the living room of the Victorian in Saratoga Springs that her family had rented each racing season for a decade. She had wanted to lower the blinds halfway and open the windows halfway and point all the fans in the house in her direction and lie on the sofa, only rising to prepare herself elaborate snacks. And she wanted to read: reading was the main thing.

She was supposed to say something heartfelt, something meaningful enough to permeate the child-screen bond. Something her own mother might have said, in the slim band of time between work and bed, or work and work. She should have held them in her arms and assuaged the doubts that, well, honestly the doubts that belonged to her. She had been, in her distraction, unwittingly lenient with the children. She ignored them, and this led to excess YouTube. Too many snacks. Too often she let them subsist on plain noodles with butter. Now they were detached. She had sacrificed Quality Family Time for Mom’s Gotta Work. She had a flimsy excuse.

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Deciding she'd earned a snack break, Mae moved over to the refreshments table. She slowly walked along it, taking mental inventory: a whole sliced ham, its edges dark and shiny. A colorful macaroni salad speckled with chunks of tomatoes, bell peppers, celery, and carrots in a creamy dressing. Deviled eggs loaded with filling and a healthy shake of paprika. Chunky potato salad a deep shade of golden yellow. Seeing it plucked a string in her chest. Her dad, who considered himself a potato salad connoisseur, said a sign of a good potato salad was what color it was. If it's white, it ain't right, he used to say. She loaded her plate with a little of everything--- and an extra-large scoop of potato salad. Mae brought a forkful to her mouth, tasting a sharp zing of mustard and sweet pickle relish. It was creamy, tangy, and so much better than the pale, bland potato salad Madison's mom made every Easter.

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