Spill The Beans Quotes

Who shall I shoot? You choose. Now, listen very carefully: where's your coffee? You've got coffee, haven't you? C'mon, everyone's got coffee! Spill the beans!

Appetite comes with eating. So does the truth. If we are willing to come clean, spill the beans, and spit out the truth, we can start with a clean slate and peace of mind, living a life without guilt or fear. ("Behind the frosted glass”)

Why must we be freaking out about the kindness and sympathy we would like to share? What could deter us so much from opening our hearts and spilling the beans? Why should we harbor suspicions about the gentleness of people who are bubbling over with enthusiasm and goodwill? Could kindness generate such a thorny challenge in people's lives and make them feel so uncomfortable as if they were wobbling on thin ice, fearing losing balance and thus losing face? (“Schengen”)

Stop stalling and spill the beans. What’s up?” Alexi tossed down her fork and leaned in close so no one else could possibly hear. “What’s not up? We’re like rabbits on Viagra.

He's spilled the beans. He's poured out His intentions, allowing us full access. The humans put the Forbidden Book on display tables and shelves. But we actually read it; indeed we must no matter how loathsome.

Chapter 15: Rommy’s Turn to Spill the Beans

It is better to avail oneself of the old bean than to spill the beans.

So, now I know there’s a story. Spill the beans, girl.” Frankie sighed. “Fin used to bring his Naval Academy friends home in the summer. They seemed like gods to me.” She smiled, a little one, and thought maybe it was too sad to be real. “Rye Walsh was his best friend. The CO in the sunglasses last night? I had a huge crush on him.” “The guy who looks like Paul Newman? Wow. So, grab his hand and show him—” “He’s engaged.” “Shit. Not again.” Barb took a drink. “And you’re a damn good girl.” “When I danced with Jamie, I felt safe. Loved, I guess. It was like being home,

Nathaniel's trying to get hold of it right now. All very well, but could he use—Wait a minute! The radiant features of the boy contorted, slipped out of true, as if the condoling intelligence had drawn back in shock; an instant later they were as perfect as before. Let's get this straight. He told you his name? Yes. Now— I like that . . . I like that! He's been giving me gyp for years, simply because I could have spilled the beans, and now he's telling any old broad he meets, free of charge! Who else knows? Faquarl? Nouda? Did he deck his name out in neon lights and parade it round the town? I ask you! And I never told anyone! You let it slip last time I summoned you. Well, apart from that. But you could have told his enemies, couldn't you, Bartimaeus? You'd have found a way to harm him if you'd really wished it. And Nathaniel knows that too, I think. I had a talk with him.

She had spilled on her shirt.

I’m a bean counter. Oh, I’m not an accountant, but I did spill pinto beans on the counter.

There's something very comforting about books.

Oh, beans.

Would spilling the beans get them closer to obtaining magical ones?

Roses climbed the shed, entwined with dark purple clematis, leaves as glossy as satin. There were no thorns. Patience's cupboard was overflowing with remedies, and the little barn was often crowded with seekers. The half acre of meadow was wild with cosmos and lupine, coreopsis, and sweet William. Basil, thyme, coriander, and broad leaf parsley grew in billowing clouds of green; the smell so fresh your mouth watered and you began to plan the next meal. Cucumbers spilled out of the raised beds, fighting for space with the peas and beans, lettuce, tomatoes, and bright yellow peppers. The cart was righted out by the road and was soon bowed under glass jars and tin pails of sunflowers, zinnias, dahlias, and salvia. Pears, apples, and out-of-season apricots sat in balsa wood baskets in the shade, and watermelons, some with pink flesh, some with yellow, all sweet and seedless, lined the willow fence.

Ion Mihai Pacepa, the highest-ranking defector from the former Soviet bloc, says the KGB killed dissident Alexander Litvinenko precisely because he spilled the beans on how Soviet intelligence spawned Islamic terrorism and even trained al-Qaeda leader Ayman Al-Zawahiri.[7

Wait. Are you saying what I think you're saying?' 'Ye-es.' Now that I had spilled the beans I could take on the laid-back, mildly exasperated air with which a felon, who's surrendered to the police, confesses yet once more to yet one more police officer how he robbed the store.

It's the fashion now, bean-spilling: people spill their own beans and also those of other people, they spill every bean they have and even some they don't have. They do this out of guilt and anguish, and for their own pleasure, but mostly because they want to display themselves and other people want to watch them do it.

And he looked at the oil out of coffee beans, and at frogspawn, and, and anyway now we know what microbes are and what cells are and that the naked human eye can only see a fraction of what is actually there. And that this - (the spill of water on the table) – is full of life we can't see, and just because we can't see it doesn't mean it isn't. It really really is.

Maybe I . . . shouldn’t tell him what I thought I’d heard. Not until I knew more. How exactly would I put the revelation anyway? Jack’s alive, but apparently he kept that little detail secret. Ah, but Matthew spilled the beans! Buying myself time, I waved Aric on. I was scarcely listening as he began talking about Paul, of all people. How the EMT had grown worried when I’d been shut in with my grandmother for so long. How I had lost weight and become listless. The man had pleaded with me to get a checkup, even offering to source contraception after Aric and I had started sleeping together. Wait. I glanced up. “After?” Aric nodded. “He said you told him you had no need of contraception.” The hell? “I went to him and got a shot prior to us getting together. I told you about it.” “As I told him in turn, but he swears that never happened.” Real? Unreal? Had I . . . imagined my meeting with Paul? I’d already feared gaps in my memory; Gran had told me things that I’d had no recollection of. Was I now inventing memories? Had I invented Jack’s return? In a soothing voice, Aric said, “I’m not angry, love. Just talk to me.” He wasn’t the first person to look at me as if I’d gone insane, like I was trouble with the possibility of rubble. Won’t be the last. No. I refused this. I had heard Jack, and I had gotten that shot. “It did happen, which means Paul’s a liar.” But why would he lie? “I’m going to confront him.” In time. Right now, all I wanted was to hear from Matthew again. Yet I frowned as a thought occurred. “Why would you be talking to Paul about contraception?” Aric tucked my hair behind my ear. “Sievā,” he said gently, “do you not know you’re pregnant?” Tick-tock.

Quiet, you.” Ash turned to address Rosa. “So because he’s gay, he can get all up in your boobs and that’s okay? What is it with gay guys and boobs? You don’t even enjoy them!” “Not true,” Dex said, snuggling against Rosa. “They’re very comfortable.” Rosa rolled her eyes, her attention returning to Dex. “Aw, poor baby. What’s the matter?” Dex threw a hand toward the bar. “My life is ruined.” “Is that your ex talking to Sloane?” “Yep.” “They’re laughing together.” “Yep.” Rosa cringed. “Ooh, your ex is spilling the beans, isn’t he?” “Apparently, in exchange for being my friend, Lou gets to tell Sloane whatever he wants to know. Sloane knows about the Waking Dead, Rosa! The Waking Dead!” “I…

The Thirty-three Rules • Every negotiation is an agreement between two or more parties with all parties having the right to veto—the right to say “no.” • Your job is not to be liked. It is to be respected and effective. • Results are not valid goals. • Money has nothing to do with a valid mission and purpose. • Never, ever, spill your beans in the lobby—or anywhere else. • Never enter a negotiation—never make a phone call—without a valid agenda. • The only valid goals are those you can control: behavior and activity. • Mission and purpose must be set in the adversary’s world; our world must be secondary. • Spend maximum time on payside activity and minimum time on nonpayside activity. • You do not need it. You only want it. • No saving. You cannot save the adversary. • Only one person in a negotiation can feel okay. That person is the adversary. • All action—all decision—begins with vision. Without vision, there is no action. • Always show respect to the blocker. • All agreements must be clarified point by point and sealed three times (using 3+). • The clearer the picture of pain, the easier the decision-making process. • The value of the negotiation increases by multiples as time, energy, money, and emotion are spent. • No talking. • Let the adversary save face at all times. • The greatest presentation you will ever give is the one your adversary will never see. • A negotiation is only over when we want it to be over. • “No” is good, “yes” is bad, “maybe” is worse. • Absolutely no closing. • Dance with the tiger. • Our greatest strength is our greatest weakness (Emerson). • Paint the pain. • Mission and purpose drive everything. • Decisions are 100 percent emotional. • Interrogative-led questions drive vision. • Nurture. • No assumptions. No expectations. Only blank slate. • Who are the decision makers? Do you know all of them? • Pay forward.

If I had my life to live over, I’d try and make more mistakes next time. I would relax. I would limber up. I would be sillier than I have been this trip. I know of very few things I would take seriously. I would be crazier. I would be less hygienic. I would take more chances. I would take more trips. I would climb more mountains, swim more rivers and watch more sunsets. I would eat more ice cream and less beans. I would have more actual troubles and fewer imaginary ones. You see, I am one of those people who live prophylactically and sanely and sensibly, hour after hour, day after day. Oh, I have had my moments and, if I had to do it over again, I’d have more of them. In fact, I’d try to have nothing else. Just moments, one after another, instead of living so many years ahead each day. I have been one of those people who never go anywhere without a thermometer, a hot water bottle, a gargle, a raincoat, and a parachute. If I had to do it over again, I would go places and do things and travel lighter than I have. If I had my life to live over, I would start bare-footed earlier in the spring and stay that way later in the fall. I would play hooky more. I wouldn’t make such good grades except by accident. I would ride on more merry-go-rounds. I’d pick more daisies.

The chocolate mass is perfectly silky and stays at the right temperature; it slides, soft and supple, into the molds. Smooth, shiny bars of chocolate, eight millimeters thick; they glisten up at us, dark and inviting: Bite us, taste us, swallow us! Let us melt in your mouth! The promise-laden snap when I break off a piece of happiness is like music, Chocolate Symphony No. 1. I let it rest on my tongue and wait as long as I can to swallow. The taste of the gods in the brownish purple beans fills my mouth until it flows over and spills down my throat.

But even if you’re good at blank slating, have no expectations and no assumptions, listen well, take great notes, refrain from excessive talking, and don’t spill beans—even if you’re the perfect blank slater, the world outside the negotiation can still intrude on your ability to blank slate. If you’re overly tired, it’s difficult to focus.

If she knew I went out again,' he said, 'I could get youth custody.' 'If she shopped you, you mean?' He nodded. 'But... sod it... to cut a foot off a horse...' Perhaps the better nature was somewhere there after all. Stealing cars was OK, maiming racehorses wasn't. He wouldn't have blinded those ponies: he wasn't that sort of lout. 'If I fix it with your aunt, will you tell me?' I asked. 'Make her promise not to tell Archie. He's worse.' 'Er,' I said, 'who is Archie?' 'My uncle. Aunt Betty's brother. He's Establishment, man. He's the flogging classes.' I made no promises. I said, 'Just spill the beans.' 'In three weeks I'll be sixteen.' He looked at me intently for reaction, but all he'd caused in me was puzzlement. I thought the cut-off age for crime to be considered 'juvenile' was two years older. He wouldn't be sent to an adult jail. Jonathan saw my lack of understanding. He said impatiently, 'You can't be underage for sex if you're a man, only if you're a girl.' 'Are you sure?' 'She says so.' 'Your Aunt Betty?' I felt lost. 'No, stupid. The woman in the village.' 'Oh... ah.' 'Her old man's a long-distance truck driver. He's away for nights on end. He'd kill me. Youth custody would be apple pie,' 'Difficult,' I said. 'She wants it, see? I'd never done it before. I bought her a gin in the pub.' Which, at fifteen, was definitely illegal to start with. 'So... um...,' I said, 'last night you were coming back from the village... When, exactly?' 'It was dark. Just before dawn. There had been more moon light earlier, but I'd left it late. I was running. She-Aunt Betty-she wakes with the cocks. She lets the dogs out before six.' His agitation, I thought, was producing what sounded like truth. I thought, and asked, 'Did you see any ramblers?' 'No. It was earlier than them.' I held my breath. I had to ask the next question, and dreaded the answer.

Jonah makes sure to sit next to Jack, gazing up at him admiringly.

I don't know yet," I give her the perfect reply. The political 'I do not recall' get-out-of-jail-free card. Let's see how Ashley handles this verbal razzle-dazzle. "That's not what Chelsea said," Ashley pops my bubble. "What did Chelsea say?" I ask. Now I look silly, not knowing what my apparent girlfriend thinks of our own relationship. "Chelsea thinks you two are dating," Ashley spills the bag and lets the cat out of the beans.

You spill a lot of beans in historical fiction. Crime fiction is about spilling no beans at all. You spill the least beans you possibly can. So because I had already written historical fiction before I was really good at the spilling beans section, but the new skill I had to learn when I was writing Brighton Belle was difficult. I had to avoid the equivalent of shouting, "this character's a murderer! Look who did it!.

John (Grisham) was really helpful keeping me on track, not wandering off into subplots, making sure I didn't spill the beans too early, all kinds of nitty-gritty things that you've gotta have under control if you're going to write a good thriller.

Piers Morgan Piers Morgan is a British journalist best known for his editorial work for the Daily Mirror from 1995 through 2004. He is also a successful author and television personality whose recent credits include a recurring role as a judge on NBC’s America’s Got Talent. A controversial member of the tabloid press during Diana’s lifetime, Piers Morgan established a uniquely close relationship with the Princess during the 1990s. The conversation moved swiftly to the latest edition of “Have I Got News for You.” “Oh, Mummy, it was hilarious,” laughed William. “They had a photo of Mrs. Parker Bowles and a horse’s head and asked what the difference was. The answer was that there isn’t any!” Diana absolutely exploded with laughter. We talked about which was the hottest photo to get. “Charles and Camilla is still the really big one,” I said, “followed by you and a new man, and now, of course, William with his first girlfriend.” He groaned. So did Diana. Our “big ones” are the most intimate parts of their personal lives. It was a weird moment. I am the enemy, really, but we were getting on well and sort of developing a better understanding of each other as we went along. Lunch was turning out to be basically a series of front-page exclusive stories--none of which I was allowed to publish, although I did joke that “I would save it for my book”--a statement that caused Diana to fix me with a stare, and demand to know if I was carrying a tape recorder. “No,” I replied, truthfully. “Are you?” We both laughed, neither quite knowing what the answer really was. The lunch was one of the most exhilarating, fascinating, and exasperating two hours of my life. I was allowed to ask Diana literally anything I liked, which surprised me, given William’s presence. But he was clearly in the loop on most of her bizarre world and, in particular, the various men who came into it from time to time. The News of the World had, during my editorship, broken the Will Carling, Oliver Hoare, and James Hewitt scoops, so I had a special interest in those. So, unsurprisingly, did Diana. She was still raging about Julia Carling: “She’s milking it for all she’s worth, that woman. Honestly. I haven’t seen Will since June ’95. He’s not the man in black you lot keep going on about. I’m not saying who that is, and you will never guess, but it’s not Will.” William interjected: “I keep a photo of Julia Carling on my dartboard at Eton.” That was torture. That was three fantastic scoops in thirty seconds. Diana urged me to tell William the story of what we did to Hewitt in the Mirror after he spilled the beans in the ghastly Anna Pasternak book. I dutifully recounted how we hired a white horse, dressed a Mirror reporter in full armor, and charged Hewitt’s home to confront him on allegations of treason with regard to his sleeping with the wife of a future king--an offense still punishable by death. Diana exploded again. “It was hysterical. I have never laughed so much.” She clearly had no time for Hewitt, despite her “I adored him” TV confessional.

A successful ambassador has to bring the bacon home without spilling the beans.

We’ll be using an amusement park in the Midwest, which we closed for the day. The owners were told that we were having a private party and wanted the park to ourselves. Everything you see on TV will be acting and the still pictures of people that are shown who died will be of people in Europe who died under various circumstances,” “Mr. Evans, without you, nothing we’ve wanted would have come to pass. While I’m sorry that Congresswoman Cindy Vickers was assassinated for the cause, she knew the risk when she proposed it, and her husband has become a tireless advocate for us when it comes to these gun control measures. Now, along with the restaurant massacre in Utah and the unexpected workplace violence at Fort Hood, what we do here today will change the course of American history. My one question is: how do we prevent Americans, especially those annoying Tea Partiers, from finding out this operation was a false flag and then protest against the measures we plan on taking? Plus, how do we prevent one of our actors from spilling the beans later on if they get it into their heads to do so? asked Meeds.

After all, the Bible clearly says that it is a sin to break the law.[58] James said that even breaking one small part is the same as breaking the whole thing,[59] and Jesus was without sin, which means that He never, ever broke the law.[60] Peter also said that Jesus committed no sin.[61]  Might I add, that James was His own brother – and if Jesus had ever sinned, James would certainly know about it, right?  I would certainly be more than happy to spill the beans if either of my two brothers claimed to have led a sinless life.

Keating had the appearance of a man who was reluctant to say what he had to say while simultaneously bursting to spill the beans.

To lovers out there …. If you tell on your partner after a breakup , separation or when you are angry. If you are the one spilling the beans. Shaming the other person. Exposing secrets and faults. Talking about confidential things they trusted you with. Just know you are not as good as you think you are. You are the one who is evil, abusive, and toxic. For instant, here you are in public abusing their trust. You only pretend to be a good person when you are benefiting. Every person you are not benefiting from, are bad people to you and you must destroy them or shame them. For a person who has conditional love. Know that two wrongs don’t make one right.

Maybe we should hear Jack’s plan first,” Jonah says. “He hasn’t even thought of one,” I say with an edge. “I’d like to hear Abby’s idea,” Jack says. Right answer, kid. “Yeah, me too,” Jonah says, smiling at Jack. I give Jonah the side-eye.

Esterhazy’s nephew Christian, unexpectedly showed up. Esterhazy had bilked Christian of large sums, and Christian was eager to spill the beans on his reprehensible uncle.

If you behave yourself, I'll see that you get to King Westley. If not, I'll just have to spill the beans to Papa. Now, which of these beds do you prefer?

The entire family was circled around a stranger, and when his eyes darted up and he saw me, the faintest smile graced his lips. ... “Malik. Malik!” James yelled, waving me over, excitement pouring off him in waves. “Do you know who this is? This is the DeShawn Franklin. This is—” I finished the sentence for him, imagining the beans spilling all around me. “My ex-husband.

Oh my god." Isabel's eyes flared when I spilled the beans to her. She wore pink Hello Kitty lounge pants, a black T-shirt, and nibbled the chocolate from a Dove bar. "You did what?

You know," Penny says, "it would make sense to move movie night to Friday night permanently, don't you think? It'll be Penny, Robin, Abby, and Frankie movie night." She grins. "We'll call it PRAFM!

Jack is right. Besides, we have no choice. We rush back to the front door. The giants must have left it open when they came outside. They are really bad with safety. It’s like they’re asking for us to rob them! In the kitchen, I listen for goose sounds, but then realize I have no idea what sounds a goose makes. Like a duck? I definitely don’t hear quacking. Or anything, really. “Let’s try the bedroom,” Jack suggests. We go down the hallway and sneak into the giants’ bedroom. They have an enormous bed the size of an Olympic swimming pool. Above the bed is a huge photograph in a gold frame of Magnus and

Chapter 5 of my book, Esotericism with An Unconventional Soul, is called Healing with Lucid Dreaming. I had so much fun writing, researching, and spilling the beans about this particular subject.

Otto likes Sarah.” Mouth open, Otto stared at Theo. He’d expected Hugh to spill the beans, but Theo? “What the hell?” Looking completely unrepentant, Theo laid an arm over the back of Jules’s chair and picked up his coffee mug with his free hand. “I would’ve just told her later.” “That’s true,” Jules said, leaning forward with the same gossip-loving expression as Hugh.

It was good fun trying to find bars that were showing the qualifying games for the Cup, and watching the locals get into heated disputes. I’m convinced it’s all rigged anyway. I tend toward conspiracy phobia in all things of this nature, including politics. With the amount of money that’s at stake, I don’t believe the likes of Rupert Murdoch or George Bush are inclined to leave very much to chance. Call me cynical, but every other week someone gets caught or spills the beans.

That had to be a sign from some deity (or Michelle Obama or whoever brings all of humanity together) and as good a lead-in as any to spill the rainbow-colored beans.

Primer of Love [Lesson 53] The truth is not always what we want to hear. ~ Yiddish Proverb Lesson 53) I solemnly promise to tell the truth, the partial truth, anything but the truth -- whatever preserves the relationship. "There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven."There's a time for candor and a time for white lies, depending whether you want touproot or you want to plant goodwill. There's a time for brutal honesty and a time for diplomacy, depending whether you want to tear down or to build egos. There's a time to talk and a time to refrain from talking, depending if you want to spill the beans on yourself and you want the perfect accompiment for your hot dog. "Does my ass look fat in this dress?" Fuck the truth, there is only one answer: "No, sweetheart, your ass looks great!" Get the picture? "There's a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace." Keep the love, keep the peace! Amen.

FEE, FI-- Magnus begins. Oh wait, I already said that, he adds.

I guess people can be wrong and right at the same time.

The names of your informers, what backstabbing campaigns you’re embarking on, where you store your guns, your drugs, your money, the location of your hideout, the interchangeable lists of your friends and enemies, your contacts, the fences, your escape plans—all things you need to keep to yourself, and you will reveal every one if you are in love. Love is the Ultimate Informer because of the conviction it inspires that your love is eternal and immutable—you can no more imagine the end of your love than you can imagine the end of your own head. And because love is nothing without intimacy, and intimacy is nothing without sharing, and sharing is nothing without honesty, you must inevitably spill the beans, every last bean, because dishonesty in intimacy is unworkable and will slowly poison your precious love. When it ends—and it will end (even the most risk-embracing gambler wouldn’t touch those odds)—he or she, the love object, has your secrets. And can use them. And if the relationship ends acrimoniously, he or she will use them, viciously and maliciously—will use them against you. Furthermore, it is highly probable that the secrets you reveal when your soul has all its clothes off will be the cause of the end of love. Your intimate revelations will be the flame that lights the fuse that ignites the dynamite that blows your love to kingdom come. No, you say. She understands my violent ways. She understands that the end justifies the means. Think about this. Being in love is a process of idealization. Now ask yourself, how long can a woman be expected to idealize a man who held his foot on the head of a drowning man? Not too long, believe me. And cold nights in front of the fire, when you get up and slice off another piece of cheese, you don’t think she’s dwelling on that moment of unflinching honesty when you revealed sawing off the feet of your enemy? Well, she is. If a man could be counted on to dispose of his partner the moment the relationship is over, this chapter wouldn’t be necessary. But he can’t be counted on for that. Hope of reconciliation keeps many an ex alive who should be at the bottom of a deep gorge. So, lawbreakers, whoever you are, you need to keep your secrets for your survival, to keep your enemies at bay and your body out of the justice system. Sadly—and this is the lonely responsibility we all have to accept—the only way to do this is to stay single. If you need sexual relief, go to a hooker. If you need an intimate embrace, go to your mother. If you need a bed warmer during cold winter months, get a dog that is not a Chihuahua or a Pekingese. But know this: to give up your secrets is to give up your security, your freedom, your life. The truth will kill your love, then it will kill you. It’s rotten, I know. But so is the sound of the judge’s gavel pounding a mahogany desk.

Let’s get this straight. He told you his name? Yes. Now— I like that … I like that! He’s been giving me gyp for years, simply because I could have spilled the beans, and now he’s telling any old broad he meets, free of charge! Who else knows? Faquarl? Nouda? Did he deck his name out in neon lights and parade it round the town? I ask you! And I never told anyone!

Nedda’s dream eye kept traveling as she slept, searching for all the things she missed: the town, the buildings inside it, the houses, rooms, and people, like dolls, whose hearts she knew. The seismic hiccup of the launch rolled through her. She saw glasses break at the Bird’s Eye, and Ellery Rees sweeping up a shattered sundae dish. The gators at Jonny’s Jungle World sank into their ponds like beans in soup, hugging the murk at the bottom. Then the surge from Crucible ran through her like an electric shock, hot and cold at once. Strong. It coursed through power lines, the lines to the college, the wires in the walls, through the outlets in the labs. It pulsed across a gold-plated switch, shattering a glass divider beneath it. Light spilled from Crucible, infrared and ultraviolet, escaping everything meant to contain it. Her father’s machine was as much hope and wish as it was metal and glass.

Did I Spill the Beans or Let the Cat out of the Bag?

The day I filled my little larder with jars of beans and seeds, sugars and flours, was one I had looked forward to all my cooking life. A little space for tins of sardines and bottles of anchovies, a dark corner for dried shiitake and porcini, and a home for tins of treacle and golden syrup. There was an entire shelf for vinegars, a tall one for bottles of rose and orange blossom water and shallow ones for slim boxes of crystallized violets and jars of candied orange and citron peel. Two pink egg cartons sat on the marble slab along with space for pots of marmalade and damson gin. Over the years the larder has changed a little, and I soon realized I needed to make space not just for dried beans (flageolet, cannellini, ful, chickpeas, chana dal, green and brown lentils-- I could go on), but also for bottled and tinned. Dried fruits now take up eight storage jars and there are at least six of rice (white and brown basmati, arborio and pudding rice, sushi rice and a Spanish rice called bomba that makes a delicious paella and produces a fine undercrust). My obsession with storage jars is a result of a personal concern over opened cellophane bags of ingredients in the cupboard, bags that fall or unfold allowing the contents to spill or spoil. You can often tell the time of year by peeping through the larder door. At Christmas I juggle jars and bottles to make space for beribboned packages of panettone and Stollen, golden tins of Lebkuchen and the muslin-wrapped Christmas pudding. In summer the marble slab is a useful space for ripening peaches and melons.

The Truth About Mr. Harrison Mr. Harrison’s first name is George. “I know Mr. Harrison’s real name,” I told everybody after I handed back the wallet and he left. “What is it?” Ryan asked. “His name is . . . ,” I said. “I’m not telling.” “Come on, A.J.!” said Michael. “Spill the beans.”4 “I’ll be your best friend,” said Neil the nude kid. “Arlo, what’s Mr. Harrison’s first name?” said Andrea. “It’s George,” I said. “George?” said Alexia. “That’s not a weird name.” “I wonder why he wouldn’t tell us his name was George,” said Michael. “George Harrison,” said Andrea. “Wait a minute! George Harrison was somebody famous! He was one of the Beatles!” “One of the what?” asked Neil the nude kid. “That old rock group, dumbhead,” said Michael. Oh, yeah! My parents told me about the Beatles, and I played this video game called Rock Band, where you play Beatle songs. It’s cool. Everybody knows who the Beatles were. “Mr. Harrison was one of the Beatles?” asked Ryan. “Wait a minute,” Andrea said. “George Harrison of the Beatles died a long time ago.” “He must have faked his death,” I told her. “Famous people do that all the time, you know.” “That doesn’t make any sense, A.J.,” said Michael. “Why would a big rock star fake his death and get a job as a tech guy in a school?” “He probably hated being famous,” I told them. “Celebrities get sick of signing autographs and having people take pictures of them all the time. He must be hiding out in our school so his fans won’t bother him.” “Being a nerdy tech guy would be the perfect disguise,” Alexia admitted. “But Mr. Harrison doesn’t look anything like the other George Harrison,” Andrea said. “I’ve seen pictures of him.” “Haven’t you ever heard of plastic surgery?

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