Veg Quotes

Sweet Pea, the way you eat means you got tits and ass. This is good because I like tits and ass. This is bad because Tack and Lawson like 'em just as much as me. Then he shoved his noodles and veg into his mouth and said with his mouth full, Tack maybe more.

Resistance loves surfing the Web, vegging out in front of the TV, sticking to routine, not picking up the phone, hitting snooze, avoiding confrontation, making excuses, rumination, and isolation.

You either approve of violence or you don't, and nothing on earth is more violent or extreme than the meat industry.

Sarah had a saying: Der gleichster veg iz ful mit shtainer." "What's it mean?" "The smoothest way is sometimes full of stones.

I have a lot of time for vegetarians (though apparently not all of them have a lot of time for me), and that's because I respect anyone with principles about food.

Look, I don’t want to stand here and watch you commune with ‘other.’ It’s been a long night, my brain is fried and my emotions shot. You can stay here and do your hocus-pocus cat prowl, looking for your invisible friends all you want. I’m going to head off to my media room and veg. (Danger) If you need me, call. (Alexion) Yeah, I’ll just do that when I need the great big, hulking he-man to charge in and save my weak, girly butt. (Danger)

You notice how they always put the fruit and veg at the entrance to the supermarket? You go in thinking 'this is a fresh shop, everything in here is FRESH! I will do well to shop here'. You never go straight to the bit with the toilet paper, loo brushes and such do you? You'd think 'this is a POO shop! Everything in here is themed on POO!

Meat and two veg is your knob," I tell him. He frowns again, looking confused. "Knob?" "Dick," I say, "penis, cock, nob, chopper, dong, cream stick, one-eyed trouser snake, prick, tadger, willy, bell-end, or dobber. Take your pick.

Instead of coconut yam kootu, why not boiled beef tongue with a mustard sauce?” “That sounds non-veg.

An evolutionary bargain seems to have been struck: in exchange for sexual exclusivity, the man brings meat and protects the fire from thieves and bullies; in exchange for help rearing the children, the woman brings veg and does much of the cooking. This may explain why human beings are the only great apes with long pair bonds. Just

Drama is like meat and three veg. Whereas comedy is like the merangue at the end.

Did I want to risk an embarrassing and costly failure? Absolutely. Happiness for me has always been the thrill of the unknown, trying something that everyone says can't be done, feeling that gnawing pit in my stomach that says "Danger ahead". Would it be nice not to have uncertainty, to sit back and "veg out"? When the phone rings constantly, when people keep demanding attention, when I desperately need time to myself, it seems an attractive notion just to "chuck it all". But then nobody calls, nobody stops by, and soon I'm nibbling my nails and getting irritable, and I realize that's not what I want. It sounds good. In reality though, I want action, I want challenge.

throw meat in pot, add veg, pour booze on it” really counts as a recipe.

wish I were a sea squirt, If life became a strain, I’d veg out on the nearest rock And reabsorb my brain.

Geen twee mense se verhale is dieselfde nie, niemand s'n is kort of eenvoudig nie, elkeen het feite wat met die ander s'n veg. Skaars het iemand klaar gepraat, of die ander gryp sy verhaal en skeur dit uitmekaar.

Through it all listen to your intution,it can never desive you

These kids sound like they're as obsessed with books as you are, and we need to surround ourselves with the people who are just as passionate about the things in life that we are. Take Mr. Helstone and his veg, for example. Now, there's a passionate man. He's made many friends at the local competitions he attends. Just goes to show: it's never too late to find your people.

If consumers found fulfillment at any meaningful level, she xtemporized, corpocracy would be finished. Thus, Media is keen to scorn colonies such as hers, comparing them to tapeworms; accusing them of stealing rainwater from WaterCorp, royalties from VegCorp patent holders, oxygen from Air-Corp. The Abbess feared that, should the day ever come when the Board decided they were a viable alternative to corpocratic ideology, “the ‘tapeworms’ will be renamed ‘terrorists,’ smart bombs will rain, and our tunnels flood with fire.

It was so easy to get caught up in the day to day grind. In the little dramas of work, in the trips to the grocery store, in the hours of mindless vegging in front of the television. You could live your life that way, always caught up in the next thing. Always thinking of tomorrow, of your future, of the next paycheck. Never stopping to appreciate the moment you had now. Never stopping to appreciate the friends and family and love and laughter that existed in every single day of your life. Life could just pass you by like that, without you really noticing the good. And it was a shame if it did. It was a sin, if you let it go like that.

Research from Baton and Konner in 1985 and Cordain et al. in 2000 estimated that about 65 per cent of the diets of pre-agricultural Palaeolithic humans may still have come from plants – far more than only your recommended five fruit and veg a day, I would say. Interestingly, anatomically modern humans are believed to have more copies of the starch-digesting genes than the Neanderthals and the Denisovans (another extinct species or subspecies of archaic human that ranged across Asia during the Lower and Middle palaeolithic), suggesting that the ability to digest starch has been a continuous driver through human evolution as much as walking upright, having big brains and articulate speech - perhaps being a baker may be the oldest profession after all.

Another common argument is about nutrition from non-veg food. People say that non-veg food has more nutritious and keeps people healthy and strong. But if we go into more details with science and statistics, everybody can understand a simple theory that nobody can grow more than the protein/nutrition it takes in its diet.   So if I consider this, then even a chicken, goat or a bull grows this big only by taking the same nutrition from nature; mostly from grass, beans, leaves pulses and grain. With the demand of non-veg if human can grow this much of food for feeding these animals, it can directly grow the same amount of food for himself. And deficiencies are the reason of imbalance diet, which are found in both vegetarians as well as non-vegetarians, and a balance diet can keep anyone healthy without non-veg too.   One last thing you must have seen around is, human started dyeing of diseases like Bird Flu. Will you still say you keep balance in nature by eating non-veg? And if your answer is yes, then I must say: YOU ARE FUNNY!!!

Now as a slightly less young adult Valentine’s Day is an oasis of sorts. I’ve become one of those rotten lovers who didn’t keep his promise to stay connected no matter what life through at him. Between children, work, school and church each day just fills up. At day’s end when the work is done and the kids are safely in bed it’s time to unwind, decompress or just veg out. Sure we spend that time together but I forget to make time to take her in my arms and just stare into those beautiful eyes. I don’t always take every shot I get to hold or caress her hand and tell her I’ve missed her today. I neglect to mention that when I catch a glimpse of her from across the room my heart still leaps in my chest. I don’t remind her daily that she’s the reason behind everything I do and she’s given my life meaning. I fail to tell her that I smile every time I think of her or that I’m smiling right now as I type this because I’m thinking of her. Or that she’s just as beautiful today as she was the day we got married, or how lucky I am to share a life with her. Valentine’s Day is an opportunity to break from the dizzying array of stuff that crowds our day to day and say “I Love You”.

Going back to the place where you are from is always fraught, memories scattered like broken glass on every pavement, be careful where you tread. I meditated, feeling a little guilty that I have the space to. A space for peace, to which everyone is entitled. “It’s alright for you in the back of a car that Hitler used to ride in,” I imagined that drunk bloke saying. I’d have to point out that it wasn’t literally Hitler’s car, that would be a spooky heirloom, but it is all right for me. I do have a life where I can make time to meditate, eat well, do yoga, exercise, reflect, relax. That’s what money buys you. Is it possible for everyone to have that life? Is it possible for anyone to be happy when such rudimentary things are exclusive? They tell you that you ought eat five fruit and veg a day, then seven; I read somewhere once that you should eat as much as ten, face in a trough all day long, chowing on kale. The way these conclusions are reached is that scientists look at a huge batch of data and observe the correlation between the consumption of fruit and veg and longevity. They then conclude that you, as an individual, should eat more fruit and veg. The onus is on you; you are responsible for what you eat. Of course, other conclusions could be drawn from this data. The same people that live these long lives and eat all this fruit and veg are also, in the main, wealthy; they have good jobs, regular holidays, exercise, and avoid the incessant stress of poverty. Another, more truthful, more frightening conclusion we could reach then is that we should have a society where the resources enjoyed by the fruit-gobbling elite are shared around and the privileges, including the fruit and veg, enjoyed by everybody. With this conclusion the obligation is not on you as an individual to obediently skip down to Waitrose and buy more celery, it is on you as a member of society to fight for a fairer system where more people have access to resources.

cap to scratch his bald head. ‘Well, you won’t miss the veg because I’ll be bringing you some every week now. I’ve always got plenty left over and I’d rather give it to you than see it waste.’ He gave a rumbling laugh. ‘I caught that young Tommy Barton digging potatoes from Percy’s plot this mornin’. Give ’im a cuff round ’is ear but I let him take what he’d dug. Poor little bugger’s only tryin’ to keep his ma from starvin’; ain’t ’is fault ’is old man got banged up for robbin’, is it?’ Tilly Barton, her two sons Tommy and Sam and her husband, lived almost opposite the Pig & Whistle. Mulberry Lane cut across from Bell Lane and ran adjacent to Spitalfields Market, and the folk of the surrounding lanes were like a small community, almost a village in the heart of London’s busy East End. Tilly and her husband had been good customers for Peggy until he lost his job on the Docks. It had come as a shock when he’d been arrested for trying to rob a little corner post office and Peggy hadn’t seen Tilly to talk to since; she’d assumed it was because the woman was feeling ashamed of what her husband had done. ‘No, of course not.’ Peggy smiled at him. A wisp of her honey-blonde hair had fallen across her face, despite all her efforts to sweep it up under a little white cap she wore for cooking. ‘I didn’t realise Tilly Barton was in such trouble. I’ll take her a pie over later – she won’t be offended, will she?’ ‘No one in their right mind would be offended by you, Peggy love.’ ‘Thank you, Jim. Would you like a cup of coffee and a slice of apple pie?’ ‘Don’t mind a slice of that pie, but I’ll take it for my docky down the allotment if that’s all right?’ Peggy assured him it was and wrapped a generous slice of her freshly cooked pie in greaseproof paper. He took it and left with a smile and a promise to see her next week just as her husband entered the kitchen. ‘Who was that?’ Laurence asked as he saw the back of Jim walking away. ‘Jim Stillman, he brought the last of the stuff from Percy’s allotment.’ Peggy’s eyes brimmed and Laurence frowned. ‘I don’t know what you’re upset for, Peggy. Percy was well over eighty. He’d had a good life – and it wasn’t even as if he was your father…’ ‘I know. He was a lot older than Mum but…Percy was a good stepfather to me, and wonderful to Mum when she was so ill after we lost Walter.’ Peggy’s voice faltered, because it still hurt her that her younger brother had died in the Great War at the tender age of seventeen. The news had almost destroyed their mother and Peggy thought of those dark days as the worst of her

The more you learn, the hungrier you are to learn more. You can’t get enough. You begin to crave knowledge and wisdom as much as you used to crave sitting on a couch vegging out to reality shows.

27. To Get, You Have First To Give A lot of advice in this book comes from my parents, and I am always grateful for having been raised by two wonderful and smart people. So here’s another gem from my mum: If you want to receive, you must first look around for something to give. As a kid, this was usually a pretty simple equation - she would only buy me a new toy if I selected an old one to give to the charity shop. (Quite annoying, I seem to remember!) But as I got older I realized that giving to get is actually one of the universe’s hidden rules. You want someone to help you? Guess what: if you’ve helped them in the past, they are far more likely to come to your rescue. You want to get a bumper crop from your veg patch? Guess what, the more water, fertilizer and attention you give your seedlings, the more bountiful harvests they will produce. But the inexplicable thing about my mum’s rule is that it works in the wilderness, too. There have been many times when I’ve been lost, exhausted, hungry, and I’ve felt my strength and my ability to keep going draining away. In these situations, it’s human nature to shrink back and give up. Yet my mother’s wisdom has been proved to me time and time again - to ‘get’ good results, you have to ‘give out’ something good or positive first. So when I am tired, I commit to working even harder. When I feel downcast, I decide to be upbeat. You see, no matter how low your optimism or strength feels, if you can ‘force’ yourself to put out the good vibes, the good attitudes, the hopeful thoughts (even if you don’t feel them or believe them right at that moment), then you will be rewarded. Try it some time when you are dog-tired. Get off that couch and start moving energetically. You will soon feel invigorated. Or when you are knee-deep in paperwork, slowing to a crawl, try just picking up the pace and focus, get ripping through it, giving it your all - and your body and mind will respond. To get, first you have to give.

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I was a non-veg eater I craved for meat My crave involved killing My crave involved bloodshed So I killed my crave.

Everybody has got their own definition of Morality and Religion. We all have modified it as per our convenience. Little alcohol is fine, sometimes smoking is ok, egg is not completely non-veg, eating little bit is fine when fasting, extra marital affair is ok sometimes, giving little bribe is fine, evading / not paying little amount of tax is fine, sometimes jumping signal is fine and so on.. Yet we all proudly say, we follow our Religion & God and Respect Constitution & Law of the Land!

Effectively communicate feelings and needs: Visiting the sister-in-law Because Tom’s job is so hectic, Rebecca barely gets to see him during the week, and she often feels very alone. On Saturdays, she usually visits her sister, who lives close by. Tom doesn’t typically join her for these visits; he likes to stay home and veg out on the couch. Generally, this is fine with her, but this Saturday, after a particularly long week at work, when Tom was even more absent than usual, she becomes very insistent that he come along. Tom, exhausted from his work week, is adamant about not wanting to go. Rebecca won’t take no for an answer and pushes the issue. He reacts by clamming up even more. Finally she tells him he’s being selfish, he ends up in front of the TV not talking, and she ends up going alone. Rebecca acts in a way that is very typical of people with an anxious attachment style. Because her husband’s being at work more than usual during the week has activated her attachment system, she feels a need to reconnect. What she needs most is to feel that Tom is available to her—that he cares and wants to be with her. However, instead of saying this directly and explaining what is bothering her, she uses protest behavior—accusing him of being selfish and insisting that he come to her sister’s. Tom is bewildered that Rebecca is suddenly behaving so irrationally—after all, they have an understanding that he doesn’t have to go to her sister’s. How different Tom’s reaction might be if Rebecca simply said, “I know you hate going to my sister’s, but it would mean the world to me if you could come this one time. I’ve hardly seen you all week and I don’t want to miss out on any more time together.” Effectively expressing your emotional needs is even better than the other person magically reading your mind. It means that you’re an active agent who can be heard, and it opens the door for a much richer emotional dialogue. Even if Tom still chose not to join Rebecca, if he understood how she felt, he could find another way to reassure her: “If you really want me to go, I will. But I also want to relax. How about we go out tonight—just the two of us? Would that make you feel better? You don’t really want me at your sister’s anyway, do you? I will get in the way of the two of you catching up.

One of the most pervasive bits of folk psychology is the belief that self-control is limited—that, by the nature of our temperament, we only have so much willpower available to us. Furthermore, the thinking goes, we are liable to run out of willpower when we exert ourselves. Psychologists have a name for this phenomenon: ego depletion. Not so long ago, my after-work routine looked like this: I’d sit on the couch and veg out for hours, keeping company with Netflix and a cold pint of ice cream (Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Fudge Brownie, to be exact). I knew the ice cream and the sitting weren’t good for me, but I justified my actions by telling myself I was “spent,” acting as if my ego were depleted (even if I’d never heard the term).

I wish I were a sea squirt, If life became a strain, I’d veg out on the nearest rock And reabsorb my brain.

decided to order our vegetables online . . . . . . They call it Mail Order Veg. I think it is a fantastic idea. Unfortunately our letter box doesn't agree, and neither does the postman who decided to force the parcel through.

1 cup milk plus: 1. Small bowl cold cereal + blueberries + yogurt 2. 1 egg, scrambled or boiled + 1 slice toast + strawberries 3. 1 cut-up chicken sausage + toast + ½ banana 4. ½ bagel + cream cheese + raspberries 5. 1 slice ham on toast + ½ orange 6. ½ tortilla rolled up with cheese + melon + yogurt 7. Small bowl oatmeal + cut-up bananas and strawberries Lunch and Dinner 1. 1 salmon cake + carrots + rice 2. Fish pie + broccoli 3. 3 oz salmon + cup of pasta + peas 4. 2 fish sticks + cup couscous + veg 5. ½ breast of chicken + veg + small potato 6. Roast chicken + dumplings + veg 7. 1 meat or peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich + apple + yogurt 8. 1 small homemade pizza + fruit 9. Pasta with tomato sauce and cheese + veg 10. Chicken risotto + veg 11. Ground beef + potato + peas 12. Small tuna pasta bake + veg 13. 4 meatballs + pasta + veg 14. Chicken stir-fry with veg + rice

But that’s what our society’s built on. Most people strive for this kind of life.” “Safety is very nice, but isn’t it also incredibly boring? How much do you miss out on because you’re following a known path? Shouldn’t life be a challenge? Shouldn’t we try to discover, to experiment as much as possible? Instead, we spend our days doing monotonous work and then at the end ask where all the time went. Sure, you have weekends and holidays to recover from work, but you’re often so exhausted you don’t have the energy to go explore.” “But there are also people who feel comfortable in their job.” “You mean the lucky few who were able to turn their passion into a profession? I don’t hate my job. And I know I should be grateful to even have a job, especially in these difficult economic times, and so on, and so on. But ultimately we just spend way too much time at work. And when you think about it, most of it’s just repetition and serves only to profit the company. You can slave away for years working for a company, and if you’re lucky, you’ll get recognized for it. But once you can no longer do what they ask, they get rid of you! It happened to my aunt. She was at the same company for forty years, was committed to the company, and never complained when she put in overtime. Then came new management, and she was laid off. Since then, she’s been taking pills made by Lagussa . . .” “But I think many people want security and structure in their lives. Look around: we all work, day after day. That’s how our system functions. If people were so unhappy with this situation, our free society would have undergone radical change a long time ago.” “Free society? You’re free only if you obey the rules—that’s not true freedom. The minute you want to follow a different path, you’re faced with limitations. A lot of people are afraid of that. We’re also distracted enough to never even consider if we’re happy or not. I only recently read that last year Germans watched an average of almost four hours of TV a day. On average! That doesn’t leave much time for reflection. Most go to work, where they have used their mind or body for the benefit of a company, and then they come home. Before they go to bed, they veg on the couch and watch lame TV shows that promise glamour and adventure—which very few people will ever experience. The shows are sold as reality. Then there are religions and substitute religions, and every now and then publicly organized mass drunkenness like Oktoberfest, all of which makes people lazy and content.” “So if it’s a big conspiracy, then who’s behind it? I don’t think business leaders meet regularly in Frankenstein’s castle to discuss how to keep people subdued.” “I

Giving her a second, I stood up and walked into my room, threw a pair of sweatpants over my shorts, and shrugged into a sweatshirt. God, how was she shivering? I was already sweating with this on. But if I couldn’t comfort her in the way I wanted to, I was going to do it in the only other way I knew how. I’d just be there for her. When I walked back through the living room, her sobs had quieted, but she was still in a ball. Heading into the kitchen, I grabbed two bottled waters, a spoon, and the pint of Ben and Jerry’s she always made sure I had in the freezer. I put everything on the coffee table, grabbed the remote, and searched the DVR until I found Bridesmaids. I didn’t give a shit about the two hundred dollars or breakfasts I would owe her for this. Sitting down next to her this time, I picked up the water and ice cream, balanced them on my legs, and turned the volume up. When the movie started, she brought her red face up and glanced at the TV with a furrowed brow before looking over at me. Her eyebrows shot straight up when she saw me. “What are you wearing?” Her voice was hoarse from crying and I handed her the bottle of water. “Well, you came over in sweats. I figured I missed the memo or something and had to get in on the party.” She looked at the TV and back to me, and a small smile cracked when she took the ice cream and spoon from me. I’d pushed her enough today. I hated knowing what I knew and vowed to one day find out who this guy was. Hopefully now that she knew she could talk to me, she’d open up more when she was ready. But anything more today would be too much. So I settled into the couch and pretended to watch the movie instead of her every move. After a while, she handed me back the half-empty container and leaned against my shoulder. My arm automatically went around her and I pulled her close to my side. “Thank you, Kash,” she whispered a couple minutes later. “Anything for you, Rach. I’m here whenever you need to talk.” Pressing my lips to her forehead, I kept them there as I said, “And I will always protect you.” We were still sitting there watching the movie when Mason came back from his run. He nodded at us, and when he came back out of his room after a shower, he was dressed in sweats as well. He grabbed the melting ice cream and tried to squeeze himself onto the couch on the other side of Rachel. She laughed and curled closer into my side. “You guys are the best.” “You think we’re going to let you veg on the couch alone?” Mason said, scoffing. “Sweetheart, you obviously don’t know us that well. I mean, it’s gonna be a hundred degrees today. How else would I spend the day than in sweats?” Rachel kicked at his leg and he squeezed her knee. After a few minutes of watching the movie, Mason caught my gaze over Rachel’s head. He quickly looked down at her and raised an eyebrow, the question clear in his eyes. I nodded once and the color drained from his face. He swallowed hard and grabbed one of Rachel’s hands. She laughed lightly at something from the movie and his eyes came back to mine. They were determined, and he looked like he was struggling at relaxing his now-murderous expression. I knew exactly how he felt. He didn’t have to say anything to me. We’d worked together long enough to know that we’d both just agreed to find the bastard. And make him pay.

The hormones also made me more emotional. I found myself snapping at Chad and Jeff for blasting The Rock and Stone Cold Steve Austin on TV. I also was more prone to isolation, vegging out in my room, listening to Janet Jackson’s The Velvet Rope on loop while reading heavy heroine novels like Madame Bovary, Anna Karenina, A Room with a View, and The Age of Innocence.

Det var tjue minusgrader. Det hadde snødd natta i førevegen. Snøfnugga var i lette drift, lette som fjører, og solskinet på Buffalo Lake vart til ein gyllen refleks. Så steig temperaturen med tjue grader berre på nokre timar, så ein fekk ei kjensle av at våren var på veg.

Would you produce, create and bring value to the world if it weren't for money? Or would you veg out? The necessity of money keeps people relevant and active. The paradox is that people who stay relevant and active make money.

Det var stille i baksetet på Eilerts T-Ford, der fem barn sov sin lykkelege søvn under eit stort teppe i augustnatta. I framsetet sat Martha med Gordon sovande i fanget, medan lyktene på Eilerts bil viste veg gjennom sommarnatta forbi bølgjande åkrar og mørke sjøar, på vegen heim til Donalda.

I planned to spend the day vegging out and watching some good action movies when Aunt Jeanie had to ruin my plans as usual. Just when I had gotten comfortable in my beanbag chair with a bag of Twizzlers, she burst into the bedroom without even knocking. "Aunt Jeanie, I'd appreciate it if you would at least knock," I told her as sweetly as possible. "Bex, this is my house. When you get your own house and pay the mortgage, you can make the rules." I sighed and focused on the television, hoping she would go away, but she wouldn't. "So, have you decided on a service project?" "Yes, but Mrs. Armstrong denied it," I answered. I thought my cupcake idea was great. Cupcakes make people happy and wasn't that the point? "Good. This afternoon some of the girls are going down to the soup kitchen to make bagged lunches for the women and children's shelter. Be ready in a little bit." I loved the way she asked whether or not I'd actually like to do it. "All right.

I don't know how long I spent wandering about the supermarket creating meals in my mind. Hot roast chicken and mayonnaise sandwiches. Pizzas on crispy bases. Big, heaving bowls of spaghetti Bolognese. Crunchy, cheesy nachos with sour cream. I did a full circle and ended back in the fruit and veg section. Next to the peaches were boxes filled with tomatoes still clinging to their vines. The ripe tomato smell was almost sexual. It filled my nostrils as I lifted the box. There were some slightly rotten ones near the bottom of the box, but the rest were just perfect, thick with the perfume of their green vines, fat and red.

She was someone who would hang around in the same circles as me, but not someone I would call on a Saturday night for a veg out and movie night. --Silent Child

The truth for perishable grocery is closer to an NICU ward at the hospital: blazing technology furiously working to sustain premature life. The fruit and veg of our lives are alive and need to stay that way until we bite into them. Unlike the NICU, however, the distribution center has no interest in survivability per se. Instead all this technology serves to control. The teenage ambition to stop-start time, pause, and then unfreeze life at the perfect moment is steadily being achieved for many forms of produce.

An evolutionary bargain seems to have been struck: in exchange for sexual exclusivity, the man brings meat and protects the fire from thieves and bullies; in exchange for help rearing the children, the woman brings veg and does much of the cooking. This may explain why human beings are the only great apes with long pair bonds.

Modern English has given us two terms we need to explain this phenomenon: “geeking out” and “vegging out.” To geek out on something means to immerse yourself in its details to an extent that is distinctly abnormal—and to have a good time doing it. To veg out, by contrast, means to enter a passive state and allow sounds and images to wash over you without troubling yourself too much about what it all means.

It’s the same with kids and a diet of coke, hamburgers and nasty little crunchy snacks. If they like it, why worry about them eating fruit and veg and other more demanding food? And I’ll tell you why worry, because otherwise their teeth will all fall out and they’ll all pop off early from degenerative diseases. You can’t thrive on pap, you know. Not in food, not in music, not in education, not in religion.

I’ve inflicted so much pain and suffering on myself over the years. I had a piercing called a guiche. That’s the part between your arsehole and your balls. You’re on all fours on a gurney. Your ass in the air, your meat and two veg hanging down. Your dignity is out the window. This girl did it, tattoos all over her face. I nearly passed out with the pain.

What would you call it when a couple from Wolverhampton believes that alien beings – as in highly sophisticated creatures capable of intergalactic space travel – are inexplicably interested in not just Wolverhampton, but the meat and two veg of a bloke called Clive from Wolverhampton?

And my diet is horrific. I suppose I hate fresh fruit and veg because my mum was always telling me to get my five-a-day in. She’d always be saying, ‘It’s good for your looks. Ugly girls need all the help they can get!’ So, three pieces of stale cake it is – straight in my gob.

To cope with having countless things to do and not knowing where to start, to avoid the backlog of unanswered questions and postponed decisions crying out for their attention, to keep their anger out of view, and to buoy a low self-esteem, Nines have unhealthy coping strategies. They will often turn to food, sex, drinking, exercise, shopping, the reassuring comfort of habits and routines, performing mindless busywork, or vegging out on the couch and watching TV to numb out and ignore their feelings, wants and desires. What Nines fail to realize is that numbing out is a bogus form of relaxation, a cheap imitation of the genuine peace for which they long. But Nines should take heart: they are more courageous and resourceful than they know. Remember, on the Enneagram any number’s blight is merely a distortion of that number’s blessing. All of us have work to do. So, as Aslan the lion cries at the end of the Narnia Chronicles, “Further up and further in!

All he wants is to watch superhero movies and veg out on the sofa with his laptop perched on his legs, eating Nutella out of the jar.

It pleases her immensely that she has created this. It reminds her of playing with the cardboard theatre in the attic, how her favourite part was lying on the floor, doing the voices, making the characters interact, and watching Digby and the Veg lying on their fronts, faces propped in their hands, transfixed by the story, as if it were unfolding all by itself. It was a conjurer's magic, a divine power.

If you chose to go the movies instead of going home, make it a movie experience to remember – get a good seat, get the snacks, see the thing you’ve been waiting on. Nothing half-hearted. If you went home instead? Run a bath, have a glass of wine, curl up with a good book you’ve been wanting to get back to. Not just vegging about in your dirty pajamas.

Un uomo diventa vecchio anche quando gli vien meno la riposta fiducia infantile che qualcuno (Dio, la Provvidenza, il defunto maggiormente rimpianto) vegli sul suo cammino, gli eviti il peggio e lo compensi delle sfortune e delle ingiustizie.

We took the right to decide about life&death matters of our animal companions into our own hands, why viruses, bacteria, gems and other animals can't do the same with us? Be a Hero, Be Veg, Eat cruelty-free, plant-based meat.

Quan­do in­fi­ne re­cu­pe­rò il fia­to fece usci­re tut­ti per par­la­re da solo col suo me­di­co. «Non mi im­ma­gi­na­vo che que­sta stron­za­ta fos­se così gra­ve da far pen­sa­re all'olio san­to» gli dis­se. «Io, che non ho la gio­ia di cre­de­re nel­la vita dell'al­tro mon­do.» «Non si trat­ta di que­sto» dis­se Ré­vé­rend. «E' noto che si­ste­ma­re le fac­cen­de del­la co­scien­za in­fon­de all'am­ma­la­to uno sta­to d'ani­mo che fa­ci­li­ta mol­to l'in­com­ben­za del me­di­co.» Il ge­ne­ra­le non pre­stò at­ten­zio­ne alla mae­stria del­la ri­spo­sta, per­ché lo fece rab­bri­vi­di­re la ri­ve­la­zio­ne ac­ce­can­te che la fol­le cor­sa fra i suoi mali e i suoi so­gni ar­ri­va­va in quel mo­men­to alla meta fi­na­le. Il re­sto era­no te­ne­bre. «Caz­zo» so­spi­rò. «Come farò a usci­re da que­sto la­bi­rin­to?» Esa­mi­nò il lo­ca­le con la chia­ro­veg­gen­za del­le sue in­son­nie, e per la pri­ma vol­ta vide la ve­ri­tà: l'ul­ti­mo let­to pre­sta­to, la toe­let­ta di pie­tà il cui fo­sco spec­chio di pa­zien­za non l'avreb­be più ri­pe­tu­to, il ba­ci­le di por­cel­la­na scro­sta­ta con l'ac­qua e l'asciu­ga­ma­no e il sa­po­ne per al­tre mani, la fret­ta sen­za cuo­re dell'oro­lo­gio ot­ta­go­na­le sfre­na­to ver­so l'ap­pun­ta­men­to ine­lut­ta­bi­le del 17 di­cem­bre all'una e set­te mi­nu­ti del suo po­me­rig­gio ul­ti­mo. Al­lo­ra in­cro­ciò le brac­cia sul pet­to e co­min­ciò a udi­re le voci rag­gian­ti de­gli schia­vi che can­ta­va­no il sal­ve del­le sei nei fran­toi, e vide dal­la fi­ne­stra il dia­man­te di Ve­ne­re nel cie­lo che se ne an­da­va per sem­pre, le nevi eter­ne, il ram­pi­can­te le cui nuo­ve cam­pa­nu­le gial­le non avreb­be vi­sto fio­ri­re il sa­ba­to suc­ces­si­vo nel­la casa sbar­ra­ta dal lut­to, gli ul­ti­mi ful­go­ri del­la vita che mai più, per i se­co­li dei se­co­li, si sa­reb­be ri­pe­tu­ta.

I left the bedroom to judge distances in the hall. I was less comfortable in the rest of the flat but knew if I could make it to my room I had a chance. Wenzel's spare coat was slung on the door to the living room. I searched the pockets and found an envelope full of twenty pound notes and another roll of notes in the other pocket. How did he get so much money? We earned thirty pounds a day at the fruit and veg shop and half of my days pay went straight to him for rent.

The small glass jars filled with a spread made from local smoked trout were packed into a cool box. Earlier in the week, Grace had helped her make the labels for the jars, as well as for the two puddings which she would serve the same way. The guests would be encouraged to take home any that were left, as well as the larger jars of pickled vegetables. She'd fermented cabbage with radishes, and cauliflower with haricots vests and carrots. The spice mixtures were not as hot as traditional kimchee- a concession to the bland English palate- but still had a good bit of pop. The spicy, crunchy veg made a perfect counterpoint to the soft creaminess of the smoked lamb and beans. Those she was serving together, in individual camping tins, to be warmed just before lunch in the Beck House warming ovens. It was all a bit precious, the jars and the tins, but she wanted the meal to be something people would remember. She'd made a seeded crispbread for the potted trout course, and flatbreads to serve warm with the lamb and pickles. In between the trout and the lamb she planned a salad course- fresh greens, topped with roasted pear halves she'd done the previous day, a local soft blue cheese, and a drizzle of caramel.

He also took another swing at cyclists with his five handy hints for those setting out on a bike for the first time in the Sun. They were: “Do not cruise through red lights. Because if I’m coming the other way, I will run you down, for fun. Do not pull up at junctions in front of a line of traffic. Because if I’m behind you, I will set off at normal speed and you will be crushed under my wheels. Do not wear Lycra shorts unless you are Kate Moss. I do not wish to cruise down the road looking at your meat and two veg. Do not, ever, swear at or curse people in cars or trucks. You are a guest on roads that are paid for by motorists so if we cut you up, shut up. Do not wear a helmet. It makes you look ridiculous.

It’s not just the same old row about mental load, about who should be doing the utterly tedious bedtime routine while simultaneously preparing a nutritious dinner brimming with fresh veg, but also the deep chasm over The Anxiety of It All. Who is carrying The Anxiety of It All? Is it the person who is prone to anxiety? Or is it that person because one of you refuses to carry the anxiety and cunningly off-loads it onto the other one?

In His rest, He refashioned or re-created creation in the shape of the Resurrection. Bearing this in mind, we could endeavor to infuse (at least some of) our own rest time with redemptive, re-creational elements. At the very least, we should remember that the purpose of rest is to reenliven ourselves—to fill and be filled with new life. I don’t know about you, but “vegging out”— relaxing as it is—does not leave me feeling more alive afterward. In fact, I usually feel more disengaged and apathetic than before. On the other hand, other activities, such as knitting or repotting my houseplants, leave me with a renewed sense of vitality, even if they require more mental and physical energy than binge-watching the latest period drama.

The best we can do is to be good at something, or a few things. We come home tired, and we feel the need to veg out—a recent coinage, meaning to drop voluntarily into a kind of vegetative coma, typically in front of the TV. I should know; in my family, I am infamous for my lowbrow tastes in entertainment, my sluggishness to attend art films and theatrical productions.

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So yeah, conversationally speaking, we just faced off in a duel, where she had a gun and I had two paper clips and a rubber band. But it’s fine. Although, hey, while we’re on the subject, maybe you want to slice my nut sac off and put my two veg in your back pocket? ’Cuz I won’t be needing them anymore after this.

When the Lord Keeper visited Ipswich in 1568, the town laid on a banquet (not a feast with meat and veg: the word ‘banquet’ in the Tudor period meant sweets, cakes, cheese, nuts and fruit with a glass or two of wine).

We do not care much if others are sick, if nature is sick as long as it doesn't directly affects us. Coronavirus is just a wake up call to return to our loving self. And killing each other and animals isn't loving, neither noble. Be a Hero, step out of this vicious cycle, show love&compassion, Be Veg.

The equation is very simple, we kill = we get killed, either by infectious diseases or natural disasters. Demand and eat fake meat, because killing always seeks its bloody debt. Be Veg, eat cruelty-free, plant-based fake meat products.

American culture is probably the hardest place in the world to learn to pray. We are so busy that when we slow down to pray, we find it uncomfortable. We prize accomplishments, production. But prayer is nothing but talking to God. It feels useless, as if we are wasting time. Every bone in our bodies screams, “Get to work.” When we aren’t working, we are used to being entertained. Television, the Internet, video games, and cell phones make free time as busy as work. When we do slow down, we slip into a stupor. Exhausted by the pace of life, we veg out in front of a screen or with earplugs. If we try to be quiet, we are assaulted by what C. S. Lewis called “the Kingdom of Noise.” 1 Everywhere we go we hear background noise. If the noise isn’t provided for us, we can bring our own via iPod. Even our church services can have that same restless energy. There is little space to be still before God. We want our money’s worth, so something should always be happening. We are uncomfortable with silence. One of the subtlest hindrances to prayer is probably the most pervasive. In the broader culture and in our churches, we prize intellect, competency, and wealth. Because we can do life without God, praying seems nice but unnecessary. Money can do what prayer does, and it is quicker and less time-consuming. Our trust in ourselves and in our talents makes us structurally independent of God. As a result, exhortations to pray don’t stick.

derfor kjenner Mette, når ho går forbi misjonshuset på veg til eitt av mange hustrekalde møte, at ho misunner dei som sit innanfor veggene der og spelar gitar: Dei er mange. Dei er trygge, dei følgjer kvarandre mildt opp som åra går, med yngres lag og eldres lag og barnelag, dei spaserer ei opptrekt rute fram, og det er opplagt for dei som smør at verda er vond, men Gud god, alt forklarleg er greitt og det uforklarlege er også greitt, eit under er eit under, og skrifta som dei held seg til, er ikkje til å gå seg vill i, men delt opp og nummerert i passelege småstykke til å ta inn og tygge på og glede seg over,

Men korleis kan ein legge det frå seg, det som skulle få så veldige følgjer at det prega mange menneske i eit heilt liv og førte til at eit nytt menneske fekk liv? Det er ingen annan veg å gå enn å dikte dei fram, dei tyske soldatane i deira grøne uniformer, og dei norske jentene, og da er vi i denne vårkvelden, før det er blitt skikkeleg varmt, og da det framleis ligg snøskavlar igjen i alle portrom og skuggefulle hagar!

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