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The Fair Fight

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Anna Freeman

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“2.4 Design a plan. a. Go back before you go forward. b. Think about your problem as a set of outcomes produced by a machine. c. Remember that there are typically many paths to achieving your goals. d. Think of your plan as being like a movie script in that you visualize who will do what through time. e. Write down your plan for everyone to see and to measure your progress against. f. Recognize that it doesn’t take a lot of time to design a good plan.”

GoalPathProgressAchievePlanOutcomeVisualizeGo BackGo Forward
Book:Principles: Life and Work
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“Steady there,” he says. His brow is furrowed. His eyes are deep-set and sad. “You can ride with me. All you have to do is sit and hold on. Okay?” Hallelujah nods. And then what he’s saying actually sinks in. They’ll be riding away from Jonah and Rachel. She can’t do that. She can’t. Her breath starts coming faster. “We have to go back,” she says, her voice cracking. “I can’t leave. I have to go get them. I promised.” Breath in, out, in, out, in, out. “I promised!” Charlie has her by both shoulders. “Hallelujah. Calm down. It’s gonna be all right.” “We have to go back!” Hallelujah repeats, almost sobbing now. “Please!”

CharlieGoHallelujahRidePromisedGo Back
Author:Kathryn Holmes
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“Some Christians have been taught to suppress their emotions as they sing. They've been told to fear feeling anything too strongly, and that maturity means holding back. But what we want to avoid is 'emotionalism', not 'emotions'. Emotionalism pursues feelings as an end in themselves. It's wanting to feel something with no regard to how that feeling is produced or its ultimate purpose. In contrast, the emotions that singing is meant to express are a response to who God is and what he's done. Vibrant singing allows us to combine truth 'about' God seamlessly with passion 'for' God. Doctrine and devotion. Mind and heart. Suppressing or ignoring your feelings when you sing contradicts what singing is designed to do. Passionless singing is an oxymoron.”

FaithChristianityWorshipEmotionsDevotion
Book:True Worshipers: Seeking What Matters to God
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“We started getting hungry again, and some of the women started chanting, "MEAT, MEAT, MEAT!" We were having steak tartare. It was the only appropriate main course we could think of, for such a graceless theme, and seeing as nobody in the club was confident making it, we had to order it in. I made chips to serve with it, though. I deep-fried them in beef fat. The steak was served in little roulades, raw and minced, like horsemeat. It was topped with a raw egg yolk, chopped onions, pickled beetroot, and capers. I had wanted to use the Wisconsin version, which is served on cocktail bread and dubbed "cannibal sandwich," but Stevie insisted we go classic. Not everyone could stomach theirs with the raw egg yolk, too, and so, unusually for a Supper Club, there was quite a lot left over. We took another break to drink and move about the room. Some of us took MDMA. Emmeline had brought a box of French macarons, tiny pastel-colored things, which we threw over the table, trying to get them into one another's mouth, invariably missing. For our proper dessert, we had a crepe cake: a stack of pancakes bound together with melted chocolate. We ate it with homemade ice cream, which was becoming a real staple.”

CookingCakeSteakDessertsToppingsCrepesMacarons
Book:Supper Club
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“She set butter and sugar to warm in a sauté pan, and then turned to core, peel, and slice the apples, the sluicing sound of the knife against the crisp flesh of the fruit giving her whirling mind finally something to clutch. She dropped the apples into the pan, shaking it gently by the handle to coat the apples until they were slightly caramelized. Then she added a splash of cider and let the buttery, sweet liquid reduce before seasoning with cinnamon and pouring the softened apples into a serving bowl. She leaned over the bowl as she customarily did when making cinnamon apples to breathe the earthy-sweet aroma.”

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Book:The Summer Kitchen
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“I want more, I said, putting a hand to my stomach, which rides higher than most know. Closer to the heart. I want the jiang bing that vendor will make when she runs out of nut butter. I don't think she's arrogant. I think she's right. I want to sample jian bing from every cart in Beijing, and I want to taste what those kids are eating at home, what they don't teach in cookbooks at Le Cordon Bleu. There's so much out there--- Helplessly, I said, I haven't even told you how much I love foods wrapped in other foods. Then tell me. I tried. I tried. Banh xeo in Hanoi, I said, and duck folded in the translucent bing of northern China. I spoke of tacos in Mexico City: suadero, al pastor, gringas. South Indian dosas as long as my arm, thinner than a rib of a feather. Oh, Aida, I said when I fumbled the names of the chutneys. How can I know all I've ever want? Something will get left out. I was wrong about cilantro. Tlayudas, she said stubbornly, as if she hadn't heard. Blini. Crêpes. They're basically French jian bing, I said with a strangled laugh. Pita sandwiches. Pickle roll-ups. Calzone. Bossam! I yelled, and the dogs barked and the children cheered and the streets of old Milan rang with the imported memory of pork kissed by brine, earthy with Korean bean paste, safe in its bed of red leaf lettuce.”

HungerChineseTacosCrepesFood CravingsBing
Book:Land of Milk and Honey
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