#natural wholefoods

[realfoodstradingco]

Real Foods Trading Company - Natural Wholefoods Online Store in New Zealand

Real Foods Trading Company, based in New Zealand, is your go-to online store for natural wholefoods. Explore our diverse selection of wholesome and unprocessed products, sourced from trusted suppliers. From nourishing grains to organic produce, we offer a wide range of natural wholefoods to support your well-being. Experience the convenience of shopping online and have your favorite natural products delivered right to your doorstep. Embrace a healthier lifestyle with Real Foods Trading Company.

[barnbridges]

henry reads funnier if you consider that the food king has the vibe of like wholefoods, while cumby's is like.. where the peasants at hampden college would shop at.

[mynaturesdelight]

My Natures Delight | Organic food shop in Winter Haven, FL | Health food shop in Winter Haven, FL

My Natures Delight

Address: 3085 Cypress Gardens Rd, Winter Haven, FL 33884

Phone: (863) 324-1778

Website Url: https://mynaturesdelight.com/

GMB Url: https://goo.gl/maps/Eraxvo7erukWwc49A

My Nature’s Delight Natural Foods, Herb Shop & Wellness Center, was established in January 1992 by Dr. Corlis Renee Johnson. Dr. Johnson was a licensed Pharmacist, Certified Functional Medicine Practitioner and Integrative Cancer Consultant, who lived a natural lifestyle for over 30 years and taught thousands of men, women, and children the art and science of natural living and healing.

[eatclean-bewhole]

“Vegan food is boring.” 😏 #whatveganseat

#vegan #plantbased #veganfood #vegetarian #healthyfood #food #healthy #organic #glutenfree #veganlife #foodie #healthylifestyle #foodporn #govegan #veganrecipes #veganism #natural #veganfoodshare #vegano #health #diseaseprevention #diseasefighting #diseasemanagement #dairyfree #wholefoods #nutrition #integrativenutrition #nutritionist #healthcoach

[senseslick]

Bloom Nutrition Green Superfood

Bloom Nutrition Green Superfood

Bloom Nutrition Green Superfood Bloom Nutrition Green Superfood | Super Greens Powder Juice & Smoothie Mix | Complete Whole Foods (Organic Spirulina, Chlorella, Wheat Grass), Probiotics, Digestive Enzymes, & Antioxidants (Coconut) About this item Say Goodbye to Bloat – Our blend of probiotics restores the balance to your gut, eliminating bloat and detoxifying the digestive system. A scoop of…

[sunlightmurdock]

AETERNA | One

PROLOGUE | MASTERLIST

SYNOPSIS: TROUBLE COMES TO TOWN.

WARNINGS: smoking; the fic takes place in the 70s and so 70s era things will happen; smoking weed; mentions of sw as a joke; this fic has mature themes and is intended for adults, minors pls dni. spooky stuff. word count: 6312.

The summer in Atwood, Georgia, began as all summers in Atwood always had. Slow. Creeping in through the remaining breezes, blooms and spring showers. Fitting itself into the days so unsuspectingly. It never feels like it’s really summer until the sweat is already beading down your back and the girls’ skirts are an inch shorter than they were a year before.

There’s a spot around the back of Creekside Pines Retirement Village, covered by the shade of those namesake pines, where the girls who work there go to smoke. The Pines has been around longer than any of the residents currently in it; the Church started it decades ago and they made sure to keep it going.

Tucked under the shade of those thick, green pine trees, the branches provide a respite from the approaching early summer sun and also from your dirtbag boss, Conrad Wheelan.

Olive and you, you and Olive. Since Conrad hired you last September, the two of you have become quite the dynamic duo. Candy-striped partners in crime, experts at avoiding old guy sponge bath time. Smokers of cheap, gas station cigarettes. Gossipers of a truly impressive standard.

You’re sitting on opposite sides of the brick walls that bracket the stairs to the back door, your foot beside her hip and hers beside yours, your knees bent and a Marlboro between your index and middle.

“But anyway, I think she’s just jealous. He broke up with her for a reason.” Her face is veiled for a moment by tendrils of swirling cigarette smoke before the midday sun beams once again on her freckled face. She’s talking about a boy she has been fooling around with. He’s older, and he called off his engagement two months ago.

His ex really has it out for Olive. She’s a pretty little nurse at the local hospital. Her daddy went after the poor guy with a gun when the engagement broke. The ex went after Olive in the middle of Herb’s Wholefoods, shoved her right into the display of tinned peaches. But hey, your Mom got six dented tins for the price of one. Silver linings and all that jazz.

Your break was over twenty minutes ago, but the AC is broken and you’ve spent the morning choking on the smell of Eau de Old Lady — the smell of magnolias in bloom and Marlboros on fire are a much welcome change in pace.

Besides, your best friend is in crisis. She’s got a bruise the size of a not-tinned, regular ol’ peach in the middle of her back, a shattered ego, and apparently a new step-kid on the way.

“So, what’s he going to do about it?” You ask her, your face towards the sun, cigarette ash on the wall beside you.

“The baby? — I don’t know. She didn’t even want the kid until he told her he was leaving, now she’s suddenly Mother Theresa.” Olive says with a wistful sigh. Her older boyfriend got that girl in trouble and ran for the hills, but apparently he treats Olive like a princess. Your mother says she’s trouble, but you like her.

Girls like Olive will always pick the wrong kind of man. It’s that kind of No Man’s Land where human nature and fate come to make out — and that’s not Olive’s fault — she’s just at their will; like a puppet. Or a hamster on a wheel.

“You know, I think you’d make a pretty boss step-mommy.” You tell her, cocking your head the way that you do when you know you’re dancing right along her nerve endings. A smile creeps across your coral- glossed lips, revealing the coral-glossed ring they have left around the butt of the cigarette.

“Oh, bite me. You know I’d rather swap places with Hughie Marshall than get stuck raising her kid.” Olive scoffs out, flicking at the cigarette with a red painted nail and bending her bruised knees. That’s quite a thing to say around here.

You didn’t know Hughie, before. Not really. His dad was the principal of your high school, but you knew him after Hughie was already back.

Apparently before his accident, Hughie was a real stud. All-American with dark hair and a bright future. Then he stepped on a landmine in Cambodia; he wasn’t even supposed to be there by the official military statement. But he was.

He doesn’t leave the house anymore. His brain’s all mashed together and he’s got a metal plate in the left side of his head. One arm and no right foot, but worse than that — no jaw. Folks say it was taken clean off in the blast. They sent him out to California for a whole bunch of surgeries, but he still looks like a guy who has been pieced back together.

But Olive’s only kidding about wanting to be in his place. No one wants to be in Hughie’s place, especially not Hughie.

Her joke isn’t the kind of thing that needs to be laughed at, your polite exhale of amusement mixes with the soft rustle of leaves, a fleeting moment of rebellion against Dictator Wheelan and his reign of terror. Each smoky exhale carries whispers of things that would make your mothers shiver, but such is the way for two girls on the cusp of freedom.

In this hidden sanctuary, on the cusp of the woods, the two of you are a united front against the elderly residents of The Pines. Rather than the bell that signaled the end of your freedom in your school days, nowadays it’s the sound of heavy leather shoes on the linoleum that signal the end of your stolen respite.

“Shit.”

“Shit.” The two of you agree, stubbing out your cigarettes and leaping up from the walls, throwing the butts into the mess of fallen foliage at the side of the building.

And at once, Conrad swings open the fire escape door and finds the two of you standing there in your candy-striped aprons, white stockings and pristinely white shoes. Like butter wouldn’t fucking melt.

He’s a towering man, maybe six foot five in his prime, but he hunches a bit from his constant slouching at his desk. He was a red- head once, but now his hair has thinned to the point of scarcity, and he’s usually got a razor rash on his neck from shaving a bit too hastily in the mornings. He knows damn well that the two of you were out here slacking.

“Ladies,” He tries, his smile tight-lipped and half frozen, like a salesman who couldn’t quite make himself look human enough to get the job. “If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Halbert and Mrs. Knight could use some help in the dining room.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Wheelan.” Olive hits him back with a smile that comes much more naturally, and a cool shrug of her shoulders. She’s a real girl-next-door type. It’s why the wrong kind of guy likes her so much. You’re halfway certain that her killer smile and her long legs are the only reason that Conrad hasn’t fired her yet.

“Yes, sir.” You follow suit.

He allows the both of you to dip around him and just like that, you’re locked back in with the living dead. Old folks who seem just as confused as you about how they’re still hanging on. Oh, that’s mean, really — they aren’t so bad. They’re nice to you. You listen to them.

“I like it when you wear your hair like that,” Mrs. Knight tells you, sitting back uncomfortably. Her green eyes study you, her fingers curled around a shivering china teacup. “Much better than when it's down.”

You’ve learned by now that most of the compliments in this place come with a backhand. Your chin propped up on your palm, you answer her with an amused smile.

“Maybe you could do my hair like yours one day, June,” You suggest, stacking together the remnants of her lunch so that it’ll be easier to porter back to the kitchen. She used to own her own salon down on Mayfair Lane, your mother got her first haircut from June Knight. You shoot a look across the room at Arnie Knight, who is watching you care for his wife. “Teach me how to land a guy like Arnie.”

“Oh, honey — you know my Arnie’s one of a kind.” She giggles. Your mouth twists back into a grin. He sure is. He stormed the beaches in Normandy and still found it in himself to father seven kids once he made it back. In his day, Arnie sounds like he was a stud.

There aren’t too many studs left in Atwood these days. Those boys are either wandering hallowed halls, meat-heads that will be here forever or settled six feet under. Anyone more than four years older than you is either a war hero, or they’re like Hughie Marshall.

The ones that still wake up in Cole County aren’t the kind of boys you’ll be sharing your golden years with, anyway. No, you’ve got much bigger plans for your retirement.

Napa Valley, a sprawling house with burnt orange tile overlooking a vineyard withthat your silver-fox husband who tends to you while you enjoy the fruits of his labour and spend your afternoons tipsy, waiting for the party to start that evening. Far, far from the shade of the trees that line Marsh’s Creek, beside Creekside Pines Retirement Village.

That’s one day, though. For today, the excitement stretches as far as letting Billy Cline pick you up in his true blue 1965 Chevy short bed pickup. Just like most of the guys your age that are in this town, you’ve known Billy for a long time. Your mother still thinks of him as the sweet little boy with blonde curls and overalls.

He still wears overalls, but his blonde curls are now straighter, slicked back with a generous helping of pomade. He came right from work, the auto shop in town, to pick you up.

You change shamelessly in the passenger seat of his truck as he speeds along the old road out towards the Cole County airport, shoving your uniform into your bag and wriggling into the clothing you had smuggled past your mother.

“I’m not driving you home wearing that,” Billy chortles, eyes wide and already shaking his head as you pull the knitted halter neck over your chest, your lips pursed in concentration as you fasten the tie behind your neck. “I’ll stop at the Post Office and you can walk from there.”

Exhaling and kicking the bag into the footwell, you tug open the glovebox and start to root for the sunglasses you left in here last time.

“What? You don’t dig the orange?”

You know full well that Billy’s concerns about your outfit don’t start or end with the burnt orange color of your hot pants. He scoffs loudly beside you to agree as your fingers stumble across the little plastic baggie at the back of his glovebox.

“I don’t dig that your old man threatened to slash my tires last time he saw me rollin’ with you.”

That makes you laugh. You pluck the green from the glovebox and melt back into the blue suede seats Billy had spent all of last summer fixing up.

“Fred wouldn’t hurt you.” Your father talks a big talk sometimes, maybe that’s where you can get it from, but he likes Billy and he’s not the kind of father that spends his time worrying about which boy you’re messing around with. “Might trick you into doing some yard work for him, though.”

Straight, empty road for miles ahead, Bill turns his head and looks at the bag caught between your index and middle fingers, dangling toward him like the forbidden fruit itself.

“Great, so I’ll take you home high as a kite and dressed like a hooker and he’ll invite me to water his gardenias.” He hums, reaching out and snatching the bag from you. He still has every intention of lighting up, but he knows there’s a pothole about a mile ahead and the last time he let you roll up along this road wasn’t a pretty sight.

“Come on, Bill — now,” Your white canvas sneakers are still discarded in the footwell, you kick your bare feet up onto the dash. “That’s no way to talk to your best chance at ever getting laid, is it?”

There’s a fondness in the way he rolls those steely-blue eyes at you. There’s no real destination at the end of this long, empty stretch of road. There are one of four possible spots for the two of you to pick from.

Just far enough from Conrad Wheelan, and your father’s gardenias, and the Cole County sheriff's department for the two of you to crawl into the bed of the truck, light up and wait for time to pass.

It’s no way to spend summer, really. But this is the last May that your afternoons will look like this. Next May, you’ll be thinking about Olive and Billy from the Paramount Pictures backlot. Maybe Warner Brothers, you’re not in a position to be too picky.

As a kid, you had sworn that you would pack your things and head for the hills the day that you turned eighteen. Things hadn’t worked out quite that way, but now, you’ll be sitting in the Malibu sunshine before you turn twenty-three.

“Who the fuck is that?”

You drop the bag onto the bench and follow Billy’s eyes towards the rearviewrear view mirror, fully prepared to see your Uncle Paul’s police cruiser coming up behind you. Instead, you’re met with the picture of a very small heavy hauler. Cherry-red, coming over the hill like hell on wheels. It’s illegal to drive that fast, even out here. Especially in something that big.

The house that you pass on the left has two young kids who live there, and the Whistler family let those kids play in that unfenced yard all day long. A big, red truck coming along this country road that fast… bye, bye Whistler family.

“Fuckin’ maniacs.” Billy mutters, frowning and shaking his head. It almost makes you smile. William Cline, slipping back into the weepy little boy he had once been, a stickler for the rules back then. But you don’t have time to smile.

Your knees push up onto the suede, your palm flattening against the back window, sticking to the glass with a squeak as you slide it open. That cherry red truck is a lot clearer without the filter of dust and dirt between you, and a lot less small now that it’s getting closer.

“Probably late for a delivery or something. It’s gonna try to pass you.” You realise, resting your arms over the back of the bench. Billy almost forgets why that’s important as he glances across at the way those burnt orange shorts flex around your ass.

He swallows, checks the rear-view mirror and remembers the sharp bend coming up. There aren’t any signs and it kind of comes out of nowhere, and if this jerk tries to overtake him on it, his truck is going to wind up in a ditch.

He eases his foot onto the break and considers just stopping all together, biting the inside of his cheek. Out of towners. The truck grows bigger and bigger, the engine rumbling like a growl, until it’s close enough that you can see the man behind the wheel. His hair is longish and feathery, jet-black and his face is half covered by a pair of green lensed sunglasses.

By his side is a kid, already looking at you. She has long blonde hair tied back in two braids, and a strange look on her face. Like she is excited to see you. She sits forwards in her seat and cocks her head sharply to the side, her eyes tracking you as the truck whizzes by. The sharp motion makes you pull back swiftly from the window.

Her head twists to follow until she’s out of your view and you’re blinking at the painted trailer being hauled by the truck. Maverick’s Cabinet of Mysteries. A circus. Red and white stripes and a big, shining yellow font.

“Did you see that kid?” The words spill from your lips as you brace one hand against the dashboard, watching the rest of the truck whizzes by, trying to blink that awful, jerky, movement of her neck from your mind.

“What? — No, I saw that jackass almost take my side view mirror with him.” Billy huffs out angrily, putting his foot back on the gas the second that giant trailer is past him.

It’s not the only one. Right behind the first, is another truck that appears identical. You don’t get a look at the driver, just the red and white stripes and Maverick’s Cabinet of Mysteries in that shiny red and gold font.

“Who even goes to the frickin’ circus anymore?” Billy’s care for his truck spills out in bitterness as he steadies the wheel and watches the second truck be succeeded by a third. All three of them, red and gold and white death traps, growling as they speed along the road ahead of you.

The cold feeling from the first truck has passed by, now you’re at the mercy of the sun being at its highest point, casting out heat like a blanket, warming the cab of the truck like a greenhouse.

Twisting in your seat, your lips twitch as you find that the three cargo trucks aren’t unaccompanied. Behind them is a string of vehicles, lead by a pretty far-out Chevy camper with rad burnt orange racer stripes along the side.

You look back at Billy over your shoulder. “We could.”

It’s not like there is much else to do around this place. Beats the regular Friday tune of heading down to the Empire movie theatre by Lane Street and sipping at a sugary, fizzing coke while watching a Western.

As the camper draws closer, your gaze locks on to the two people sitting in the front. A dark haired woman, her lips red and round, sucking on a lollipop with her bare feet kicked up onto the dash. Her sunglasses hide her eyes, but you know she’s looking at you.

It’s almost at the speed limit, not quite at the same terrifying speed as the trucks ahead but still warranting a ticket. In the driver’s seat is a real stone fox, broad and tanned with sunkissed brown caramel-curls and a real Burt-Reynolds-in-100-Rifles kind of moustache.

They’re driving with the windows down, cooled by the breeze in their hair like they aren’t icy enough already. Her sunglasses are round and plastic-framed, with orange lenses. So cool— so California. And him too.

Even with his more standard gold-framed caravans, his barely buttoned blue short sleeve and the equally caramel coloured dusting of chest hair spilling out, he looks like a movie star.

You’re barely aware of Billy crushing your idea beside you. “Me? — Nah. Sorry, sister, no way — lame, lame, lame.”

Doesn’t matter, you’ll be going with or without him if Mr. Movie Star is going to be there.

His white camper with the orange stripes gets close enough for you to realise that it’s not just her looking at you, he is too. It’s a little narcissistic to assume that it’s for any reason other than the way you’re already staring at them, but the thought of the two of them liking what they see — thinking maybe you could look like them — makes your coral lips stretch.

Up close, you can hear the blaring sound of their radio. A guitar riff that you remember from somewhere deep in the back of your mind, something you know you’ve heard many times before but just can’t place.

You follow them, magnetized by the draw of their eyes, planting a palm right between Billy's greased overall thighs and leaning across the bench to keep staring through the rolled-down driver’s side window.

The raven-haired woman pushes the lollipop into the hollow of her cheek and tells him something. You can’t hear it over the sound of their radio blaring out. He responds with a just-can’t-help-it kind of grinning chuckle, turning his head to look across at you.

The door was open, and the wind appeared.

The candles blew, and then disappeared.

The curtains flew, and then he appeared.

Sayin’ “Don’t be afraid.”

On all fours, looking at him like he’s the new guy at the zoo.

Come on, baby (and she had no fear).

And she ran to him (then they started to fly).

They looked backward and said goodbye (she had become like they are).

Heat gathered across your skin, that knitted late summer sunset coloured halter stretched tight across your chest, scandalous by the standards of Atwood — downright foxy if you ventured further west.

Your hair has been freed from the tidy updo that Conrad Wheelan prefers it to be in while you’re working, but not quite tamed after that. Wild and free, as the wind whips through it.

As if to try to contain your grin, you sink your teeth into the coral of your bottom lip, beaming at him anyway. Then, you lift the hand that isn’t settled between Billy’s thighs, and wiggle your fingers at him in greeting.

“What the hell are you doin’? — I can’t even see the road!” Billy complains.

Mr. Movie Star couldn’t have heard him, but he shoots a look at the complaining driver anyway. Then, his attention is yours again. Still smiling that amused smile, he lifts a tanned arm from its perch against the open window ledge, and throws up a loose peace sign across the stretch of road between you. His passenger laughs around her lollipop.

”Sayin’ hello. It’s polite.” You tell him back.

Between his obnoxious music, the wind whipping between the cars, and the equally polite indoor voice you had spoken in, there’s no way that Mr. Movie Star could have possibly heard you. He laughs like he had.

With that, the camper passes by. It takes the song and the blaring guitar with it, the rhythmic picking carrying across the flat stretches of road. It’s got tinted windows all around the sides and back. A real pussy wagon, you bet. Mr. Movie Star has probably seen a lot of action in the back of that van. Queue the wistful sigh from you. If you could just stop from grinning.

“Get off. C’mon, put your seatbelt on or something.”

“He was really something, don’t ya think?” You say, still grinning dumbly as you retreat back to the designated passenger’s spot, tracking the camper along the old stretch of Airport Road.

“Yeah, yeah — mellow out before you ruin my seats.” Billy grumbles, frowning at his side-view mirror. Six more vehicles to go; none of them drive quite as wild as those first couple of big trucks.

“How long d’you think they’re in town for?” You prop one elbow against the side of the door and plant your chin atop your palm, staring after the camper as you kick your feet across Billy’s lap. “You think it’s like an all- summer deal or just a couple of weekends?”

Billy shoots a steely look across the cab.

Sure, he was kind of a weedy kid. Small for his age, with a mom who was rarely more than a stone’s throw away. He’s not bad looking. Stick thin with a long, straight nose but pretty blue eyes. There’s usually motor oil in his blonde hair these days.

Either way, he hadn’t always exactly been the pick of the litter but with the war and stuff, he’s not such a bad option these days.

And still, you’ve had him benched in the friend zone since freshman year. Both of you know that it’ll just take an especially dry season for you to finally do him, and you are good company, he likes having you around.

He doesn’t like the douchebag with the ‘stache moving in on the closest thing he has to a girlfriend.

“They might stop by The Pines — you know, like those folks from the fair did, that one time.” you’re really talking to yourself at this point.

Billy looks across, unimpressed as he’s overtaken by a 1959 Ford F-100, painted a faded shade of light green.

Three people are crammed into the cab, and as it slips in front of you, you find that the bed of the truck is also occupied.

Two girls and one hell of a guy. He’s sitting with his back to the cab, shirtless and golden all over with a cigarette dangling from his lips and a hand of cards held to his chest.

The two girls are wearing little tanks and coloured hot pants, conferring with each other while he watches, cool as ice.

He’s grinning, a smooth talker even when you can’t hear what he’s saying. It’s not money that he’s talking those poor girls out of either, that’s why one of them proudly has his t-shirt balled up in her lap.

“Mrs. Cavendish would have a cow if—“ your rambling trails and your smile spreads as Golden Boy looks up from his poker game and finds you watching. “Whoa. Where are they finding these dudes?”

“Probably jail,” Billy mumbles, begrudging the topless wonder in the back of the truck. “Or a register of some kind, if you catch my drift.”

Golden Boy’s lips stretch thin around his hand-rolled cigarette, his grin dimpling his cheeks. Totally jiving with the way you’re staring at him, stretching his already broad shoulders like a peacock would with its feathers.

He’s a sandy kind of blonde and maybe even more of a movie-star looker than his buddy had been.

He tips his chin and graces you with a nod of acknowledgement. Then, he looks down at the hand of cards and closes his lips around the cigarette, inhaling deeply.

With a cool shrug, he cocks an eyebrow and seems to dare his two lady companions to put their money where their mouths are.

Billy glances down at the bag of green still on the bench between the two of you, practically starting a mental countdown until the two of you are out by the Falls, high as kites. Far from tanned, muscled carnie folk.

The trucks and cars pass by and head for the horizon, and Billy’s blue Chevy hugs the curves of winding country roads all the way out past Route Thirteen. Past Airport Road, there’s no sign of your two new objects of affection — given the heat of the late afternoon, you’re starting to wonder if all of them were a mirage or something.

That’s what the boys who come back from war tell you they saw out there. Apparitions in the jungle, like ghosts, but nice. Tommy Holdman says he thought he had died out there, laying flat on his back after he lost his leg, and all he could see was miles and miles of coastline. A perfect, pretty beach. His own idea of heaven.

Yours, apparently, is something far different.

The Falls isn’t really a waterfall. It’s maybe a ten- foot slow incline in the river bend. It’s shitty enough to not draw too many visitors, unlike the much more popular swimming spot out where the old quarry is. That place would be packed on an afternoon like this.

Your spot is on the far end of the county, nestled a while back off the road but not too far into the woods. It’s a spot to cool off without having to commit to really swimming, and it’s the only spot you know where the fuzz wouldn’t come poking around at the smell of skunk.

No one comes out here, not even the cops.

The afternoon is all yours, right through into the evening. It didn’t take Billy long to get over his mood, he’s grinning when he drops you off, right by your front door.

There’s no way he would make you walk all the way from the Post Office, not really. Everyone’s heard those stories of girls going missing in small towns like this, and through all of her faults, Betty Cline had raised a pretty stand-up young man.

“See ya Tuesday, I’ll call you!” You wave to him as you jog up the front steps onto the porch of your parents’ home.

He waves back from the driver’s side of his truck, and drives home to his mother’s roast chicken the same way he always does. She still packs his lunches too.

Fred looks up from Hawaii Five-O, in all of its multicoloured, static-fuzz glory as the screen door rattles to an abrupt shut. He flinches as the heavier, wood front door slams behind it.

“Look at that, she is alive.” He calls from the living room, for your ears more than anyone else’s.

“Hi, Papa Bear. You worrying about me again?” You coo, kicking your shoes off by the door and strolling across the hardwood, bracing yourself on the doorframe as you swing widely into the parlour, where Fred sits in his recliner, staring at his prized possession — the color TV set he bought after the new year.

“Worryin’ about you is like worryin’ the fox might hurt itself on its way out of the coop.”

You don’t much mind the image of yourself, the sly fox, prowling around town and making all of those chicken-shit boys cry for help. Your mouth almost twitches at the thought as you plonk yourself down on the carpeted floor and turn your attention towards Steve McGarrett saving the day.

Clearly at some point after you have nestled onto the carpet with your back to him, Fred clocks the outfit you have wandered home in.

“Now, where’d the hell did you even buy somethin’ like that?” You can hear the wrinkled frown on his aging face. He’s only in his fifties now, but with deep wrinkles and freckles from years working outside.

“Church-sale, I think.” You answer back, wondering if your mother is still up. She goes to bed early on weeknights so that she can be up early for her work at the grocery store in the mornings.

Fred lost his sense of smell when he worked in the mines in his late teens — he couldn’t tell the difference if you smelled like Mary-Jane or magnolias.

“You were with that kid from the auto shop again?” Fred puffs on cigarettes like a chimney. It turns the white ceilings brown occasionally, but your Mom has always been ready with a tin of cloud-coloured paint to fix that.

“Uh-huh. You know Billy.”

“Yeah.” He decides. There are worse boys you could be running around with than that teary-eyed fella.

“Saw a bunch of vans out by Airport Road today. Setting up a circus somewhere near here.” You tell him absently, both of you watching the television set as you pick at the carpet.

“Heard somethin’ about that. Gus O’Malley’s renting his south pasture out for something like that, I think.”

“I was thinking I could maybe borrow the car Saturday. Take Georgie.”

Georgie is an accident; an anniversary celebration turned rambunctious fifth grader with a knack for messing with your stuff while you’re at work. But he’s a cute kid, you’ll give him that. The little booger is fun to be around sometimes.

With Georgie around, there’s something to do other than head out of town and drink or smoke or spend the money that’s supposed to get you to California. If you take Georgie, Fred usually sponsors the trip.

“This Saturday?”

“Yeah. Figured they’d be running by then.” You lean your palms back into the rug, worn velvet under them. It doesn’t bother you that Fred barely turns his head from the television — before that, it had been the sports highlights in the paper.

“If you’re going to get him all hopped up on sugar, do me a favor and drop him off at Grandma’s on the way back.” Fred chortles, mostly to himself, as he brings a half-warm Budweiser to his mouth.

You smile at that, remembering the days Fred threatened to do the same to you. You grab at the knee of his faded blue jeans to push yourself up from the ground.

“Thought I might drop him off by the interstate, set him free. Like God intended.” You tell the house, headed for the hallway with the end goal being your bedroom on the second floor of the humble blue craftsman.

“I-59, not I-75. Can’t have him finding his way home.” Fred calls as you take the first step out onto the stairs, your fingers trailing your work bag, discarded onto the chipped wooden post that ends the railing.

“Now where in God’s name did you find those shorts?” Oh, she’s awake. Your mother’s voice is behind you, and if you had to guess you would imagine that her head is poking around the doorway into the kitchen and gawking at your fashion choices. She is.

“You went out wearing those?”

You stand, frozen on the stairs for a second, stuck in a moment of consideration. Fred’s pretending not to hear all this, he prefers not to get involved. Joan’s not so forgiving.

Turning around will mean a certain lecture.

“Gotta be up early, I won’t wear ‘em again.” You decide, hastening up the stairs before she can call you on your lie. Your bare feet hit the landing and slip a bit on the loose runner your dad swears he’s going to remember to buy underlay for one of these days.

As you steady, the door to your right creeks open and Georgie stumbles out of his cowboy-covered bedroom, rubbing uncaringly at his eye socket.

“Hey.” He yawns, heading for the bathroom, his hand-me-down pyjamas hanging down over the tops of his feet as he shuffles for the bathroom.

“Hey. Wanna do something with me Saturday?” You ask him, already headed for your own room. He stops and turns his head, eyes no longer heavy with sleep but wide open with curiosity.

“Yeah. What?”

“It’s a surprise.” You decide, twisting the handle and letting the door creak open wide as muscle-memory guides your hand to the lightswitch and illuminates your bedroom. It’s not really a surprise, but he won’t go back to bed if you tell him now. “Night, Georgie.”

“Goodnight!” He calls back, closing the bathroom door almost all the way. The light bulb’s still out and he’s still scared of the dark.

You close your bedroom door, shutting all of them out and immediately reaching for the ties of your halter top. They fall loose and you shimmy out of the fabric, then the shorts.

Flowered paper on the walls, hardwood floors, this room is filled with the remnants of the little girl you once were in here. The shag rug and the Janis Joplin print above the bed are evidence of the newer, cooler woman who now occupies the space. The two of you coexist in this little space just fine most days.

Next comes the quest for a shirt to sleep in — sleeping in the nude doesn’t work when you have a Mom like Joan. She means well, you’re grateful for her. She’s the first person you’ll thank when you get your first award. Even though she still comes in without knocking.

Shirt acquired, you hear Georgie’s door click shut down the hallway as you scan the room for the book you discarded last night.

The window in your room faces miles of fields. In the far distance, you’ve never really noticed that you can see the O’Malley farm. Well, kind of. Ahead of that, there’s a small dusting of forest that hinders your view.

Your search for the book comes to a brief stop as you turn towards the open window and look out over the view. More specifically, of the red and white glint of weatherproof canvas that comes to a sharp point, dazzled with lightbulbs.

“Did you see what your daughter came home in?” Joan asks, shaking her head from her seat at the sewing machine. It whirs impolitely over the conversation, seeing blue thread through the hole in the knee of Georgie’s blue jeans.

“Sure did.” Fred drops his beer into the trash with a clang and rolls his shoulders back. He turns towards her, already expecting the worried frown he sees.

“People’ll talk.”

“Let ‘em,” Fred shrugs. He considers another Budweiser, but knows he’s got to be up early to get to the factory in the morning. “She’s a smart girl, she’s not out causing any trouble.”

Joan stops the machine and hums in consideration.

“Besides, I’m sure it’s a right of passage — wearing stuff that makes your folks’ blood pressure go crazy.”

She smiles, pushing up from the chair. Her socks pad across the green and yellow linoleum until she reaches her husband, her head tucking into the crook of his neck.

“You’re right. But I don’t like those shorts.” Joan decides as her husband takes her into his arms, smoky smelling and familiar.

Behind them, the morning’s paper sits discarded with only the sports section disrupted. Printed in an appropriately black ink, is the freckled face of Audrey Weiss. Her large-round glasses are still sitting on the bridge of her nose, her shoulders are angled and she’s beaming, looking front and centre. Above her portrait, the word MISSING is in the same shade of mourning-appropriate black ink.

That was a school photo. It’s old, her bangs have grown out already. Her round glasses are all torn up now, shattered and mangled — about 200 yards from her broken body, which is yet to be discovered in an empty stretch of red-dirt land off of a highway in southern Arizona.

NEXT CHAPTER

TELL ME WHAT YOU THOUGHT

tags: tags: @sunflowercharlie13 @spinning-away @eloquentdreamer @a-reader-and-a-writer @breezyweazybeezy @mel119g @blaircharlotte @hersuitisbanana @aragorn-02 @one-sweet-gubler @chrysalismuh @xzyzycxdd @atarmychick007 @ximehs @ah9242 @gleefulleve @nnatel @topherwrites @princesskreator @seitmai @d0main-expansion @yepyeahuhhuh @cherrycola27 @ohtobeleah @roosterbruiser

[suzieb-fit]

I'm all about the nuts! After my low level 13hr fast (hey, I'm on holiday!), it was mixed nuts rubbed with olive oil and salt with grapes. I'm missing my collagen coffee, but I'm coping with boring old instant this week.

I found a wonderland in the town close to where the motorhome is pitched up today. A natural/wholefood shop. A veritable Willy Wonka paradise for me! I treated myself to 3kg of nuts. Yep. A whole lot of nuts at a really good price. 1kg each of almonds, walnuts and cashews. And an added bonus - this packet of cooked chestnuts. Not even ashamed to admit they're already gone 😂😂.

Plus my favourite coffee treat, too.

And a bit of walking. I'm having a great week away from home 😊

[athomewithlauraandpepe]

**Laura and Pepe’s Guide to De Beauvoir**

From the moment I strolled past the vibrant Hectors on a crisp autumn evening while on my way to view my flat, I knew De Beauvoir had captured my heart. Nearly 18 months have passed since then, and I've had the privilege of calling this enchanting pocket of London home. In that time, I've explored the diverse and delightful establishments that dot the neighbourhood, each contributing its own unique flair to the tapestry of De Beauvoir.

**EAT**

*SWEET THURSDAY* - Indulge in mouthwatering pizza, pasta, and delightful salads at this gem. Whether you choose to dine in or opt for a takeaway via online ordering or Deliveroo, be sure to try the Pesto Dip—it's an absolute game-changer. And don't forget to explore their fantastic selection of natural wines in the bottle shop.

*THE TALBOT* - Immerse yourself in the cosy gastropub vibes of The Talbot. With a consistently excellent menu and a roast that's nothing short of exceptional, this intimate spot also boasts a selection of meticulously crafted cocktails.

*THE HUNTER S* - Affectionately known as the 'porn pub,' The Hunter S is a haven for delectable pub grub and roasts. Don't miss their honey mustard sausages—my personal favourite. It's also a fantastic spot to bask in the summer sun on their outdoor benches.

*DE BEAUVOIR ARMS* - Surprise, surprise—more delicious pub food awaits at De Beauvoir Arms. Their memorable roast, especially the incredible chicken gravy, has secured its place in my heart. Whether it's a laid-back weekday evening or a weekend lunch, DBA never disappoints, offering a tempting £8.50 lunch menu on weekdays.

**DRINK**

*HECTORS* - This lively spot holds a special place in my heart, as I first spotted it while viewing my flat. The outdoor buzz, come rain or shine, complements a curated collection of natural wines, making Hectors a perennial favourite.

*THE SCOLT HEAD* - While it rightfully deserves a spot in the 'eat' section, I can't help but categorise it under 'drink' due to the sheer fun it exudes. Many unplanned nights out have stemmed from the infectious vibes at The Scolt Head.

*DUKE OF YORK* - What sets Duke of York apart for me is its ambient lighting—vintage French style that creates the cosiest atmosphere. Beyond the aesthetics, they also know their way around a good cocktail.

*ROSEMARY BRANCH* - Despite being in the 'drink' section, Rosemary Branch is renowned for its soulful atmosphere. Known for a great roast and the occasional piano accompaniment at 4 pm, it's a delightful pub that transcends expectations.

**BRUNCH**

*DE BEAUVOIR DELI* - A renowned spot for a leisurely brunch, De Beauvoir Deli offers a cosy setting, even during winter when you can snugly sit outside with a blanket. With a regularly changing menu, it's perfect for a sit-down meal or grab-and-go options like bagels and coffee.

*BOBO & WILD* - Nestled on the edge of De Beauvoir, overlooking Shoreditch Park, Bobo & Wild is a go-to for a tasty brunch. Friendly staff and a comfortable ambiance make it an excellent spot for both indulgence and productivity.

**COFFEE**

This section, perhaps unsurprisingly, is the most extensive, reflecting the abundance of excellent coffee spots in the area. It's worth mentioning that, although I'm not a coffee drinker myself, my friends who are enthusiasts confirm the delightful quality of coffee in the below. I will however highlight the things I love about these establishments as I go.

*DE BEAUVOIR DELI* - Beyond its delectable British fare, the Deli's vibrant scene outside and a hatch for takeaway coffee make it a morning go-to. Don't miss the Dusty Knuckle cinnamon bun—a personal morning ritual.

*DE BEAUVOIR WHOLEFOODS* - Right across from the Deli, Wholefoods serves up more than just groceries. A hatch offers coffee, hot and cold beverages, baked goods, and sandwiches. My personal favourite? The Turmeric Latte.

*BATCH BABY* - Embracing a hip and trendy vibe, Batch Baby, located in the Rose Lipman building, offers a cosy space that doubles as a perfect spot to work.

*2&4 VINTAGE* - Enjoy your coffee surrounded by beautiful vintage pieces at 2&4 Vintage. Maurice's fabulous collection adds a touch of charm to your coffee and cake experience.

*52A COFFEE HOUSE* - Selma's beautiful coffee shop on the corner of Southgate and Downham Road boasts a cosy atmosphere and an extensive selection of delicious cakes and brownies.

*MIRA* - Opposite The Hunter S, Mira stands out with its charming tiles that read 'Milk, Eggs, Butter.' Offering basic staples and salads, it's a fantastic spot for a quick coffee fix. My personal favourite? The homemade cake.

**DO**

*ROSEMARY BRANCH THEATRE* - Inside the pub where I once spotted Greg James, the Rosemary Branch Theatre hosts a variety of performances and community experiences, ranging from theatre and comedy to live music and workshops. Keep an eye out for the upcoming festival of female, femme, and non-binary-led clowning and comedy called 'Look for the Woman,' starting on March 1st.

*JAZZ @ SCOLT HEAD* - Every last Thursday of the month, the back room at The Scolt Head transforms into a jazz club with Peter Werth and his Jazz Crew. Having recently discovered this hidden gem, I'm committed to making it a regular occurrence. The experience is truly incredible, and booking a table is a must.

*REGENTS CANAL* - Embark on a scenic journey along Regent's Canal. Head left towards Haggerston, London Fields, and eventually Victoria Park to discover seasonal gems like Towpath and bustling markets like Broadway Market and Victoria Park Market on weekends. If you turn right along Regents Canal, you'll find yourself in Angel, with Camden Passage being my favourite spot in the area.

[enchanted-moura]

With my trophy wife quiz, I just feel like the hippie bombshell is truly me even if I get other results lol.  I see it

Organic, wholefoods, plantbased, selectively vegan

Adventures to bougie stores to buy Madagascan vanilla ice cream

Curating a garden and being a horticulturalist

Save the animals/ocean/wildlife

Incense & candle hoe

Kids or pets being named after parts of nature

Pretentious af

[pleckthaniel]

it’s about the Thing: on toxic femininity

the privileged white lady Thing. the karen Thing. the dance moms Thing and the wholefoods housewife Thing. the Thing where your emotions are always everyone else’s problem, where anything that decenters Your feelings is the worst fucking thing in the universe, regardless of the material reality of the situation or how anyone else’s feelings factor in. total entitlement to the inner lives of the people around you. because you’re an empath. and a nurturer. and a mom. so you understand everyone and you, the perpetual victim, are never fully understood, and even if someone tries they can’t completely upend this dynamic because to do so would be to limit your access to the Thing.

this is the Thing that has so long prevented me from having emotions. partly because Mom does it, and her mom too. within the framework of the Thing, there is a hierarchy of Thing users. the alpha bitch is the one who is most frequently and openly allowed to do the Thing. betas are only permitted to be unpleasant either when the alpha isn’t present - making them a temporary alpha - or when it suits the alpha to step into her nurturer role. otherwise they have to grin and bear it, with the promise that one day they’ll have their own families on which to inflict the Thing. the Thing is your birthright. it’s the Thing that allows you to survive your own mother, this thought of becoming her to your daughters. it’s the payment for pushing all your unpleasantness down for a few decades: being able to spew it all out on your family and community for the rest of your natural lifespan.

it’s part, i think, of why so many women seem to view their eldest daughters as threats - not because they truly believe, deep down, that their daughters are going to steal their husbands or whatever but because they recognize that another adult or “adult” woman in the house is a threat to their position as the sole user of the Thing. suddenly, she is no longer the only one who can leverage victimhood and tears, and in fact might be at a disadvantage since the other user has the advantage of innocence on her side.

the other reason the Thing has prevented me from developing any meaningful level of emotional intelligence or maturity is because, as a beta bitch and a people-pleaser, i was nearly always on the receiving end of the Thing for the first two decades of my life. when young, i tried to leverage it to my own advantage, as anyone would. screaming, crying, manipulating and externalizing, without ever engaging in the kind of self-reflection, calm expression, or open conversation that could prevent those things from needing to pass. this is understandable, since i was a child. what’s disturbing is how much this behavior was mirrored and encouraged by the adults around me. when i engaged in the Thing unsuccessfully, my punishment was to be the victim of it from my mother. when i was successful, though, i was rewarded with the unquestioning obedience we’re trained to meet the Thing with.

when, in middle school, i first started to notice the Thing and how bad it felt to be targeted by it, i wanted out immediately. i did not want to ever again be the one inflicting the Thing on another person. but when you’re raised in an environment where nearly every adult woman you know is a frequent dallier in the Thing, and you are the only one who seems to see anything at all wrong with the Thing, and people are actively gaslighting you about the harm that the Thing does, you don’t magically develop emotional maturity just by deciding that you don’t want to do the Thing.

people deal with it in different ways, probably, but i dealt with it by turning off my emotions. i couldn’t risk becoming my mother and doing the Thing, but as far as i could tell from my life experience, the Thing was the only possible way to deal with emotion. the only other model i had for inner life was the Thing’s opposite: toxic masculinity, and the associated cycles of shame, internalization, self-denial.

it wasn’t like i sat down and planned it, but watching the Thing play out over and over in front of me, the only option for living with it that looked remotely appealing was in the blank faces of the checked-out fathers and husbands accompanying their alpha bitch wives. be supportive, keep all your shit to yourself, deal with it later. or don’t deal with it; if you bottle it up well enough, you don’t need to. now that seemed like a plan.

so i quit having emotions. or at least, i tried. you can’t actually do that, it’s impossible with how the human brain is wired, but i turned off all my immediate emotional reactions and all my self-awareness and it seemed good enough to adolescent me. of course, no longer cognizantly expressing your emotions does not mean they are no longer being expressed, it just means that you’ve avoiding the problem. they tend to leak out.

for most men, this leakage comes in the form of excess anger, one of the few emotional expressions that men are socially permitted to engage in even by the toxic law of the Thing. for me, it came in the form of happy tears. i started to be known as a crier whenever any good thing happened. id never been this way before but i took it as a good sign. wow, how mature and evolved i must be to be so in tune with my own joy as to cry from it!

whoops, i would realize years later. that was my brain jumping on the single opportunity available to me where shedding tears was seen as OK and normal and i could therefore rid myself of a yearslong buildup of sad chemicals in my skull. because i was still a teenage girl, i had to abide by the laws of the Thing which declared i could not be sad unless my mother had pre-condoned it by asking me about something she decided was wrong and invited me to share about my feelings on it. but because i had subscribed, unconsciously, to a different Thing, i was playing by the rules of two games at once and this was the only overlapping opportunity. or maybe it was just the only way i could consistently emotionally overwhelm myself enough to provoke an undeniable reaction. joy was rare for me at that time.

both of these Things are two sides of the same self-harming coin that tells us emotion is a bad thing. under the model of the Thing, the goal is not to experience our lives and emotions but to avoid dealing with the things that make us unhappy at all cost, because to do so would be to rock the boat, incite change and that is far more uncomfortable, the Thing tells us, than just not dealing with your shit.

i’ve started working on having feelings again, which is to say that im learning for the first time how to identify feelings in my body and in my thought patterns, and how to live through them instead of being immediately triggered into the panic that the Thing encourages. to be honest, i kind of hate it a lot of the time. when i ignored my emotions all the time, i felt more efficient. i was productive, and i was good at making friends, and my life looked right from the outside.

this is the goal of the Thing: allowing us to build a house of cards. a castle, even, if we so dream. but as soon as you take the first steps toward an actually healthy experience, the entire Thing collapses. the shivering child inside is left out in the rain, and, since our journey is just beginning, we’ve only got a brick or two with which to shelter him.

sometimes i feel like a robot who’s just woken up to find i was freed and reprogrammed without my consent. i was perfectly well-adjusted, i was happy, i want to say, but i can’t because i didn’t even really know what happiness was before, i was just not sad because i wasn’t anything and that seemed like it was as good as it was ever going to get. and it makes me bitter, ungrateful even because this change is not something that the old me wanted, at all, and it is not something she thought she needed, at all.

i do need it, i know. and i want it now, too, even if it is exhausting. i’m just really not prepared to face myself. it’s bizarre after being told for years that i was ‘mature’ and ‘self-aware’ to realize that those things were not even remotely true for most of my life. people talk a lot about how ‘mature’ is teacher-speak for an emotionally neglected child, but ive never seen anyone talk about how ‘self-aware’ is therapist-speak for the same thing. it means “you’re easy like this, so i’m not going to bother actually helping you.” fuck those teachers and fuck those therapists.

i guess the point of all this is to say that i grew up seeing two sides to every story : the male and the female. two sides of the same coin both embossed with the very same Thing, and neither ever getting the full picture. it is a cycle of emotional neglect and violence that is deeply, deeply embedded into white middle-class american culture and which those of us who live there steep in for decades without ever being fully aware. it is a cycle that for the most part, we can’t address because we fucking idolize it. or at least we tend to idolize our own side of the coin, and villainize the other. this, too, is part of the Thing. we can’t keep blaming outgroups for our own emotional toxicity.

the way forward: it’s neither male nor female. neither externalizing nor internalizing. it’s just having the courage to fucking face your shit like an adult and take responsibility for it, and fucking gender roles while you’re at it because why not.

at least, i think. i’m still at the part where i only have a couple bricks, a pile of cards, and a shivering small wet thing next to me in the rain. but i do prefer this to the house of cards. at least this way i can acknowledge the problems.

[mattydemise]

Sometimes I feel sick about the life I live. It’s so comfortable. I love my job. I make good money. I live in a beautiful area on the coast. I live a very fortunate and privileged life. It makes me feel sick sometimes. I’m surrounded by fashionable clothes, expensive perfumes, books, and other superfluous fucking luxuries. Sometimes I wish I lost it all just so I could pick myself up and learn to live a different life. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately and how it pertains to my lifestyle and my ever growing attempts to live cleaner and more naturally. My privilege affords me the luxury of my vegan lifestyle and that veganism is at the very heart of who I am. I used to get into petty and juvenile little arguments with an ex because she was trying to push veganism onto me and I was happy as a vegetarian. I would argue back simply because I dislike having things pushed onto me. “You always hurt the one you love,” right? Would that I could go back and slap myself upside the head. I soon decided I didn’t want to be in conflict anymore and just accepted veganism. It was a watershed moment. The whole concept really clicked for me quickly and the eventual distance gave me the chance to really examine why it was so important to me and how it’s so different from vegetarianism. That’s a different topic for another day though. I’ve often read that one of the flaws of veganism is that it’s an exclusionary lifestyle (in more ways than one) and that most one of the biggest critiques is how classist it is. I can see how difficult it’d be for people in different circumstances than my own and I believe that’s why so many people are critical of vegans; some aspects of it can be overly elitist, pretentious, and snobby. If I didn’t have the life I do, it’d make my lifestyle more difficult, but that appeals to me. Having to thrive more on basic wholefoods, being more thrifty, emphasising packing as much nutritional value into my meals for as cheaply as possible, etc. My point for all of this is that it wouldn’t be bad to not live so comfortably, to struggle a little, to shoulder heavier burdens. I thought heartbreak was a heavy burden, and it was, but it’s nothing when you’re surrounded by so much love and positivity. Ultimately, what I want to convey here is that we can all live a little more naturally and that a little adversity isn’t a bad thing. As this year progresses I’m going to focus on leaving my comfort zones and experiencing more. There’s more I can be doing, both for myself and for everyone else. Those are my focuses for the year ahead.

[realfoodstradingco]

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[saintmeghanmarkle]

[NSFW] Full video of the 'Bye Bitch' mum from the Harlem school visit in 2021 calling out Meghan who claimed to be a princess and for recording children without parental permission by u/Negative_Difference4

[NSFW] Full video of the 'Bye Bitch' mum from the Harlem school visit in 2021 calling out Meghan who claimed to be a princess and for recording children without parental permission This video is the full video that went viral on the internet and has now been scrubbed from the internet. Watch with caution. I dont condone this video and neither do the modshttps://reddit.com/link/171blda/video/2f8hhlrnsksb1/playerVideo is from 24th October 2021. Credit Sophie LunaRelated sub post at the time-> https://www.reddit.com/r/SaintMeghanMarkle/comments/qf0c1r/deleted_by_user/​The video was going around YT at the time and it was then shared on the sub. Some of you watching the video may be horrified by the mum's actions . I dont condone or would not act like this myself. But then again, I didnt have a low level royal turn up to my childs school in the middle of a pandemic. So I can empathise with her outrage over this.Here is the mod commentary that I made at the timeThe video is of a very pissed mum from the Harlem school. We contemplated not posting the video as it’s very DISTURBING and it’s authenticity couldn’t be verified. The woman is very pissed by the antics of Ginge and Whinge. This is understandable Further it came from a brand new account and we couldn’t verify the authenticity of the video. There’s been much chatter in Twitter of this video. Her comment was also posted on lipstick alley… I will post all related snapshots to back up her claims shortly which led us to reverse our decision… and you be the judge.​Video description on YouTubehttps://preview.redd.it/m3v8c2udvksb1.png?width=1125&format=png&auto=webp&s=e1504699b0f530aaed8632b895557f4c9e31164cComment about the original video taken down and YT channels deleted. who has the power and track record to do such things?https://preview.redd.it/wtrvbb3ovksb1.png?width=1125&format=png&auto=webp&s=97d43d2aa28f6d00cdf2127fa0fe65d934462c66​Comment about the rotten wholefoods tomatoes and the school asking for donationshttps://preview.redd.it/z726tpgrvksb1.png?width=1080&format=png&auto=webp&s=7259db981ddeb3c9e09a56bbe60e960ce3b486d0https://preview.redd.it/mjljwp5xvksb1.png?width=1125&format=png&auto=webp&s=5c846fbea6cd97cd01e80f1aa3a7cfe60d4f07df​Sugars try to attack the validity and quickly backtrackhttps://preview.redd.it/t0wd1za1wksb1.png?width=1125&format=png&auto=webp&s=4504a1ba17674ebb9f160ab6a176894528643b8chttps://preview.redd.it/pzunak33wksb1.png?width=855&format=png&auto=webp&s=0f5d58179f7b3a6aaf47ba7e242a4ed07a642fe8But obviously I dont know who this person is and cannot authenticate her claims… therefore it’s marked as NSFW and conspiracy.As mods, we want to make it clear that we as a sub don’t agree with the tone and nature of this video. post link: https://ift.tt/UX7q6zZ author: Negative_Difference4 submitted: October 06, 2023 at 02:55PM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit

[friendlystarfruit]

Are you able to infodump about being vegan now? It's okay if you can't.

hmm I will try I cant promise it will be super short , I have been vegan for 7 years now, I had already stopped eating a lot of animals because I was raised with animals as pets and it felt wrong , then I watched one of Gary Yudofsky's speeches and that gave me a lot to think about.

I did a bit of activism too , visited dairy farms for my anti dairy booklet that I illustrated and wrote, I also did work with DXE but I did not like their method of activism I preferred Aninmal Save but they really tough work emotionally.

Diet wise It just started to become natural , when I was unhealthy I was still vegan and when I was healthy I was still vegan just wholefood based, it got to the point I just never thought about it like you avoid foods you have an allergy too xD.

I began to read about aninmal rights theory down the line, this is where my position became much more grounded , like I already had the empathy not to want to cause sentient beings to suffer and I did not want to be the cause of ending a sentient beings life if I could avoid it but I had not thought of some of the irrational and contractionary basis we held when it came to aninmal.

The philosophiser Tom Regan had an impact on my views as well as he makes the case for animals being "A subject Of a life", they are not just plants or bacteria but beings with psychological centres , if I kick a tree or a dog it is clear which is a subject and which is a thing.

the Welsh philosophiser Mark Rowlands, his chapter "Arguing for One’s Species" in his book "Animal Rights Moral Theory and Practice"also give me a lot to think about where he gives an example of arguing with aliens vastly more intellgent than us not to farm us humans it is similar to the argument of marginal cases/species overlap. He also explores John Rawls Veil Of Ignorance with animals in mind.

So basically I have gotten to the point I see what we do to animals as one of the greatest atrocities of the modern world , we do unspeakable cruelty to animals in the billions a year and in the trillion for sea animals and we do so despite there being other options and in awful conditions. We are able to exploit animals because they are at our mercy, they are less intellgent and able to communicate or stand up for themselves and they are another species but if I had the mind of the cow I would still be able to enjoy life , feel pain and have a will to live, even if we can not live in a perfect world, we cant stop animals from harming each other especially to survive , we as moral agents can do better.

None of us our perfect though I totally get that , veganism is an important social movement for pushing for change for animals because it is about doing what you can to avoid exploiting animals the difference with other hardships under capitalism is while reforming the tea industry will allow consenting adults to work for money , reforming the aninmal food industry will always be involve exploitation and mass murder =(

Honestly I think if we get lab meat on the go our future ancestors will be like wtf when looking through history books, until then I hope more people make changes before that.

[martacrystal]

Hi there! I made a whole wheat bread❤️it turned out amazing so I thought I would share it with you!

The recipe base is from kalcirecept.hu

https://kalcirecept.hu/teljes-kiorlesu-kenyer/

But I added some of my own ideas:

Whole wheat bread:

🟣500 g of whole wheat flour

🟣100 g of wheat gluten (to raise its protein level)

🟣10 g /or a teaspoon of salt

🟣250g fresh yeast

🟣350 ml of mineral water/or any water but chlorine in tap water kills the yeast (i put in a little less because i also added yoghurt wich is not dry either)

🟣30 g of oil-any oil will do this time I used some olive oil

🟣1 tablespoon of greek natural yoghurt (for taste)

🟣A small clove of garlic (I minced it)

🟣Some caper berries (it gives it a nice taste I promise)

With all this: 40 gramms of this bread is 105 kcal, 13 gramms of carbohydrates and 7,9 gramms of protein

1.9 gramms

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You could add more spices and flavouring according to your liking! I know simple whole wheat bread can be pretty boring or tastless but if you add flavouring you will come to like it!

You mix the flour with the wheat gluten and the salt. Then make a little hole in the mixture and break the yeast to tiny bits and add a pich of sugar or a bit of honey to help the yeast.

You make sure the water is not too cold or too hot because of the yeast-->you need warm water

You put in the water, the yoghurt the flavours, the oil and start to mix it till it all combines and stays together, and let it sit in a warm place for 20 minutes covered with something flanel or dishclothe

Then you gently knead it over a little bit and let it rest for 20 minutes

Then you put it on a tray or a mold or something you can put in the oven. Make make cuts on the top of it then turn on the oven to

230°C and let it rest for 20 minutes

Before putting it in sprinkle it with some water.

In the oven I had it for 20 minutes of 230°C then I turned on the fan covered the top of it because it was burning a little bit and turned down the heat to 200°C for 25-30 minutes

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