Mankind, says a Chinese manuscript, which my friend M. [Thomas Manning] was obliging enough to read and explain to me, for the first seventy thousand ages ate their meat raw, clawing or biting it from the living animal, just as they do in Abyssinia to this day.
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Greta Thunberg was unceremoniously thrown overboard by the crew of a Gaza-bound flotilla after she was caught eating food provisions destined for starving Palestinian children, according to multiple sources.
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Hello? This is Benjamin Netanyahu. I would like to order a pizza.
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Yeaaaaah, son… You will eat good.
I’m making your favorite stew, stop crying. It has mushrooms, and rice, and bones, and rotten eggs, and frogs, and piss, and worms, and rats, and pigs’ feet, and cinnamon.
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Last night the waiter put the celery on with the cheese, and I knew that summer was indeed dead. Other signs of autumn there may be—the reddening leaf, the chill in the early-morning air, the misty evenings—but none of these comes home to me so truly. There may be cool mornings in July; in a year of drought the leaves may change before their time; it is only with the first celery that summer is over.
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Personally, I class roast beef with watercress and vanilla cornstarch pudding as tasty articles of diet. It undoubtedly has more than the required number of calories; it leans over backward in its eagerness to stand high among our best proteins, and, according to a vivid chart in the back of the cookbook, it is equal in food value to three dried raisins piled one on the other plus peanut-butter the size of an egg.
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