Chicken McNuggets®:
White boneless chicken, water, food starch-modified, salt, seasoning (autolyzed yeast extract, salt, wheat starch, natural flavoring (botanical source), safflower oil, dextrose, citric acid, rosemary), sodium phosphates, seasoning (canola oil, mono- and diglycerides, extractives of rosemary). Battered and breaded with: water, enriched flour (bleached wheat flour, niacin, reduced iron, thiamin mononitrate, riboflavin, folic acid), yellow corn flour, food starch-modified, salt, leavening (baking soda, sodium acid pyrophosphate, sodium aluminum phosphate, monocalcium phosphate, calcium lactate), spices, wheat starch, whey, corn starch. Prepared in vegetable oil ((may contain one of the following: Canola oil, corn oil, soybean oil, hydrogenated soybean oil with TBHQ and citric acid added to preserve freshness), dimethylpolysiloxane added as an antifoaming agent). 1
Depending on how you count, that's 38-43 ingredients. In nugget form.
1 http://nutrition.mcdonalds.com/nutritionexchange/nutrition_ingredients.html#2
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"Never eat more than you can lift." - Miss Piggy
30.6.09
19.6.09
I'm a little disapponted in certain things. Does that make me a pansy?
-----------------
"Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown."
-----------------
"Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown."
6.6.09
St. Christoper is Coming Home
So I'm bored...and I was looking at the lovely variation of regions that I have listed in my Facebook. For my 409 friends which have regions listed (of 836), There are 81 cities represented, 28 states, and 19 countries.
It made me feel pretty cool, because that means I probably actually have friends in 30-35 states, 100-150 cities, and probably 22-24 countries.
So now go do this or go here...and you can be just like me!**
**Actual results my vary. Walt Harris was not a recipient of any compensation for this blog. The opinions contain within are actually those of the writer, and do not represent the opinion of Blogger™, or any of its affiliates or subsidiaries.
-----------------
"To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive." -Robert Louis Stevenson
It made me feel pretty cool, because that means I probably actually have friends in 30-35 states, 100-150 cities, and probably 22-24 countries.
So now go do this or go here...and you can be just like me!**
**Actual results my vary. Walt Harris was not a recipient of any compensation for this blog. The opinions contain within are actually those of the writer, and do not represent the opinion of Blogger™, or any of its affiliates or subsidiaries.
-----------------
"To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive." -Robert Louis Stevenson
2.6.09
Conquistador
I'm just feeling like writing.
Maybe because I feel like I should stay up late since I can?
I dunno. I'm not really sure if anyone really reads this stuff anyways.
I'm such a rambler. The Allman Brothers would have loved me.
I really like Keane. They're uniquely British, a little crazy...which is one of my favorite qualities in people [I was going to insert a collage of my favuorite people (who are all a little crazy), but decided not to, just so people that didn't end up in the collage wouldn't feel left out].
So yeah, I should probably go to bed. I ordered a graphing calculator yesterday (today), and it was $170 dollars. How Nickelback is that? I was kinda pissed. The song Perfect Symmetry is REALLY pretty.
I'm going to leave you with this...I've completely decided, as idealistic, cheesy, a effing crazy as it sounds, love really is the answer. I hate myself so much for writing that, and furthermore for believing it because it makes me sound so tacky. And I don't like tackiness. I'm too cool for tackiness. But I'm striving honestly to make it the way I live my life, even though I'm so judgmental and harsh sometimes. The thing that's nice about love is, with it, you lose the obligations for everything else.People are so concerned with getting other people to agree with their worldviews, on religion (especially religion), politics, what aspects of culture are good and bad, etc. But if everybody just was, and loved, we would eliminate these needs. People would believe whatever they believed, and most likely the ideas that people were trying to force on others would just be accepted, because the ideas would no longer be forced. It's not surprisingly the way that I feel Christ lived. He hung out with all sorts of people that He knew were going to Hell, but He loved them just the same. They weren't condemned, they were just loved...and the ones that did believe, believed of their own free will, because they saw the way He lived and loved. People are so damn judgmental these days (including me), that we ruin our chances of making people ever want to be like us, and I'm kind of sick of it. The one thing that Europe taught me more than anything else is to just be accepting. Everyone, and I mean that absolutely, everyone on this entire earth, wants to be loved and accepted. So stop staring.
Sorry if everything I just wrote reeks of tackiness and pretense. Seriously though guys, love thy freaking neighbor.
i'm kind of ready to fall in love.
That's the end.
Now.
THE END.
-----------------
Et il y en a un second qui lui est semblable: Tu aimeras ton prochain comme toi-même. -Matthieu 22:39 (La Bible du Semeur)
Maybe because I feel like I should stay up late since I can?
I dunno. I'm not really sure if anyone really reads this stuff anyways.
I'm such a rambler. The Allman Brothers would have loved me.
I really like Keane. They're uniquely British, a little crazy...which is one of my favorite qualities in people [I was going to insert a collage of my favuorite people (who are all a little crazy), but decided not to, just so people that didn't end up in the collage wouldn't feel left out].
So yeah, I should probably go to bed. I ordered a graphing calculator yesterday (today), and it was $170 dollars. How Nickelback is that? I was kinda pissed. The song Perfect Symmetry is REALLY pretty.
I'm going to leave you with this...I've completely decided, as idealistic, cheesy, a effing crazy as it sounds, love really is the answer. I hate myself so much for writing that, and furthermore for believing it because it makes me sound so tacky. And I don't like tackiness. I'm too cool for tackiness. But I'm striving honestly to make it the way I live my life, even though I'm so judgmental and harsh sometimes. The thing that's nice about love is, with it, you lose the obligations for everything else.
Sorry if everything I just wrote reeks of tackiness and pretense. Seriously though guys, love thy freaking neighbor.
i'm kind of ready to fall in love.
That's the end.
Now.
THE END.
-----------------
Et il y en a un second qui lui est semblable: Tu aimeras ton prochain comme toi-même. -Matthieu 22:39 (La Bible du Semeur)
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