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pg.67

Go There the best places to go to get away

Design This A fresh creative look at framing pg.67

pg.44

Eat That

or don’t, I guess you could pg.31


TABLE OF CONTENTS Go There

Design This

the best places to go to get away pg.20

A fresh creative look at framing

pg.16

Eat That

Main Feature Do I Dare Eat a Peach?

pg.8

Table of Contents your on it.

pg.2

Staff; layout coordinator: bob shimshan art director: stan stanminson editor n chief: man dunstrin paper boy: kid jonely lorem switchin fjdlkjalkj jfkldjakljfdl fdjlajfkdl;sak

pg.6

or don’t, I guess you could

filler Junk pg.#-

fillum ipsum, ect. and such


People don’t expect light desserts at The Cheesecake Factory. But the Chocolate Tower Truffle Cake kicks things up a notch. If it weren’t served on its side, this one would stand over six inches tall. And upright or not, the slab of cake still weighs in at three-quarters of a pound. What do you get for all that heft? Just 1,760 calories and 2½ days’ worth of saturated fat (50 grams), mostly from chocolate, sugar, cream, white flour, and butter.

eat that The six worst things you could be eating right now

CHIPOTLE for the win to pick from a restaurant menu? No worries. Now you can order not just one entrée, but two… or three... all at once. Olive Garden’s Tour of Italy – Homemade Lasagna, Lightly Breaded Chicken Parmigiana, and Creamy Fettuccine Alfredo – comes with 1,450 calories, 33 grams of saturated fat, and 3,830 milligrams of sodium. Add a breadstick (150 calories and 400 mg of sodium) and you’ll consume almost 2,000 calories (an entire days worth of salt.) page 9

PILSBURRY: death for the win to pick from a restaurant menu? No worries. Now you can order not just one entrée, but two… or three... all at once. Olive Garden’s Tour of Italy – Homemade Lasagna, Lightly Breaded Chicken Parmigiana, and Creamy Fettuccine Alfredo – comes with aturated fat, and 3,830 milligrams of sodium. Add a breadstick (150 calories and 400 mg of sodium) and you’ll consume almost 2,000 calories (an entire days worth of.

COLDSTONE: my insides hurt. for the win to pick from a restaurant menu? No worries. Now you can order not just one entrée, but two… or three... all at once. Olive Garden’s Tour of Italy – Homemade Lasagna, Lightly Breaded Chicken Parmigiana, and Creamy Fettuccine Alfredo – comes with aturated fat, and

YOU’LL DIE: for the least time im sick of this the win to pick from a restaurant menu? No worries. Now you can order not just one entrée, but two… or three... all at once. Olive Garden’s Tour of Italy – Homemade Lasagna, Lightly Breaded Chicken Parmigiana, and Creamy Fettuccine Alfredo – comes with aturated fat, and lorem ipsum gallo delt half tone litsi normo lidy et su

CAMBELLS: for the win to pick from a restaurant menu? No worries. Now you can order not just one entrée, but two… or three... all at once. Olive Garden’s Tour of Italy – Homemade Lasagna, Lightly Breaded Chicken Parmigiana, and Creamy Fettuccine Alfredo – comes with 1,4adstick (150 calories and 400 mg of sodium) and you’ll consume almost 2,000 calories (an entire days worth of salt.)


words by Bill Magrity images courtesy of: James and the Giant Peah

I’ve never eaten a pickle, at least not on purpose. It’s not a claim I make with pride, though it comes up somewhat often, especially in the summer months. Backyard-beer-and-burgerflip season. For much of my life, such occasions were actually harrowing affairs, hardly conducive to the relaxation for which they were purposed. The stress typically kicked in at the end of hour one, just as the congregants moved to the fixings table. The sun might shine and the birds might sing. A piñata might even hang in the yard. But the spread would stretch out like a minefield. Plates stacked with onions, tomatoes, and lettuce, items that, to my mind, had no more business on a burger than peanut butter. Bowls filled with potato salad and coleslaw, two concoctions whose very names I preferred not to let pass my lips. For dessert, the dreaded watermelon. My only solace would come when the chef called, “Who wants

cheese on their burger?” at which point, if I was lucky, I’d spot a five-year-old wearing my same look of disgust. A compatriot. We’d get our burgers first—less time was spent in their construction—then go eat at the swing set. “You know,” I’d explain, “I’ve never eaten a pickle, at least not on purpose.” On one such occasion a friend’s son got curious. “Does that mean you’ve had one on accident?” he asked. “Actually, your father once snuck four pickle slices and some mustard on a hamburger he fixed for me. It was at a cookout shortly after we got out of college, an engagement party for him and your mother.” “What did you do?”“I took one bite and spit it all over the table. I think your grandmother was pretty grossed out.” He looked up at me skeptically, causing me to worry for a moment that he might be pro-pickle. But as he turned to examine the burger on the paper plate in his lap, I knew it didn’t matter. I could make him understand by likening the pickle to the beet. Or to broccoli. For that is the essence of the picky eater’s dilemma: Whatever that foodstuff is that he finds most objectionable, nothing will be as terrifying as the thought of having it in his mouth. I say that with intimate authority. I grew up the worst eater I’d ever heard of, the kid that my friends’ parents always sent home at suppertime, a sufferer of bizarre food phobias that were absolutely nonnegotiable. I’d refuse to eat cheese, except on pizza, and then only with pepperoni. Mac and cheese and grilled cheese sandwiches were out. By a similar logic, french fries were in but mashed potatoes were out. Condiments were unthinkable, and so too soup, fruit, and any vegetable that wasn’t corn. Those few foods I did eat could never be allowed to touch on the plate; “casserole” was the dirtiest word I could think of. I would eat a peanut butter sandwich but had no use for jelly and would refuse to take a bite within an inch of the crust. Chicken was fine, turkey was not, and fish was just weird. Essentially, all I ate willingly was plain-and-dry hot dogs and burgers, breakfast cereal with “sugar” in bold letters on the box, and anything with Chef Boyardee’s picture on the label. Or, rather, almost anything. I didn’t fully trust the shape of his ravioli; something told me cheese might be lurking within. Such proclivities came at a cost. In elementary school, I was regularly disciplined for not eating enough of my lunch, sequestered to the “baby table,” where talking was forbidden and cafeteria monitors would loom overhead, pushing me to eat. When summer came, my parents would no doubt have loved to ship me off to camp but didn’t out of a legitimate fear that I’d starve. That was fine by me. I was similarly terrified that some camp counselor would force me to drink iced tea.At home, my parents did what they could but never had much heart for the battle. According to my dad, the opening skirmish was over a sweet potato, when I was two. Though I remember nothing of the encounter, my guess is—given that my parents were children of the Depression and were neither adventuresome eaters nor particularly adept in the kitchen— that the sweet potato had been boiled, probably for longer than it needed to be. I looked at it and told him that I didn’t eat those. He responded that this was the first sweet potato I’d seen. At his strong insistence I took a bite, then airmailed it onto his chin. Meals became a combination of accommodation and subterfuge. My mom served dinner on steel cafeteria trays purchased


Did you know? Picky eaters are more likely to eat when they are involved in the food preparation process. If that doesn’t work... try a different approach; at an Army surplus store. That allowed her to segregate my food. She’d sprinkle Jell-O mix on banana slices to make them seem closer to candy. She’d even turn a blind eye—occasionally—when I’d slide objectionable items to my two younger brothers, neither of whom suffered from finickiness. One of them actually ate crayons and cigarettes. My palate did broaden as I got older, though none of these victories were won at my parents’ table. And so ingrained were the food phobias that I can clearly remember each time I branched out. I first tried ketchup as a tenth grader, at the old Holiday House on Austin’s Ben White Boulevard, in an effort to look sophisticated in front of two much cooler upperclassmen. I was a University of Texas sophomore standing on the corner of Speedway and what is now Dean Keeton when I became an acknowledged fan of caramelized onions. A friend

argued that they were the primary attraction in the $1.50 fajitas we’d just bought from a campus vendor, then opened one up to prove it. I was shocked. At that point I’d been enjoying them unwittingly for more than a year. And then there were tomatoes. I’d long heard that garden-fresh tomatoes were nothing like the canned ones I’d picked out of my mom’s spaghetti. I could even recite the lyrics to Guy Clark’s celebratory hymn “Homegrown Tomatoes.” But I’d never been willing to try one until an afternoon twelve years ago at the home of the writer Jan Reid. The occasion was a reunion of sorts. Four months earlier some friends and I had been with Jan in Mexico City. Our cab had been hijacked by two pistoleros, and Jan had fought back, ending up with a gunshot wound in his belly and a bullet near his spine. While rehabbing in Houston, he had asked me to water his cherished tomato plants. When he

finally got home, the Gang of Four, as he called us, met at his house for dinner. As we sat down, he announced he was serving BLTs, casually mentioning how good it had felt to have been able to pick the tomatoes that afternoon. He thanked me for keeping them alive while he’d been in the hospital. It didn’t seem an appropriate time to say, “I don’t eat those.” They tasted as great as food served by someone who’s saved your life should. And the affinity held up; the next time I encountered a homegrown tomato I bit into it as if it were an apple. By then I was 33 years old. And though nowadays I’ll eat just about anything—and have never really wondered what my life would have been like if only I’d met tomatoes sooner—a new concern has arisen. At 44, I’ve finally gotten married, and my wife and I are talking about starting a family. We’ve seen

try some literature for cooking with picky eaters.


enough friends have children to know that wearing regurgitated yams will be part of the bargain. But we’d like to find a way to make that stop sometime before the kids go to college. Since my genes will get the credit for any picky eaters produced, the burden of learning why they happen and how best to deal with them has fallen to me. So I started doing some research. Imagine a caveman is eyeballing a hamburger. His reaction will be as instinctual as going to the bathroom or looking for love. The sight and smell will alert his brain that proteins and calories are available. With the first bite, chemical reactions between the burger’s ingredients and taste receptors in his tongue will send messages through his nervous system, primarily the chorda tympani nerve, which stretches around his eardrum to the stem of his brain. If there’s a tomato on

it, or maybe some ketchup, he’ll get a sweet taste, which upon arrival upstairs will trigger a small dopamine release. His body will read that as good news. The same will happen with the salty fat in the meat and cheese. But if by chance there’s some arugula onboard, a bitter taste will register, signifier of potential poison. He’ll likely spit that out and pick it off the rest of the burger. As he continues, chewing and swallowing each bite, a second, internal smelling process will take place every time he exhales. This information will be more detailed than that from the tongue, which can read only the five basic tastes: salty, sweet, sour, bitter, and the newly discovered, evernebulous umami. The news will combine in the brain and be read as distinct flavors. He’ll go about the rest of his day with a good supply of energy and remember that meal as a fine thing. Now picture the caveman eating at Austin’s Counter

Cafe, rightfully considered home to the city’s best burger. Sitting next to him and regarding an identical lunch is a member of that class of Austinite that considers itself the town’s most evolved: the trendy hipster. (Though they share the same bedhead and beard, the hipster will be identifiable by the pair of Ray-Bans folded next to his plate.) His relationship with the burger will be much more complicated. Assuming his parents were middle- to upper-class, he’s at least one generation removed from foods of necessity, so he’s known only the luxury of choice. If he grew up in the seventies or eighties, his earliest exposure to vegetables was probably via Del Monte and Green Giant, black-magic alchemists who, through canning and freezing, confused an entire nation on the meaning of “garden fresh.” If he suffered from chronic ear infections as a kid, his chorda tympani may have been damaged and his

sense of taste permanently altered. Or he may even be a supertaster, one of that quarter of the populace whose tongues can have twice as many taste receptors as the average eater’s. In that case, every taste will be magnified, particularly the bitter ones. Given all the variables, if the hipster chooses to leave everything off his meat patty but the bun, there’d be plenty of potential reasons why. “When we talk about picky eating, we are talking about pleasure and people who don’t get the same hit from eating that others do,” instructs Linda Bartoshuk, the director of human research at the University of Florida’s Center for Smell and Taste. She was one of the first experts I called, a legend in the tight circle of neuroscientists, psychologists, and nutritionists who study the way people eat. She’s researched taste for 45 years, and among her discoveries is the supertasting phenomenon. “There are major categories of things that affect how much pleasure we take from food. One is sensory, and that’s where the supertasters fit in. We don’t all taste things the same way. That’s hardwired. The other is experience, the pathologies you have encountered. That is all learned.” Those lessons come early. When Bartoshuk explained the fundamental nature of conditioned food preferences and aversions, she pointed to baby rats, who sniff their mother’s breath to learn what is safe to eat. In finicky humans, the primary pathology is gastrointestinal problems. If a person of any age throws up shortly after eating, he’ll automatically develop an aversion to whatever he just ate, regardless of any causal connection between it and getting sick. “When I see a picky kid, the first thing I try to find out is his medical history. If the parents say he threw up a lot when he was young, I’ve got a pretty good idea why he finds many foods disgusting. It’s a brain mechanism he can’t help.” The neuroscientists I consulted stressed the same kinds of physical problems as Bartoshuk. Psychiatrists and psychologists, on the other hand, steered the conversation to the behavioral side of the equation. They said that many kids between the ages of two and four will experience some measure of pickiness. It’s as natural as learning to say no. Timid children may have an ingrained distrust of things that are new. Tactilely sensitive kids, like the ones who need the tags cut out of their T-shirts, may have trouble with food textures. Others may live in the neon food world of a supertaster. In these instances, the key is the parents’ reactions. If the parent forces the kid to eat food he doesn’t like, meals will turn into power plays. With a strong-willed child, that’s the kind of problem that can stretch well into adolescence. (The chefs I talked to, by the way, piled on the parents even harder. The problem, they said, is that most moms and dads can’t cook.) As the experts ticked off the things that typically go wrong, they sounded as if they had had access to my childhood scrapbooks. My first extended hospital stay came shortly before I turned three, during a frightful bout with epiglottitis. Because of a virus, my throat was closing shut, producing the kind of prolonged, painful eating trauma that the shrinks and neuroscientists said could lead a kid to reject a whole host of foods. But the sole connection my parents ever made to that event and my diet was of a different sort: They cited it as an example of how obstinate I could be. The hospital stay had been cut short because I wouldn’t eat the food. My folks got tired of bringing me Spaghetti-O’s.


DesignThis: A fresh look at framing. see how it’s done

Here is what you need: 6 one by four boards electric drill Wooden pants hangers Wood drills 3/8” and general purpose bolts plus washers and nuts

hand saw tape measure Wood stain or Paint 3/4“ countersink 3/8” x 1-3/4” wrench set

We made some minor changes to the over all design that we felt would benefit for our application. feel free to experiment and see what works for you.

Start by arranging the boards in your desired grid. Lay the vertical pieces down first and put the horizontal pieces on top. Secure the pieces together using wood glue and screws where the pieces intersect. If you don’t want the screws to show, use countersunk screws and fill the holes with wood filler. Once the glue and filler are dry, sand the structure using 220 grit fine sandpaper. Wipe clean and apply your stain or paint. If using page 36

stain, let it dry for 24 hours. Attach the whole structure to the wall using drywall anchors and screws. Attach your knobs and hang your artwork from the pants hangers. It seems like a lot of steps, but they are easy to do. Anyone can make this and the only power tool you need is a drill. I hope this week has given you some new ideas for filling up your wall space. I still have eat some sawdust so many

more ideas to share with you so I’m continuing this series next week. Lorem ipom is simply dummy text of The printing and typesetting industry. Lorem Ipsum has been the industry's standard dummy text ever since the 1500s, when an unknown printer took a galley of type and fdsjflk remaining essentially unchanged. It was popularised in the 1960s with the release of passages, and more recently with


Go There Not your usuall vacation. The best places to go to actually get away. Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetuer adipiscing elit. Nam cursus. Morbi ut mi. Nullam enim leo, egestas id, condimentum at, laoreet mattis, massa. Sed eleifend nonummy diam. Praesent mauris ante, elementum et, bibendum at, posuere sit amet, nibh. Duis tincidunt lectus quis dui viverra vestibulum. Suspendisse vulputate aliquam dui. Nulla elementum dui ut augue. Aliquam vehicula mi at mauris. Maecenas placerat, nisl at consequat rhoncus, sem nunc gravida justo, quis eleifend arcu velit quis lacus. Morbi magna magna, tincidunt a, mattis non, imperdiet vitae, tellus. Sed odio est, auctor ac, sollicitudin in, consequat vitae, orci. Fusce id felis. Vivamus sollicitudin metus eget eros. Pellentesque habitant morbi tristique senectus et netus et malesuada page 16

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chunder..er wait no.. Vizarre