#McCain pizza slices

[alicesara611]

Slice of the Future: What to Expect in the Frozen Pizza Market by 2030

The global frozen pizza market is expected to grow from US$ 20.5 billion in 2023 to US$ 29.8 billion by 2030, at a CAGR of 5.5% during the forecast period. The growth of the market is attributed to factors such as increasing urbanization, busy lifestyles, and rising disposable incomes.

Frozen pizza is a convenient and affordable food option that is popular among consumers of all ages. It is also a versatile food that can be customized to suit individual preferences. Frozen pizza is available in a wide variety of crusts, toppings, and flavors, making it a popular choice for both quick meals and special occasions.

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The North American region is the largest market for frozen pizza, accounting for over 40% of the global market share. The region is home to a number of major frozen pizza manufacturers, including Conagra Brands, Nestlé, and Kraft Heinz. The European region is the second-largest market for frozen pizza, followed by the Asia-Pacific region.

Key drivers of the frozen pizza market:

Increasing urbanization and busy lifestyles: Urban consumers are increasingly looking for convenient and affordable food options that can be easily prepared. Frozen pizza is a convenient and affordable food option that is popular among urban consumers.

Rising disposable incomes: Rising disposable incomes are enabling consumers to spend more on food and beverages. This is driving the demand for premium frozen pizza products.

Growing awareness of health and wellness: Consumers are becoming more aware of the importance of eating healthy food. This is driving the demand for frozen pizza products that are made with healthy ingredients and are low in calories and fat.

Key Takeaways:

The global frozen pizza market size is expected to reach US$ 29.8 billion by 2030, growing at a CAGR of 5.5% from 2023 to 2030.

The market is driven by factors such as increasing urbanization, rising disposable incomes, and changing consumer lifestyles.

The thin crust frozen pizza segment is expected to be the fastest-growing segment during the forecast period.

The supermarkets and hypermarkets segment is expected to remain the dominant distribution channel for frozen pizza.

North America is expected to remain the largest market for frozen pizza throughout the forecast period.

Regional Outlook:

North America is expected to remain the largest market for frozen pizza throughout the forecast period, due to the high consumption of frozen food in the region and the presence of key players such as Conagra Brands Inc., Nestlé S.A., and Kraft Heinz Company.

Europe is expected to be the second-largest market for frozen pizza, due to the increasing popularity of convenience foods in the region and the growing demand for premium frozen pizza products.

Asia Pacific is expected to be the fastest-growing market for frozen pizza, due to the rising disposable incomes and changing consumer lifestyles in the region.

Key Players:

Conagra Brands Inc.

Nestlé S.A.

Kraft Heinz Company

J.M. Smucker Company

Dr. Oetker Group

McCain Foods Limited

Schwan's Company

Celesta Divella Group

Aryzta AG

General Mills, Inc.

Campbell Soup Company

Segmentation:

By Type:

Thin Crust Frozen Pizza

Thick Crust Frozen Pizza

Stuffed Crust Frozen Pizza

Others

By Toppings:

Meat

Vegetable

Combination

By Crust Type:

Regular/Restaurant Style

Thin Crust

Stuffed Crust

Other

By Distribution Channel:

Supermarkets and Hypermarkets

Independent Retailers

Convenience Stores

Others

#Frozen Pizza Market

[rufusdawes]

Dough Nuts

I am not a cook. There is not the faintest tingle of an itch that needs scratching when it comes to the kitchen. Mine is a place where a kettle is boiled and only the occasional, reluctant dalliances with the gas hob, mostly as a way to curb the expense of dining out too often. However, I am supremely fortunate that many of my good friends are not just adept in the culinary department but masters and mistresses of their respective domains.

For a few years, I would be a regular at the home of Aaron and Kate, he the finest barbecuer of steak in all the land and she, a black belt in the world of sourdough. Sunday dinners chez A & K were akin to some of Australia's greatest grill houses except with an Italian grandmother's attention to serving sizes. However, since their move to Western Australia, the closest I now get to wagyu and sourdough is a pub’s own McBurger.

At Walker Street, Laura, Thalia, and Madura would often present multi plated feasts using pots and pans that carried fancy French names, herbs and spices sourced beyond the Coles and Woolworth staples, and ingredients that had to be explained to me like I was five years old. But then Thalia moved to Adelaide and Madura got a girlfriend. It's been several months since a Walker Street dine in.

Fortunately, the void has been oft filled. Not by me, obviously. I'm good for bringing a bottle of red just expensive enough to not be cheap, but nothing more. Instead, it is AJ who has assumed the crown, expert as he is in the art of the homemade pizza.

I don't know if making dough is easy or hard, or even how to do it. Both Kate and AJ make it look second nature. There's an aura watching people in their element. Latterly, watching AJ turn out his pizza base creations is not dissimilar to watching some Olympic gymnast twirl across the floor, what with all those spins, tosses, and flicks. He's just a backflip shy of tens across the board. Toppings are sourced, created, and combined beyond those that I could and would conceive of. If I was ever to shop for a pizza night, I'd be returning with frozen bases, grated cheddar, a squeezy tomato based sauce, some processed meat and, if I was feeling really fancy, maybe some rocket. After all, it's important to eat your veggies. Actually, let's be honest, if I was ever to shop for a pizza I'd be coming home with a frozen McCain.

AJ, on the other hand, is prepping for his toppings by bringing out knives and their sharpeners. At arm's length, the blade is drawn down against the tool's edge and up again ensuring both sides are equally keen. The sound of a dozen Death Star doors opening and closing is made as the swoosh, swish of metal gliding against metal occurs. Once satisfied with the honing of the steels, it's time to put them to action.

Apparently, there's a technique for slicing and dicing with a knife. As with every other time, AJ takes time out to show me the position of the fingers on the non-wielding hand, the pivoting of the knife as it moves swiftly up the object of its laceration. The lesson ends, as always, with recognition of my feigned interest, especially since the only time I might practice my knife skills are for help on opening up a box of cereal.

Garlic, prosciutto, mozzarella, capsicum, chilli, and potatoes are among the ingredients brought out for preparation. Olive oils with a particular provenance may be favoured. I'm watching, still trying to work out how the dough is made. Is it just flour and water?

Eventually, flavour combinations are created, and the pizzas are ready for their brief repose in the crematorium that has been assuming its high temperature throughout the evening. Each will see just a couple of minutes inside, enough to crisp that base up to perfection, the briefest of chars mottling the fluffy edging. Half a dozen or more pizzas will go through this process, each offering infinitely more thoughtfulness and flavour than any local options.

The chatter subsides as we fortunate recipients that have been crowding the workbench get our chops around our first slice, replaced instead by the satisfied moans on behalf of our contented gullets. Once sated, we can return to our inexpensive reds and, if like me, contemplate how flour and water can be made to taste so good.

As with ever other occasion when I am so fully fed and inspired, I return home full of an eagerness to perhaps crack open one of the handful of cook books that sit in my kitchen. I think of what it is I might one day be able to adequately bring to a table. I've always felt I should eat more fish so perhaps this should be my entree into the culinary world. I'd wow my guests with my filleting skills and they'd go home and write about my inventive marinades. Or, more likely and as has always been, the inspiration will run dry. I'll wake up the next morning, put the kettle on, get some bread out the freezer to warm before adorning it with a raspberry conserve. Coffee, and jam on toast. You know, in my own limited way, I too can make flour and water taste good.

[needtorefrigerate]

How long does it take to toast an English muffin?

How long does it take to toast an English muffin?

How long do the mini pizzas take to cook?

How do you heat English muffins?

Do English muffins have to be cooked?

How do you toast English muffins?

Why do English muffins take longer to toast?

Do you toast English muffins whole?

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How long do you cook mini frozen pizzas for?

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Are English muffins good microwaved?

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Do you cut English muffins in half before toasting?

How long do English muffins take to toast?

Why do some breads take longer to toast?

Are English muffins good not toasted?

Why don’t they slice English muffins all the way through?

How do you cook pizza in a mini oven?

#How long does it take to toast an English muffin? #How long do the mini pizzas take to cook? #How do you heat English muffins? #Do English muffins have to be cooked? #How do you toast English muffins? #Why do English muffins take longer to toast? #Do you toast English muffins whole? #How long do mini pizzas take to cook? #How long do you cook mini frozen pizzas for? #How long do you heat up mini pizza? #How long do you cook mccain mini pizzas? #What’s the best way to toast an English muffin? #Can you toast English muffins oven? #How do you toast English muffins without a toaster? #Are English muffins good microwaved? #Can you eat uncooked English muffins? #Do you have to heat up English muffins? #Are English muffins already cooked? #What is the best way to toast English muffins? #Do you cut English muffins in half before toasting? #How long do English muffins take to toast? #Why do some breads take longer to toast? #Are English muffins good not toasted? #Why don’t they slice English muffins all the way through? #How do you cook pizza in a mini oven?

[retroness-is-fabulous]

#Monday Munch #McCain pizza slices #McCain pizza #pizza #1990s #1990 #giphy #old school #nostalgia #nostalgic #vtg #throwback #memories #memory lane #david sculpture #retro

[yespolkadotkitty]

I’ll Be by Edwin McCain came on the other day and instantly got me into my Zach feels. Something about it was so him - the mood, the 90s, the flannel. The line “rain falls angry on the tin roof as we lie awake in my bed” in particular sticks with me. If you have time, can I get a little nugget of Zach? Fluff or smut, or fluff with a wee kernel or smut? I love your writing.

Right so as discussed you didn’t ask for a multichapter fic but as I’ve got 4 chapters so far  LET’S DO THIS

So many shoutouts for this so here goes:

THANKYOU @kindablackenedsuperhero for this STUNNING BANNER.

THANKYOU @thestrawberry-thief for US library advice

THANKYOU @heatherbel for the beta and UK library advice

THANKYOU @knittingqueen13 for the encouragement

THANKYOU @pedropascallion  for the library clerk advice!

THANKYOU @disgruntledspacedad and @alienprincesspoop for screaming with me about this fic.

Chapter One

Warnings: Scenes of assault, attempted sexual assault  ~ Words: 1380

Pairing: Zach Wellison x OFC Martha Song

Walk with your keys in your hand and keep a key between each finger.

Watch your shadows and reflections - a split second’s notice is better than none.

If they take you and put you in the trunk, kick out the headlights.

These are all things girls are taught from a young age. Things I knew, almost unconsciously. Things that were smart.

But did knowing these things stop me from taking a shortcut through the park after the sun had set?

No, they did not.

I had my hand in my pocket, around the keys. I did not have headphones on - needed to hear if someone was approaching.

Usually, I did all the safe things at night. Walked in the road if it was appropriate, so someone would have to come out from the pavements and buildings to grab me. Stuck to well lit areas.

But, well, I was tired, and hungry for the Chinese takeout leftovers in my fridge, could already taste the sticky pork ribs in my mind, and I took the lazy, unsafe shortcut.

I’m sure the media would have blamed me for what happened next.

I heard them before I saw them. I turned slightly. Two guys, one wearing a beanie, another with his hood up.

It wasn’t even seven pm, but in January the sun set earlier, and darkness had descended, filling up all the corners that daylight usually illuminated.

I quickened my pace. I’m sure they’re just coming off shift.

“Hey, babe,” one of them called.

I glanced around. No one else in the vicinity, and the park spread flat enough for me to see. A single streetlight ahead beckoned and I headed for it, the bag of books from work on my back slowing me down.

I thought about ditching it, but: books. I value books more than anything. I couldn’t sacrifice them even for my own benefit.

“Not gonna stop and talk?” the other one called.

They’re just cat-callers, nothing to worry about.

It was just shy of seven in the evening - where the fuck was everyone? LA should have been busy, was always bustling, but I had somehow chosen the one time where this section of the popular park was empty.

“Come on baby, spare a little sugar?” the first one called. Their steps got closer. The second one was snickering and I felt the little mouse of fear skitter down my spine.

I clenched my keys tighter. Shouldn’t have taken the shortcut.

The streetlight got closer, and I watched it, saw the first guy’s shadow with a hair’s breadth of notice. I spun as he reached me, the keys poking out between my fingers, but I was scared and all my punch did was piss him off.

“Pretty girl,” he half wheezed as he grabbed for me. “Don’t pretend you don’t want it.”

I struggled. Under the streetlamp I caught a glimpse of the first guy’s face, straggly mousy brown beard, cold eyes. The pit of my stomach fell.

“Let me.” Guy two was at my back, hands on my waist. He smelled of alcohol and something like old food, and bile rose up in my throat. “Loosen up, baby, we only wanna make you feel good.”

I tried to shout, but the noise died on my tongue. Fear had clutched itself around my body and the muscles weren’t responding. My keys fell from my fist.

Help, I thought. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as the first guy slid his hand down my body.

No, no, no.

Then suddenly a rush of adrenaline hit my veins - come on, what would Katniss Everdeen do? - and I shoved my knee up into guy one’s groin. Not as hard as I wanted to, but he cried out, a litany of swear words falling from his lips. I kicked out, but guy two was stronger, and had an arm around my throat before I could move.

“Come on now. Don’t be like that,” he cajoled, his sour breath licking at my cheek.

By then guy one had recovered, his face caught in a snarl, white skin pasty under the streetlight. I felt like I was in a sort of backwards ballet, a dystopian dance where there was no way I could make the right moves.

“Hey, assholes.”

The new voice, deep, with a bit of Texas drawl, made me turn. 

A man, mostly in shadow, a large duffel bag by his feet, wielded what looked like a big section of industrial metal pipe.

Guy two huffed out a laugh. “Oh look, it’s the little soldier boy and he brought a new toy with him.”

“Let her go, man,” the stranger called out, taking a step closer.

Guy one had recovered from my knee to his dick. “Or you’ll do what?” He grabbed for me again, but he was distracted by my would-be rescuer, so I took the opportunity to knee him again, but this time, like I meant it, like my life depended on it.

He buckled, and the release meant I could drive my elbow back into guy two’s kidneys. He was stronger, through, and he tightened his arm around my throat. I grabbed for his wrist, scrabbling, barely noticing the stranger moving out of my sight.

“Duck!” He yelled, and I summoned all my strength to yank my head down.

In a moment, a loud thunk confirmed my suspicions, the sound of metal on flesh and bone, and guy two toppled like a tree.

Breathless, I turned to scoop up my keys, and stared at my knight in - dirty jeans. He was panting, his arms still holding the pipe up.

“You okay?” he asked, and I saw him clearly under the streetlamp, the glow picking out the gold in his brown-sugar hair. A patchy beard, more stubble than anything, hugged his well defined jaw. His eyes were soft, kind, the deep brown of hot cocoa.

“I am thanks to you.”

Below him, guy one writhed on the floor and, feeling too angry to think, I stomped on the part of him closest to me, his hand.

He cried out and I couldn’t have cared less.

“You wanna call the cops?” the stranger asked, but his tone was wary. As if I might have been just as likely to call the law about him as the attackers.

I thought it over. I’d likely be raked over the coals for having the audacity to walk alone at night (as if anytime after sundown could be counted as night) and my attackers would get a wrist slap. If that.

“Nah.” But I stomped on guy one’s wrist again for good measure.

He whined.

“C’mon,” Brown Eyes said. “I’ll walk you to the edge of the park.” He set the pipe on his shoulder and crossed over to the waiting duffle bag. It was the size of his torso. I took in his weathered, unshaven appearance, and wondered if the canvas fabric contained his every worldly possession.

I checked behind me, but the stranger was quick to reassure. “They won’t be back for a couple days.”

“You’ve… seen them before?”

He ducked his head, and in the glow from a nearby streetlamp I saw a faint flush of rose on his cheeks. “I’m... here a lot.”

He’s homeless. But of course I didn’t say it out loud.

We reached the edge of the park. People milled about, some queueing outside a deli popular for its pizza sold by the cheesy, greasy slice.

I didn’t miss the way the stranger’s head jerked up towards the scent of pizza.

How long since he’d eaten?

“Want some pizza?” I asked.

Something unreadable passed over his face. “I’m not a charity case.”

“Oh, but I am?”

His head whipped around. “What?”

“Did you come to my defence just now because you felt sorry for me? Oh look, there’s a woman of colour being attacked, gosh I feel sorry for her-”

“No, of course not, what the-” then he huffed out a laugh. “Touchė.”

“It’s just pizza. And a thank-you. I’m Martha.” I held out a hand.

He looked down at my outstretched palm for a second, as if surprised that I wanted to touch him. Then he shook my hand, his own large, warm, callused. “Zach.”

***********

Tagging: @thegreenkid @reluctantlyresponsibleadult @littlemissthistle @havenforafrazzledmind @myheart-pedro @john-in-the-sky-with-paul @idreamofboobear @rae-gar-targaryen @miulola @abuttoncalledsmalls @buttercup-bee @strangelittlenobody @qseomilk @jazzelsaur @songsformonkeys @mourningbirds1 @pajamasecrets @myoxisbroken @just-the-hiddles @skdubbs @nelba @badassbaker @nelba @f0rever15elf @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @mylittlelonelyappreciation @theravenreads @filthybookworm @aeryntheofficial @toomanystoriessolittletime @lannister-slings-and-arrows (Zach Pit) and @absurdthirst might like this <3

please ask to be added or released from the tags!!

[randomoranges]

Amnesia au

part 87

—

Étiennewatched Edward set up another tray of appetizers on the kitchen table; henoticed the nervous twitch in his hands – the way he played with his apron andbit on his lower lip; Edward was all smiles when he noticed Étienne looking athim, but Étienne was by now well versed in “Edward” to know when his boyfriendwas nervous – Étienne was having some of his artist friends over for theirmonthly “jazz and paint” night and as always, Edward had opted to make themfood, which was his clever way of staying clear of the living room under alegitimate ruse, since he “didn’t feel adequate” or whatever bullshit Edwardkept saying, but Étienne was tired of seeing his boyfriend going through thesame circus act time and again and he had decided that tonight was when he wasbreaking the cycle; Étienne rose from the couch and walked over to Edward, tookthe tray away and put it on the table, before capturing both of his lover’shands in his own, “Eddy, can you do me a favour?” He asked and he already knew Edward would say yes, especially when he was as keyedup as he was, but he played his cards carefully even when Edwardlooked up at him, asking what it was, “Paint with me tonight?”

Edward frowned and Étienne saw the excuses forming, ready tospill forth, how the baked brie would need to be taken out after the homemade pierogies and that the salmon needed to stay in the refrigerator for alittle longer before being thinly sliced, “Please?” He added and Edward chewed on his lip and looked away fromÉtienne’s insisting eyes, “It’s not that I don’t want to…” Edward startedwith the same platitude he always did, “But the food needs to be set up andready,” He tried and even he knew it was weak, especially when he spared aglance at Étienne and saw the brief flash of pointed annoyance in his greeneyes, “You realise you don’t have to go through all this trouble for us, yes? Imean, we used to order pizza and eat McCain Deep and Delicious before you tookover, and we’re quite fine with going back to that, if it means you can actuallyenjoy the evening,” Edward sighed and slumped lightly against Étienne – he knewhis boyfriend was right, but it didn’t mean it made participating any lessdaunting, “It’s just painting and jazz, Ed,” Étienne murmured, as if readinghis mind, “My friends adore you – they think you’re super cool – I think you’resuper cool,” He added, pressing a kiss to Edward’s cheek.

Edwardflushed, partially at the compliment, partially at the kiss and tried to laughit off, “They think I’m cool ‘cause I keep feeding them,” Étienne frownedagain, “Okay, fine, maybe not just because I feed them,” He rectified, “Butyour friends are all real artists ordesigners – I’m no one, I don’t want to waste expensive materials, or make youlook bad, or –” Étienne cut him off by placing both hands on his cheeks andturning his face to look at him, “Hush, none of that now; first of all, even ifwe’re “real artists” or whatever, that’s bullshit, because last week Janel camewith her girlfriend who’s into accounting and she painted stick figures allnight long on a canvas and had a blast, second of all, you are not no one andnever say that again, because you are someone and someone who is important tome, third of all, please, we mostly use dollar store materials and honestly,even if you wanted to use my good supplies I’d let you, because I have a lot,so really, that’s not a problem, and lastly, you can never make me look bad,Edward Murphy, so get those silly ideas out of that pretty head of yours,” Étiennepassed a hand through Edward’s hair and caressed his cheek for a moment, asEdward leant closer, “I’m not embarrassed by you and I don’t care if you paintlines on the canvas, or whatever else you end up doing; I just want to spendthe evening with you and my friends, so please? Don’t hide in the kitchen?Please? For me?” Edward was pulled into the sincerity of Étienne’s green eyes andhis heart skipped a beat at the sight – he couldn’t say no – never could say noto Étienne and he sighed as Étienne gave a pleased little smile, knowing he hadwon, “Alright, alright, I’ll paint, but I swear, if it’s ugly, it’s all on you,Maisonneuve,” Étienne let out a gleeful, little, triumphant laugh and rewardedEdward with a deep kiss.

———-

Part I, II,  III,  IV,   V,  VI,  VII, VIII, IX, X, XI,XII, XIII, XIV, XV, XVI, XVII, XVIII,XIX, XX, XXI, XXII, XXIII, XXIV,XXV, XXVI, XXVII, XXVIII, XXIX, XXX,XXXI, XXXII, XXXIII, XXXIV, XXXV, XXXVI, XXXVII, XXXVIII, XXXIX,XL,XLI,  XLII, XLIII, XLIV, XLV, XLVI, XLVII, XLVIII, XLIX, L, LI, LII, LIII, LIV,LV, LVI, LVII, LVIII, LIX, LX, LXI, LXII, LXIII, LXIV, LXV, LXVI,LXVII, LXVIII, LXIX, LXX, LXXI, LXXII, LXXIII, LXXIV, LXXV, LXXVI,LXXVII, LXXVIII, LXXIX,LXXX, LXXXI, LXXXII, LXXXIII, LXXXIV, LXXXV, LXXXVI, LXXXVII, LXXXVIII

#pc: montreal #pc: edmonton #edward murphy #étienne maisonneuve #au #ficlet #3 sentence fic meme thing #quatschmachen #amnesia au #look ed cant be the only one having flashback sequences lamao

[clawingbackthepast]

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Birdseye Alphabites: A Is for Alpha B Is for Bites

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British Lamb: Slam in the Lamb

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Edam: Ready for Anything

Fiendish Feet: Too Good to Be Bad

Findus Crispy Pancakes: Dad and Son

Findus Lasagne

Fresh Cream Cakes: Barbara Windsor

Fresh Cream Cakes: Naughty But Nice

Gino Ginelli: Pizza

Golden Churn: The King’s Breakfast

Heinz Invaders

Hippoyogs: Drive-In

I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter: Cow File

I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter: Pull the Udder One

I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter Light: Don’t Buy It Or the Puppy Gets It

Jif Lemon: Don’t Forget the Pancakes

Knorr: Pasta Cubes

Lurpak: Flight of the Bumblebee

Marmite: My Mate Marmite

Marmite: My Mate Marmite / I Hate Marmite

McCain Oven Chips: Daddy Or Chips?

McCain Oven Chips: Feed Me

McCain Crispy Grooves

McVities Fruit Jaspers

McVities Jaffa Cakes: Calypso Song

McVities Rich Tea: Builders

Mr Kipling: Apple Pies

Muller Rice: This Is the Captain of Your Ship

Munch Bunch: Pot Shots 1

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OXO: Leftover Turkey

Philadelphia: Breakfast in Bed

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Rowntrees Jelly: David Jellamy

Smash: Beaming Up the Cows

Sun-Pat: Our Son Pat

Walls Sausages: Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

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Walls Vienetta: One Slice Is Never Enough

Walls: Wallbangers

Yop: The Sword in the Stone

Yoplait: Zig and Zag Household Tips

#80s ads #80s adverts #80s advertising #80s commercials #80s kid #80s childhood #80s #90s ads #90s adverts #90s advertising #90s commercials #90s kid #90s childhood #90s #nostalgia #ambrosia #anchor butter #birdseye #bisto #country life #crisp n dry #dairylea #edam #fiendish feet #findus crispy pancakes #gino ginelli #golden churn #i can't believe it's not butter #jif lemon #knorr

[judefan854-blog]

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[stlwebsitedevelopment]

Drafts that died

I'm thirty years younger than everyone else in my book club. However, instead of meeting at the local bookstore, we assemble at a Pulitzer-prize winning newspaper office. So rather than being comprised of 40-year-old homemakers, we are made up of accomplished journalists from across the state of Missouri. Every month, the Online News Association hosts a meetup, complete with a one-hour long panel and slices of pizza and cake. We engage in animated discussion, voicing our opinions and catching up with fellow reporters. Staff members are present from all our city papers. I, however, count myself as the only representative of a high school newspaper. I remember my first time. I walked into the Post dispatch office and was shepherded onto the fourth-floor elevator by a stewardess, apparently shocked by my youth and stated purpose. They offered to take photos of me at the front of the sports reporter's desk, and I obliged begrudgingly, content to send them to my mom after the tour. It was only when I asked a question about microfilm that they perked up. By the end of the meeting, I was asking questions to the panel and lecturing others on the merits of Instagram live streams. ————— I've always been babied. Maybe it's because my missing tooth makes my smile look like that of a four-year-old. Alternatively, because my voice still cracks during whole class discussion. Whether it be in Journalist's book club or high school, no matter how I'd act, I'd often be disregarded. My opinions seemed to matter less than anyone else's; my voice often cut off by encroachers in the room. ———- I entered freshman year, weighing 90 pounds, and wearing shirts with sea turtles. A painful bout of an adolescence left me with a mickey-mouse like voice and the face of a topographical chart. At the commencement of the junior year, I resolved to work to enhance my reputation and show off my maturity. I purposefully chose more delicate clothing, brushed my hair into the same pattern every morning, and adopted a more refined vernacular. It didn't resonate. I remember walking to my friends' car after school one Friday afternoon. Her car was in the back of the parking lot, so we had to walk the entire length of the school to reach it every day. About halfway through our trek, a convertible pulled up behind us. Four girls pulled their windows down, shrieked with glee, and then in unison shouted "Greggybae!" at the top of their lungs before speeding away, their laughing faces are now stained in my memory forever. I spent the weekend in a trance. I function well with adults, perhaps better than I do with students. I am mature enough to interact with ————— When I was six, the book nook in Mrs. Shaub's first-grade class seemed no less impressive than the Library of Congress. What looked like thousands of novels lined her shelves with perfect regularity, nothing crooked nor out of place. On the third day of that fateful school year, I happened upon perhaps the rattiest, worn out a book in the classroom. Sensing its differences, I brought the book to my desk and opened its contents. It was a short expose of the first 42 presidents, with each one being allotted two pages, enough for a picture and a short biography. By second grade, I was putting on performances in front of my classes, showing off posters of obscure facts in scheduled presentations each Friday morning. I'd hop on the computer each afternoon and seize endless facts about the first 43 men to call the White House their home: Did you know Grover Cleveland's first name was Stephen? Moreover, that he fathered a child out of wedlock with a woman over ten years his junior? Admittedly, at the time, I still thought that the term "out of wedlock" had something to do with literal locks and keys. I'd found my home in history. So my passion found relative practicality when my second-grade teacher innocently suggested my future as a "history professor at Harvard." Despite my very prolific knowledge of the minute details surrounding each President, if asked a policy question, I could not offer any answer. While I could recall with ease that Barry Goldwater's 1964 Presidential campaign slogan was "In your heart you know he's right," (to which the Democrats retorted, "In your guts you know he's nuts"), I had no idea that it corresponded to nuclear policy. I'm very much what Nietzsche would call an antiquarian in the sense that I am comforted by the things that I can take stock in. It's the same reason I love collecting hockey cards. The very act of having put me at ease because even in times of uncertainty, I know that I am held in place by that which I own. The same can be said about history. The little tidbits I memorized in my youth are uncontestable truths. No one can justifiably deny the correct first names of the first ladies, nor can they mislead others on the two states which have birthed the most Presidents (Virginia and Ohio). The policies and political ideologies of each President, however, can always be molded, shaped by the biographer. As such, I am learning about policy, and the overall context of history provided little comfort to my jilted mind. Also, so I continued. Young Greggy Svirnovskiy wowed his friends and family with his randomized knowledge of history.            Third grade opened in the middle of a hard-fought election cycle. The powers at being pitted young, spry Barack Obama against old political dog John McCain. I was intoxicated. I tuned into every debate, looking up the words that I didn't understand in the American Heritage Dictionary; my family purchased upon their emigration from Russia in 1993.            The election of 2008 engendered my everlasting love of politics. Since then, I've tracked every political scandal, filibuster, and the bill that has permeated through Washington.      However, there's a disconnect. Here I was, comforting myself with facts and ultimate truths, not even bothering to learn parts of history due to their volatility. There was this other part of me, following politics with every fiber of my body. Politics is, by nature, change. Every day, bills pass, candidates gain office, new administrations beckon. In politics, no comfort comes with fact, because the essence of existence doesn't exist.    In today's changing society, one must have both appreciations for history as well as an interest in politics to truly understand the ways of the world. Without a desire to preserve our past, we could never learn for our future. Moreover, without a desire to better shape the future, we could never learn from our past.    In the first and third grade, I discovered two subjects that are of utmost importance to the life I lead, each one occupying a different part of me, sending me on my way to relevance. I am forever indebted —————- Summers in Missouri are humid. A perfect storm of warm, musty air combined with miserable moist conditions. A walk in the daytime soaks through upwards of three pairs of underwear and two undershirts. To compensate, us adaptable St. Louisans walk at night. We dress lightly, strapped in with bright flashlights, and equipped with several bottles of water. For many years, my mom and dad took the four-mile trek around our neighborhood while my brother Elliot and I would stay home When I was six years old, I was a celebrity. I'd tour around the homes of Russian families in St. Louis and perform of the tales Pushkin. My fellow toddlers and I would dance around on tables, engage in sword fights, and teach morals and ethics. At the end of each performance, the adults would shower us with more bouquets than Ruslan is given when he saves Lyudmilla. At 13 years old, my grandfather killed nazis by the Volga River. It's crazy to think about that. He was fearless, with killer abs and callused hands. I'm the opposite. I keep my bathroom light on at night because I'm afraid of the dark and can't even catch a football because of my slippery fingers. However, he read my mom tales of Pushkin. Which led to ———-    I love the first days. ———— I'm bad at math. I can't solve exponents. I know all of their rules, every intricacy. Being a senior, it is clear that I can subtract, multiply, and divide. For some reason, my brain bars me from correctly coming out with the finishing product. My dad, by contrast, sees numbers.      

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[allanpaulvin]

MY PERSONAL HEROES

It's my pleasure, once again, to wish you and yours a hearty good morning.  Here, in the Garden State, the sun, at least for the time being, is shining brightly in the skies above my abode.  My "Weather APP," informs me that temperatures will rise into the mid-eighties once again.  Just in case you're unaware, we've now arrived at the last day of July 2018.  As I, and many others, have said on numerous occasions, time does march on, and quickly.  

Before moving on, I must, once again, apologize for yesterday's poorly edited edition of:  "Al's Diatribes."  Apparently, I forgot to include the word "to," in a number of my ill-constructed sentences.  I will try to improve my editing skills in the future.  

So what's happening in your lives?  Have you developed new skills that will help you create stuff that will extend the lives of those around you?  If you're a New Jersey resident, have you conceived of a process to improve the quality of our state's water?  If so, please advise, so that we can market it to the local pizza places to help improve the quality of a slice of their product.  How do you handle the flood of Scam phone calls you receive on a daily basis?  How much longer do you think the "DUMPSTER" will remain in office?  Do you think our Commander and Chief drinks too many cans of Diet Coke on a daily basis?  Maybe "his overindulging," is the reason he's become morbidly obese?

Okay, enough idle babbling, for today.  It's now time for me to move forward to today's edition of:  "Al's Diatribes."  Hopefully, me and my Online Editor, will be more diligent in producing error-free output from my IdeaPad computer.  Our subject is:  "MY PERSONAL HEROES."

Over the course of my life, I've encountered a number of individuals who have "come and conquered," and made a worthwhile contribution to the world at large.  My list of personal heroes include:

- Abraham Lincoln, who freed the slaves - George Washington, who crossed the Delaware River, not the highway - First Responders who put their lives on the line on a daily basis - those who've fought to keep America safe and have died trying - Rudy Rudiger, who followed his dream to play football for the "Fighting Irish." -   Brian Piccolo a former Running Back for the Chicago Bears, whose life ended, unfortunately, at the age of twenty-six - Jackie Robinson,t who fought prejudice to become one of the greatest baseball players ever -  Rev. Martin Luther King who really did "overcome." - President Barach Obama who remains a gentleman despite facing  the never-ending and unnecessary words from the mouth of his successor - Senator John McCain, a former Prisoner of War, who's now suffering from a life-threatening disease - Hillary Rodman Clinton, who continues to suffer from the verbal abuse from her opponent in the 2016 elections - the immigrant parents who've been separated from their kids - my sports heroes who played the game for its enjoyment rather than the high salaries - Duke Snider, a Hall of Fame former Brooklyn Dodger who spent the off-season playing stickball with the kids who resided in the Flatbush section of the borough of my birth - my significant other who has a heart bigger than the town of Cranford, New Jersey - and lastly, you, my loyal constituents, who put up with my   poorly edited daily rants

It's now time to say adios.  Enjoy your day ahead and be sure to make it the most significant day you've ever spent, here, on God's earth.  

[mcdonalds-blog]

Because Nothing Comes Easy, Definitely Not Mcfries

Who doesn’t love the crispy, soft potato-y fries at McDonald’s? Even Kanye West, who loves to hate, couldn’t help but write a poem about McFries, featuring other players like Apple Pies and cheese burgers. We’ve got to admit, we do like his unique way of expressing his liking towards McDonald. The poem is called “The McDonald’s man” and is as fun as a Happy Meal toy. McDonald’s took to twitter to express their appreciation for such a detailed thought and fandom.  

It’s hard not to fall in love with them. The McFries are an essential side to any meal at McDonald’s, to make it just the right combination. Add your fries and coke to any burger or the McNuggets or pizza McPuff and experience perfection.

McFries and the world standard for measuring how good a fry is. The closest it can come to the crispiness, potato-y flavor and taste, and soft hot inside of a McDonald’s French fry, the better it fares on the scale.

We have all seen it, they are freshly made with each order at the McDonald’s kitchens. They go into a deep fryer and come out golden and crispy in no time. Then salt is added and there you have it, your pack of perfect yummy goodness. But don’t be fooled by the quick and fast live on the frying station service you get. A lot more than just that goes into making the world’s best fries.

In India, McDonald’s wanted to make sure all their ingredients are locally sourced. They wanted a local supply chain to support their delectable taste. But no ordinary supply chain is good enough for making McDonald’s fires. It took years and years of researching and work to finally find potatoes that were the perfect kind to make fries. The criteria for a potato is to have less moisture and less sugar content. And once that was in place. A factory was set up right here in India. Before that, for all those years, our French fries used to arrive at our ports on ships to satiate our hunger and cravings.

Let’s take you through the journey of a French fry in India.

It comes from Gujarat, was born in Lahaul-Spiti, and lands up golden brown and crisp at your nearest McDonald’s. It’s a whole new world to reckon with.

It was only by 2007 that McDonald’s French Fries were made in India through a collaboration with McCain, the potato specialist.

Did you know that the Shepody potatoes used to make McDonald’s Fries are planted twice? At first, they are planted in the fields of Lahaul-Spiti valley of Himachal Pradesh, where the weather is conducive to growing this breed of potatoes? These potatoes are harvested in September and transported across 1,000 kilometers to reach farmers in the Kheda district of Gujarat, where the potato tubers are planted once again. In March, the by now well-grown potatoes are harvested and sent to the McCain factory in Mehsana in Gujarat to be washed, sliced, and par-fried into McDonald’s French Fries. Who would have guessed that everyone’s favorite Fries had had such a long and interesting journey ,right?

Source: https://uberant.com/article/347571-the-worlds-best-french-fries-for-a-reason/

#McDonald's India #McDonald's India (West & South) #McDonald’s French Fries

[allanpaulvin]

SATURDAY CONFESSIONS

Good morning to you and yours.  You've, once again, reach the end of another week in your life.  I'd like to ask how you feel about that?  Are you thrilled beyond belief?  Are you dancing with the stars, i.e., either those that appear in the skies above or those that might appear on a TV show?  Just wondering have you received a SUBWAY Coupon that allows you to purchase any six-foot sub for six bucks?  Are you planning to visit some interesting place that you've longed to see?  Do you think God's on your side?  If not, can you figure out why?  I'm constantly asking myself that question.  Even more important, do you think our President is on your side, or just on another ego trip?  Have you thought about what you want to be when you grow up?  In case you're interested, I have.  I have an unending desire to write an Emmy Award-winning TV show.  Perhaps an episode or two for either NCIS or Blue Bloods?  If nothing else, I could get to meet Bridget Moynihan up close and personal?  I wouldn't mind the opportunity to trek through one of the planets, I've only read about?  Maybe, just maybe, I could be responsible for restoring some historic structures in the borough of my birth?  I could just be dreaming, but maybe dreaming is the answer, but you never know.

Before moving forward, I must heartily apologize for yesterday's poorly edited daily contribution to your well-being.  The cause was an errant online editor and my rush to get my cherished words to your email or Facebook Page.  I must thank my significant other and the education she received from the township of Cranford, New Jersey, that has enabled her to help in identifying some poorly stated words and thoughts.  

It appears that the "Gurus," at AccuWeather," have recovered from their bout of mental illness.  Their forecast calls for a mostly sunny day here in Central New Jersey.  I can only hope that their recovery is permanent.  

Today's New York Times Reports that;

1.  "McCain Rejects G.O.P. Health Bill, Most Likely Dooming it?  Senator McCain, you're my hero.

2.  "White House Weighs Response to North Korea Threats."  It's time to do the right thing.  Remember, we're dealing with two neurotic leaders.

3.  "Zuckerberg Can Be Slow to See An Issue.  But He Fixes it."  What else would I expect from a fellow Hebrew?  

It's now time to move along to today's issue of "Al's Diatribes."  It's Saturday, so our subject, once again, is:  "SATURDAY CONFESSIONS."  My thanks to Stephen Colbert for his inspiration.

-  I purchased a new Notebook Computer with a moving screen -  I did do a number on my online editor which caused it to take an unscheduled day off -  I've been avoiding the assembling of my soon to be million-selling book -  I've been sleeping many more hours than needed -  My eyes have been shutting during the most recent episodes of the Stephen Colbert Show.  My sincere apologies, Mr. Colbert. -  I've been watching too much CNN, and its reporting of the devastation in both Puerto Rico and Mexico -  I haven't purchased a delicious slice of pizza in almost two weeks -  My cup still runneth over.  I've got to figure out how to clean up the mess. -  I can remember the past almost vividly; it's recalling today that's the problem. -  I really do miss ingesting an M & M with Peanut butter -  I haven't revealed my true feelings to this beautiful young lady who helped me edit yesterday's Diatribe -  I'm not thrilled with today's Nathan's Franks or their French Fries -  I've over-indulged in biting into a slice of cheesecake from Juniors -  I'm only two-steps from returning to reality -  I didn't realize that Fall started two days ago

I'm sure you've got more important things to do so I'll end my today's rant now.  

Please note that confessing is medicinal.  Make it a great day!