After three weeks of dating, Jessica had finally reached her limit with the endless back-and-forth involved in coordinating plans through my answering service. “Percival,” she had declared the previous evening, her tone light but pointed, “if you can master a double Windsor knot and recite Chaucer, you can learn to use a phone.” I had protested, of course. Tradition, I argued, demanded dignity, and there was little dignified about clinging to a glowing rectangle that demanded constant attention. But Jessica, ever practical and persistent, had recruited reinforcements, ironically by interrupting a call Aunt Beatrice who had called to arrange our next tea. Aunt Beatrice, unshockingly, had sided with her. ...

After the movie picture, she pointed out this quaint, if not quirky, café off of a side street near her apartment. The café was unassuming but lively, with mismatched chairs and a chalkboard menu offering everything from flat whites to avocado toast. Jessica had insisted on this place, calling it “perfect for a afternoon tea.” I would have preferred something more traditional, perhaps a tea room with a sense of gravitas, but her enthusiasm was disarming. ...

This meat sauce is a quick, balanced option for a weeknight meal. It uses common ingredients, builds flavor in layers, and pairs well with pasta and crostini. Ingredients Aromatics and Vegetables 2 tbsp olive oil 1 red onion, minced 3 cloves garlic, minced 1 cup mushrooms, chopped 2 fresh tomatoes, chopped Meat and Sauce 300–400g ground meat (beef, pork, or chicken) 1 tsp salt (adjust to taste) 1–2 tsp soy sauce (adjust to taste) 1 jar (680g) Prego Traditional pasta sauce ½ jar water (use jar to rinse remaining sauce) To Serve ...

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This is probably the funniest story I’ve ever read, hope you enjoy it. TIFU by making a stupid assumption about my adopted son (https://np.reddit.com/r/tifu/comments/2km4et/tifu_by_making_a_stupid_assumption_about_my/) Well, I suppose this fuck up has happened today, and has been happening everyday for the past seventeen years. About seventeen years ago my wife and I adopted a baby from an Asian American family. While we knew very little details, basically what happened with them is that we learned they were too young for children. I made very little inquiries as (they seemed embarrassed/I didn’t want to pry). I was just excited to have a son and couldn’t have cared less about the parent’s history, besides their current and future well being. So as long as they were healthy and willing to gift me with their child, I really did not go too much into their histories. This was my major fuck up. My wife and I choose to adopt this baby because we felt for the parents and anyone that has been through the adoption process knows that it is much easier to get a non-white baby than it is to get a white one (which is fucked up IMO) and we wanted one NOW and didn’t want to be on a wait list. ...

There are moments in a gentleman’s life when the familiar contours of one’s existence begin to chafe ever so slightly, like a well-tailored suit that has inexplicably become snug. This evening was such a moment. I had just departed from Mr. Bernard’s esteemed tailoring establishment, the final adjustments to my winter wardrobe having been made with the usual precision. The late September night air was crisp, carrying with it the faint scent of rain and the distant hum of the city’s relentless energy. As I walked along the cobblestone streets-my preferred route, avoiding the harsher glare of modern thoroughfares-I couldn’t help but notice the world around me with a curious detachment. ...

Shawty had them Apple Bottom jeans (JEANS) Boots with the fur (WITH THE FUR!) The whole club was lookin’ at her She hit the floor (SHE HIT THE FLOOR!) …damn, is she ok?

I hated playing the piano. I really did. I had no talent for it, and compounding my lack of talent was my complete lack of interest. Naturally, I did not spend a lot of time practicing. There was a problem though. Every Tuesday we’d have to go for our weekly piano lessons with Mrs. Lin. I was going to be exposed as I had most likely not practiced all week. This also meant that, if we were going home directly after the lesson, my mother was going to be pretty angry. ...

Luis Hernandez always said the campus was alive. Not in a mystical way, like those poetry professors liked to pretend, but in a practical way. It breathed through the ventilation ducts, groaned when it rained too much, and buzzed with secrets. And Luis? He was the guy who kept it running. If the campus was a body, he was the immune system—quiet, unnoticed, cleaning up messes no one wanted to see. ...

After that dinner, I did something I hadn’t planned: I started asking around. Not to argue. Not to debate. Just to understand where people stood on DEI. And what I heard surprised me—sometimes more than the dinner itself. Some echoed my classmates almost word for word: “I want the best person for the job. I don’t care if my fireman is diverse—I care if he can put out a fire.” ...