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Attack a Law - Limitation on using potatoes in school meals

The USDA's bill released in 2011 proposing that limiting the use of potatoes on schools' lunch line is hilariously controversial. The proposal urges that potato consumption among schoolchildren should be decrease to two servings a week in order to aid millions of kids across the nation to receive healthier meals. The original intention, nevertheless, is bona fide for its proactive significance in reducing obesity rate overall; however, this restriction potentially betrays its foremost original principal, to benefit schoolchildren's health condition in U.S..

According to the MyPlate nutrition guide published by the USDA in 2011, everyday food circle should include fruits, vegetables, grains, protein, and dairy. It seems to the USDA, botany-wise, potatoes are essentially beneficial vegetables which contain 45 percent of the daily value for vitamin C, 10 percent of the daily value for B6, not to mention that simply one medium potato (5.3 oz) has 620 mg more potassium than banana, spinach, or even broccoli. Low potassium is associated with a high risk of hypertension, digestive disorder and infertility. Generally, a 9-to-13-years-old should maintain a consistent and adequate intake for potassium 4,500 mg per day. Thus, when school meals subsidized by the federal government to reduce the servings amount for potatoes, mostly over 25% percent of potassium intake is subtracted.

Indeed, the deficient take-in part can be compensated by serving more beet greens and yams (these two vegetables contain 909 mg and 816 mg of Potassium each in every 100 g), or other high potassium fruits, e.g., avocados and guavas. Nonetheless, the reason why potatoes are irreplaceable is still impossible to ignore. On the basis of a research carried by UK scientists at the Institute for Food Research, an blood pressure-lowering compound called kukoamines is identified in potatoes; such health-promoting compound was only previously found in Lycium chinense, an almost untraceable exotic herbal. As for those obese kids suffering from high blood-pressure, a complication of obesity hard to control, potatoes baked or steamed without cheese or animal fat can effectively function as an expedient in everyday meals. Besides, a great amount of vitamin B6 abounding in potatoes principally plays a vital role in neurological activity. Vitamin B6 in potatoes is crucial for the creation of a certain kind of necessary neurotransmitter; also, B6 assists to initiate chemical reaction during formation of new cell frequently taking place in children's bodies.

Presumably, overall children's health is ironically not that important to the USDA, but even from economy stability perspective, the law mainly impacted the agriculture economy development in Maine, Colorado, and other potato-growing states in U.S.. The need of market is bruised by the federal government's action of illogically maligning on a innocent vegetable per se. The agent budget for cultivating potatoes is shortened, which can, eventually, deteriorate into severe economic disruption in local farm's operation. Hence, it is possible to conclude that the law carried by the USDA is irrational and ineffective.

What can contribute positively to overall health in school-age children is not to keep off a vegetable potentially of significant value, but to encourage school to serve foods low in calorie, or at least not to fry naturally low-in-calorie food product then add butter or cheddar on it, and to set up mandatory exercise divisional requirement in extra-curriculum in children's community.

A strange song

https://soundcloud.com/northernspyrecs/odeath-roam-from-out-of-hands

Description - The Currituck Beach lighthouse

The Currituck Beach lighthouse was precious. At the first sight, far from about 80 miles away, when I drove along Hatteras Cape's palm tree trace next to Atlantic Ocean, the merely finger-tip-long darkened skyline of the 162 feet high red brick lighthouse pinned onto the remote woodland, shredding under the looming shadow of clusters of thick clouds. As I approached closer, the Fresnel lens located at the peak of the lighthouse was impressively translucent. It was where the navigation signal light originated at night. The front side of the lighthouse was generally crowded with visitors, who heeded the steps and strolled into the somber architecture with awe. The helix, gunpowder-colored narrow stairs had sporadically hollowed-out patterns upon them, which might be the evidence of abrasion formed from history. On the way upright to the top, there were six Gothic radius windows closed and stiff, hardly could sunlight outside penetrate through a great many of chestnut ashes particles adhered to the window glass. During the journey of 220 steps climbing, people's breathing were mostly rapid, some visitor even forgot to exhale when they peered out through the ashes. Their pace were uncertain, and eager. The air was stuffed in the building; every time I inhaled, it incredibly felt as if I breathed the thick ghost of ancient times that still wandering in this gloom lighthouse. Sunlight and invisible ashes mixture hit my heart pumping; then, I took the final step to the platform on the most top, feeling refreshed so suddenly that I was numb to vertigo. At the very peak of the Currituck Beach lighthouse, the primitive landscape, the uninhabited beach, and the azure ocean were exposed under the brightness of daytime. It was not hard to imagine the viewing at nighttime, all dreadfully dark and desperately desolating; the warm, orange ray of this lighthouse was the only light source. Sacred, solitary, and standing.

Characterization-Nelson Algren

She was referred to me under the suggestion of Nelly Benson in Chicago, February, 1947. I had never heard about her by then, a French writer, philanthropist, teacher, feminist, philosopher, creature combined with both steady empathy and sharp self-independence. My meager knowledge of existentialism, her exploration mostly, was obtained from a New Yorker article. The day after our mid-afternoon first date in the Polish bars, she was on that train to California, back to France. Before her train leaving, she phoned me. I did not phone her back, since she was coerced to drop her telephone by the French officials. On that train, she read a work from mine and wrote me a letter, in a tone unsure but sincere, in English. She asked, "If it was unpleasant for us to say good bye, yesterday, will not it be worse saying good bye when we shall have spent five or six days together and surely be quite good friends?"

I wrote her back. And I bundled all the recommended books that I had left at her hotel's front desk for her. I should have guessed hardly had she made it to pick them up. I mailed them to France.

"Too bad for us if another separation is going to be difficult." I responded. Then I had a walk in the streets of my Chicago, waiting.

After that our correspondence initiated, officially.

From the beginning, she simply jotted down what she saw and heard along the trip in California, about refreshing landscape, nice people she encountered, enthralling updates about her friend, another stranger to me. Sometimes, she asked me questions about my novels, sent me her wishes. I was working on Never Come Morning, a defiant record of the fallen life of prize-fighter Bruno Lefty Bicek. I showed her every thought during the construction. She sent me letters from her Paris. Vibrant, joyful. I pondered, from time to time, this was her talent for happiness.

In her early letters, my title was "Dear friend". Days zipped by. In Chicago's bleak spring, we spent three days together, renewed up each other's strange faces fading gravely in the mutual memory months ago, other than tentatively exchanging explicit emotions and unrevealed motives under written words and phrases. Our meeting blanks appeared weekly became monthly gap. Eventually, then, years. In May, 1947, I came with her to New York. I gave this French woman a silver ring. After that, I became her "beloved Chicago man", "precious husband", and "Dear Nelson".

But we never married, officially. We were writers, fraternity conflicted in various ways: I free vagabond, she enthralled outsiders. My life expanded in Chicago, her Paris. She introduced me her husband, Satre.

I was her transatlantic affair.

Your sentence distressed me horribly.

Your sentence distressed me horribly.

I was terribly astonished by your statement.

My soul was disturbed under the penalty of your statement.

Alas, your evil words disheartened me into helter-skelter.

Your phrases shocked me in the severe extent.

The phrases of yours upset my heart unbearably.

Your expression forced me suffering,

I was extremely troubled by your words.

My mind was disconcerted awfully by your sentence.

You harassed me appallingly with your phrase.

Invective

The last time I ran into her was on a crowded and crumbling stair. I sped up my pace, eyes shifting from her pale looking onto my baggy boots. They were muddy on the cramped step. Somehow my shoulder was suddenly hit by a random youngster in rush, I scowling, and then, she stopped me. In a hoarse, indifferent voice, on the trembling stair, she started her ramble on the trendiest updates of her current photography project. I did not attract to such a time-wasting propaganda, because I knew she was not a teamwork-type player. Her egocentric character repelled so many people in the last meeting that no one ever wanted to work with her. What she did in the teamwork was only boasting about her skills in photography and selling you a non-existing future. She worked without any practical action.

Her eyes never caught mine. Her hands did. I winced. She leaned. I stepped back. She followed. The last thing I want on this earth, especially when I was bumped and pushed by flood of deafening crowds, was being grabbed into her forceful harangue. This was not that kind of coercion driven by necessary and purposeful fulfillment, but of adhesive, essentially distressing exhibitionism. She presumed I was her submissive spectator; she viewed any person surrounding her in the same way.

"Do you know I am elected as the team leader for the shooting project?"

I shook my head. She gave me a sharp look in disapproval. Someone just clashed on my boots. Again.

"Well, this is an interesting job. Have you considered about joining us after our last conversation?"

"Sorry, I prefer not."

"What a pity. I assure you will gain much helpful experience there than you can imagine." She purred, holding my arm. "What about the information about people useful I asked for? Any update?" Generally, I would be astonished by her arrogance as usual. But not this time. I thought, I had it enough.

"I have no idea about that. I need to go if you excuse me." I sighed. Her slim finger lingered on my skin, provoking another shuddering tide of disgust in my stomach.

I peered into her grey eyes behind the goggles. I glanced at her snobbish face, then at my dirty boots. I walked away.

"Bye, pal."