(Question)
This was 20 years ago, maybe. My girlfriend (at the time) and I were planning to go on a day trip on a Saturday, and so the Friday night before, we decided to celebrate our mini vacation by having a few drinks at a local bar. It was a known hangout for bikers, and had a reputation of being a rowdy place, but I was on good terms with a few of the regulars, and felt safe enough. As the night wore on, I started getting out of control, and didn’t even realize it. I loved my girlfriend deeply, and had no desire to be with anyone else, but that night I was most definitely not myself. I was told that I openly flirted with the barmaid in front of my girlfriend, bet and lost on the pool table several times, and tried to start fights with some of the patrons, as I strongly suspected that someone had slipped something into my drink. At the time, I was a seasoned drinker, and the amount of alcohol I had consumed that night was pretty minimal in comparison, so naturally I was convinced that someone was messing with me. To this day I’m still not sure if my drinks were spiked, or it was just one of those nights. I do know that I hadn’t eaten prior to that, so I would tend to choose the latter culprit, even though it pained me to admit it. I woke up the next afternoon in my own bed, with no memory of the trip home, a screaming hangover headache, and no girlfriend. She eventually forgave me, and we were together off and on for a few more years before we grew apart. I haven’t set foot in that bar since, so I have no idea if I’m barred, or how the people there felt about me. I hope they’ve moved on, but I’m still too scared to find out. It’s an experience I never want to repeat, even though I didn’t actually experience anything. :/ How did the people in the bar feel toward the man who had a blackout that evening? Pick the correct answer from the following options: - not enough information - they laughed about it - they were upset with him - they forgave him
(Answer)
not enough information


(Question)
The doctors told me I would be placed on a seventy-two hour hold for observation. Knowing this was the only way out, I obeyed and diligently signed all the papers. I hated my parents but still felt the inescapable drive to prove to them that I was worth something. I had to show them I wasn't crazy. As the hours passed, I was shown to a blank room with plastic sheets and plastic pillows, which caused me to wonder what kind of distant confused souls had been imprisoned in this sterile place. There were bars on the windows and the only door out of the unit was locked 24/7. I knew my only refuge for the time being would be through the hour a day art therapy class and the smoke breaks I could take at will. They had given me a legal pad after my parents had told them of my affinity for writing. With it I set to work on the flow of words and the river of thoughts, both dark and hopeful that careened through my tired mind. Instead of sleep, I would write. I expressed my vicious frustration for the place and thought constantly of the passing hours, counting them down as they went. Because of this I was thankful for the eight to ten I would use up easily in my escapes to the world behind my eyelids. There I was free and could experience a life unhindered by limitations of ethics or gravity. When I'd awake I'd write what I could remember of my escapes on the obtrusive legal pad. I had the suspicion that the attendants would come in and read my thoughts as I was eating meals or watching TV and I wondered if this was hindering my ability to get out. I wondered what kind of opinions and judgments they were forming about me. I had bared my soul on those pages explaining desperately how the thoughts would not leave even in this place, where it mattered most that they were gone. The fuckers would never leave. Maybe I was crazy. What the narrator thinks about the 72 hour hold? Pick the correct answer from the following options: - not enough information - His parents will be there - It is the only way out - It is too long
(Answer)
It is the only way out


(Question)
Surely the best thing about colomba, the Easter equivalent to panettone, is the sugared, toasted almond topping that covers the whole thing and crumbles when you cut it, so you sort of have no choice but just to pick up the crusty sugary bits and eat those on their own. I’d always thought that colomba would make a very good baking project but was somewhat intimated by getting the right shape  — it’s vaguely in the shape of a dove, if you use your imagination — and texture — wonderfully soft, fluffy, sweet yeasted bread. I had attempted making panettone (this fig, walnut and date panettone) a few years ago with fair results — absolutely delicious results, actually, they were just not as fluffy and bouncy as expertly made ones from your favourite pastry shop where panettoni are hung upside-down to maintain their height and airiness. But when I came across the familiar brown and gold paper forms for making colomba at the supermarket, I thought I’m only ever going to get a chance to make this now! Like the panettone, I referred to my favourite baking book for Italian specialties, Carol Field’s The Italian Baker. Field recounts a bit of history behind the colomba, which I’m sure is little known to anyone these days. Colomba is a fixture at Easter tables all around Italy (and is often given as presents), even though it comes from the north of Italy, Pavia. It is one of those traditions that are now a given, where a slice of colomba, perhaps eaten with pieces of a cracked chocolate Easter egg and an espresso or a glass of dessert wine, is a welcome end to the meal (or indeed breakfast the next day). But the legend behind it is a medieval one and rather disturbing — maybe it was made up to encourage young girls to learn how to bake their own colomba (and make sure it was good) to get themselves out of sticky, undesirable situations. After the end of this story, Carol Field is probably Pick the correct answer from the following options: - A chef - An author - A baker - not enough information
(Answer)

An author