Sentences with phrase «never runs out of water»

Start by placing the brown rice in a saucepan with boiling water and a tablespoon of tamari and allow it to simmer for about forty minute until cooked — make sure that it never runs out of water during this time.

You'll need to continue stirring the rice and adding more boiling water occasionally as it cooks, just make sure the rice never runs out of water until it is cooked.

Not exact matches

My mama remembers it and I will never forget, how every time I ventured next door to play with Nancy Leigh Craig, that little slip of a girl would pull out an empty glass mason jar, and Nancy Leigh Craig would fill it with heaps of dirt dug up from the dog run behind her house, and then she would fill that jar up with water, throw in a bunch of weed tops, and stir the whole mess up with any found stick.

Before that happened he was as one trying to pump water out of a dry well, but after that experience his heart was like an artesian well that never ran dry.

After that, I never ran out of Gripe Water and absolutely swear by it!

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Golf (literally on our doorstep)-- 5 paces takes you onto the 15th fairway — to the wide range of water sports, horse riding, hiking and cycling to more relaxing pastimes like lazing at the pool, sunbathing or walking on our pristine beaches — you'll never run out of things to do.

There are bars, restaurants, shops and water based activities galore - you'll never run out of things to do in Sidari.

These luxury water villas in Maldives will never let you run out of room to wander, lounge, revel and relax with a super-spacious sundeck, where an oversized infinity plunge pool and sophisticated design elements surprise in style at every turn.

The hotel offers additional entertaining facilities such as outdoor fresh water swimming pool, children's paddling pool, sunbathing terrace, floodlit tennis court, games area, children's playground and water sport facilities, ensuring that guests will never run out of things to do.

You'll run out of food and water and will be forced to drink the dirty sludge you find in nearby pools and chew on raw meat or tasteless carrots, but it will never be enough to fill your rapidly decreasing gauges.

Control the clouds and make it rain to ensure your sheep never run out of fresh water to drink.

, you are lying on the floor of your place looking up, a small draft runs through the room, between the door and the window, and all things seem perfectly still, wind only disturbs concrete in imperceptible ways, or it may take millions of years to be noticed and, as the air runs through the space, all your plants move and all is animated and all is alive somehow, and here are the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me, and that wind upon your plants is the common air that bathes the globe, and we have no ambitions of universalism, and I'm glad we don't, but the particles of air bring traces of pollen and are charged with electricity, desert sand, maybe sea water, and these particles were somewhere else before they were dragged here, and their route will not end by the door of this house, and if we tell each other stories, one can imagine that they might have been bathed by this same air, regrouped and recombined, recharged as a vehicle for sound, swirling as it moves, bringing the sound of a drum, like that Kabuki story where a fox recognizes the voice of its parents as a girl plays a drum made out of their skin, or any other event, and yet I always felt your work never tells stories, I tend to think that narrative implies a past tense, even if that past was just five seconds ago, one second ago was already the past, and human memory is irrelevant in geological time, plants and fish know not what tomorrow will bring, neither rocks nor metal do, but we all live here now, and we all need visions and we all need dreams, and as long as your metal sculptures vibrate they are always in the Present, and their past is a material truth alien to narrative, but well, maybe narrative does not imply a past tense at all and they are writing their own story while they gently move and breathe, and maybe nothing was really still before the wind came in, passing through the window as if through an irrational portal to make those plants dance, but everything was already moving and breathing in near complete silence, and if you're focused enough you can feel the pulse of a concrete wall and you can feel the tectonic movements of the earth, and you can hear the magma flowing under our feet and our bones crackling like a wild fire, and you can see the light of fireflies reflected in polished metal, and there is nothing magical about that, it is just the way things are, and sometimes we have to raise our voice because the music is too loud and let your clothes move to a powerful bass, sound waves and bright lights, powerful like the sun, blinding us if we stare for too long, but isn't it the biggest sign of love, like singing to a corn field, and all acts of kindness that are not pitiful nor utilitarian, that are truly horizontal as everything around us is impregnated with the deadliest violence, vertical and systemic, poisonous, and sometimes you just want to feel the sun burning your skin and look for life in all things declared dead, a kind of vitality that operates like corrosion, strong as the wind near the sea, transforming all things,

I never saw the first movie and have no clue what's going on in the trailer, but that's not stopping me for getting ridiculously amped for this quasi-sequel that takes place in a world that's run out of water, so the only sensible thing to do is worship steering wheels and smash weaponized - hotrods to bits while speeding through fire tornados.