Read the following context and answer the question. Context: Thanks for the A2A Josh: Tough one to reduce to just a single incident but I'll try. I grew up in North Central Indiana, about 50 miles south of South Bend. It was common to have frequent snow accumulation in the winter and blustery, freezing temps. It seems like this was particularly true during my childhood in the 70's and 80's. My family was blue collar through and through. We lived in the heartland in a town of just a few hundred with a sawmill and an on again off again gas station as our only two businesses. My dad worked in a factory for roughly 45 years. He apparently started that job right out of high school. My mom was an incredibly hard worker and Still is to this day. She did factory work, restaurant management and everything in between. It was this Protestant work ethic that led to one of the frequent tasks that my brother and I had to do which was not fun but ultimately was a very good deed. As I said, winters were often snowy and harsh. So my mom would make my brother and me shovel driveways and sidewalks for a couple of elderly residents. We did this of course, after we did our own driveway. Some people had motorized snowblowers but we did not. Standard snow shovels were our tools. I remember us whining about the chore, wishing we could just play in the snow or get out of it altogether. I don't remember being overly conscious of the relief this provided for our elderly neighbors. I just remember that Mom would be disappointed if we didn't do a good job. Later in life I would have great appreciation for the things required of me by my parents. Factory work and summer farm jobs helped us learn the value of hard work and would set us on a road to appreciation of future job opportunities that were less taxing. I still remember hating shoveling snow. But I'm forever grateful that I did it. Question: How did he feel when he grew up about the work his dad made him do as a youth? Answer:
OPTIONS:
- disgusted
- bad
- not enough information
- Good
Good
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Read the following context and answer the question. Context: It's often difficult to remember how or why you became friends with someone, especially if you've been friends with a person forever. But because of the very specific set of circumstances, I remember exactly how Barend and I became friends. This, of course, was long before he became famous for inventing the easy-foldable map, and infamous for the series of bodies he'd decided to bury in his backyard. Barend and I became friends because he had one of the most attractive shadows I'd ever seen. I remember gazing out over the playground, watching a waning sun scatter its dying light over the monkey bars, the metal skeleton contrasting against the turquoise sky, when I noticed this kid coming toward me. He was one of those mostly invisible characters; faded jeans, dirty jacket, snot caked on his upper lip. I probably wouldn't have noticed him if not for his shadow. For some reason, his shadow immediately caught my eye. Now, I'm not one for noticing shadows in general, never really noticed a shadow before or since, but this kid had the most incredible shadow I'd ever seen. I cannot even put in words what that means. What specific set of properties make an ordinary shadow into an incredible one, I'm not sure anyone can, but his shadow was like a piece of art; I didn't necessarily understand it, but I liked it. And that's why this boring looking kid and I first became friends. Our kindergarten games were harmless and boring, but when puberty hit, Barend began to change. We were both expected to change, but I guess some kids just change more than others. Bared didn't want to kill at first. Like many overachievers in the death game, his first brush with the craft came about more or less accidentally. All the elements had been in place, with all the players and attributes coming together as if gathered by some evil force, but, even then, I really had to push the kid. Question: When the author first met Barend he thought Barend was: Answer:
OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- one of those mostly invisible characters
- sad
- a very noticeable person
one of those mostly invisible characters
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Read the following context and answer the question. Context: When a friend tells you she has wild roses blooming everywhere, it's not hard to imagine where the conversation headed to next to turning them into rose petal jam, of course. My friend Simona Quirini and her family run the beautiful Canto del Maggio, a B&B, restaurant and garden, about one hour's drive from Florence. We arrived to catch Simona with a wooden crate in her hands, already half full of blush pink flower heads, small and as fragrant as honey. It wasn't just roses that were bursting out of their bushes with colour and fragrance. In fact, every time I go to Canto del Maggio, I notice how lush the property is with fruit, flowers and plants, and every season there are bounties to be collected. The first time I was there I noticed the myrtle bushes and heirloom fruit trees little tiny, red pears and apples. The garden was full of summer produce and I stole green-skinned figs harbouring raspberry-red flesh off the trees. The next time I went, we picked ripe olives off the trees around the pool and took them down to the local frantoio, olive oil mill, to press the bright green oil out of them. I also came home with buckets of corbezzoli, or Irish strawberries, to make jam. This spring, I noticed the hedge rows of flowering wild strawberries and this last visit we picked the berries off them for an afternoon snack. With the help of my daughter (who was slightly more interested in playing with Simona's new puppy), we filled a crateful of roses and picked the petals delicately off and into bowls. We were using the rose petal jam recipe and the technique I learned between two wonderful sources Pellegrino Artusi's 1891 cookbook (this pastry recipe below is also inspired by it) and the Armenian monks on Venice's Isola di San Lazzaro Island where I worked for two autumns. The secret, other than having beautiful, small and fragrant roses to begin with, is in massaging the petals with a bit of the sugar and the lemon juice until almost a pulp to release the essential oils. Question: After the end of the story, the narrator is probably Answer:
OPTIONS:
- Angry
- not enough information
- Tired
- Satisfied
Satisfied
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