Problem: OPTIONS:
- hungry
- not enough information
- proud
- excited
Q: My first memory of cooking was with my grandmother, Rosemary, in Sydney. She taught me how to make scrambled eggs on her electric stovetop, the kind with the coiled heating elements, in her small, linoleum-lined kitchen with cupboards that stuck a little when they closed. She was not an exceptional cook I can remember plenty of bland and overcooked vegetables and custard made with powder to pour into pre-bought pie cases with tinned pineapple, her specialty but she worked hard to put a balanced, home-cooked meal on the table three times a day, every day. The eldest of eight children, she dropped out of school during the Depression to help her single mother look after her siblings and work as a seamstress at David Jones. When the Second World War broke out and she was engaged to my grandfather, Aubrey, she started working on war-torn planes ("sometimes looking as if a steam roller has gone over them," she said) as a sheet metal worker, putting them back together, when many of the men who used to do this work were off fighting the war. She said it was just like dressmaking, only using different materials. She had a twinkle in her eye and a distinct laugh that can really only be described as a cackle. She was a strong, incredibly smart woman with a fighter spirit who led her female co-workers out on the airport tarmac one day on a strike to earn equal wages to men. I am so proud that her story is taught as part of the Australian primary school curriculum. Her dream was to have a home with that electric stove. In 1943 when she was 28 she was interviewed for Australian Women's Weekly magazine for an article on women in men's jobs during the war, where there is a photo of her that is etched in my memory, dressed in white, wearing a white bandana tied in a knot at the top of her dark curls, a plane behind her. Question: How does the author probably feel, while thinking about her grandmother? === The answer to the above question is
Answer: proud

Problem:OPTIONS:
- not enough information
- Because he liked the dog.
- Because she went in the store and left Steve in the car.
- Because she brought a dog.

I loved the little guy from the day she brought him home. She carried him wrapped in a sweatshirt from the shelter at the corner where she'd been saying for months she was going to go. She set him down on the hardwood floor and he clipped around like a fawn - - clip, clip -- looking through doorways and carefully eyeing us both. He was tiny but he was strong. He was muscular and sleek, like a miniature greyhound, and we both watched intently as he clipped around, soldiering things out and whining under his breath. Miss Tennessee looked at me and smiled and said: "Well honey? What do you think?" And I told her: "I love the little guy." He was never really my dog. He was more like my step-dog, but together we named him Steve. We thought it was funny, giving a dog a man's name like that. But it fit, like Miss Tennessee, which I started just to tease her about being full-grown and long- legged and pretty, but in a tomboyish way that made it both absolutely ridiculous and absolutely plausible that she had ever been Miss Anything. It always made her swallow a grin. Steve's name, on the other hand, made it sound like he wasn't a dog at all, but this little man. Miss Tennessee often called him that: the little man. Steve liked me okay but he loved Miss Tennessee. With me it was man things. After he got snipped or when he was stung by bees, down there, in grass that came up to his chin, he would come sit by me, hoping I'd understand. With her, it was everything else. When she took a bath, he stood with his paws on the side of the tub, and when she went someplace he couldn't go he stood where he last saw her and waited. If she went into a store and left us together in the car, he stood with his paws on the dashboard, waiting and crying and looking at me like maybe I was to blame. Question: Why did the author tell Miss Tennessee that he "loves the little guy"? === The answer to the above question is
****
A: Because he liked the dog.

input: OPTIONS:
- A day.
- Several minutes.
- Two weeks.
- not enough information Now, answer this question: Dark meat in the can--brown, oily, and flecked with mucus--gave off a repellent, fishy smell, and the taste of it rose in his throat, putrid and bitter, like something from a dead man's stomach. George Jordan sat on the kitchen floor and vomited, then pushed himself away from the shining pool, which looked very much like what remained in the can. He thought, No, this won't do: I have wires in my head, and they make me eat cat food. The snake likes cat food He needed help but know there was little point in calling the Air Force. He'd tried them, and there was no way they were going to admit responsibility for the monster in his head. What George called the snake, the Air Force called Effective Human Interface Technology and didn't want to hear about any postdischarge problems with it. They had their own problems with congressional committees investigating "the conduct of the war in Thailand." He lay for a while with his cheek on the cold linoleum, got up and rinsed his mouth in the sink, then stuck his head under the faucet and ran cold water over it, thinking, Call the goddamned multicomp, then call SenTrax and say, "Is it true you can do something about this incubus that wants to take possession of my soul?" And if they ask you, "What's your problem?" you say "cat food," and maybe they'll say, "Hell, it just wants to take possession of your lunch" A chair covered in brown corduroy stood in the middle of the barren living room, a white telephone on the floor beside it, a television flat against the opposite waIl--that was the whole thing, what might have been home, if it weren't for the snake. He picked up the phone, called up the directory on its screen, and keyed TELECOM SENTRAX. Question: How long did George lay on the floor? === The answer to the above question is
A:
output:
Several minutes.