The drive up to Rick's place in the hills always made me sick. Just after he bought the house with his ill gotten gains from his band's over-hyped, over-marketed, and over-bought sophomore Disc, he drove me out to see it in his beautiful but nauseating '70 Datsun 240 Z. All the smog combined with the pinball effects of winding up the hill at teeth-numbing speeds had me puking for an hour after we got there. I took the last turn at the top of the hill and watched the rising sun crest over the black blocks of the city, her angel wings soiled and cheapened with the soot of 12 million get-away drivers. Rick's house came into view out of the fog, its large glass panes sparkling like the last clean surface of an oversized ashtray. I parked between a blue hatchback and Rick's favorite toy: a 350 horsepower Impreza he had smuggled here from Japan. All his more expensive rides were in the garage, collecting dust and gaining vintage resale value. I rang the bell. I waited and watched a couple of squirrels fight over a small treasure in the bushes. The door opened. "Dingo." "Hey, Luna." Her job as Rick's assistant was to take care of his place while he was out being a rock star. She made sure all his bills were paid, his animals were fed, and that the subsequent fallout from any parties she might have in his absence didn't leave any lasting damage. She was pretty by most standards, gorgeous by others. Short with a tight schoolgirl body and raven hair that teased her avian shoulders. But by whatever standard, her beauty was like a rare and exotic bird she kept caged behind the bars of her perfect teeth. As soon as she opened her mouth it flew away. Question: The narrator parked at Rick's house: Options: - not enough information - before talking to Rick's assistant - while talking to Rick's assistant - after talking to Rick's assistant === The correct answer is
before talking to Rick's assistant

(Question)
When I was writing the manuscript for Florentine, I enlisted the help of an army of recipe testers about 80 people from all over the world to test every recipe thoroughly. Only one came back to me consistently with problems. From Minnesota to Melbourne, three testers wrote to me that their very first attempt at making Tuscan gnudi (ricotta and spinach balls that, rather than be encased in pasta like for ravioli, are simply dusted in flour) resulted in a pot of simmering water with "dissolved" gnudi. It reminded me of Pellegrino Artusi's potato gnocchi recipe in his famous cookbook from 1891, where he interrupts the recipe instructions to mention a signora who, upon attempting to stir the gnocchi cooking in the pot, finds they have disappeared O dove'erano andati? "Where did they go?" In the case of the gnocchi, there was too little flour used, according to Artusi. But in the case of the gnudi, I already had a hunch. I grilled all three testers on a number of various factors was the water just simmering, not on a rolling boil (which can destroy delicate gnudi), did they drain the spinach very well, and equally the ricotta (one said she even drained it overnight)? Did they use "proper" ricotta? Aha. "Proper" ricotta. The kind that was only made a day or so earlier, the leftovers of the cheese-making process, the real deal. The kind that you can see in a deli counter, standing on its own, that gets cut into a big wedge and weighed when you order it. Not the kind you buy at the supermarket, in a tub, that so often is grainy, more like the consistency of yogurt, has no structure, and is full of unnecessary gums or additives. All my recipe testers had used the second kind to be fair, some were new to the idea of buying ricotta and in their neighbourhood only had access to this. In that case, it would have probably been better to make your own, or choose another recipe. Question: How many of the recipe testers probably tried to make the gnudi again after they found out what went wrong? Options: - All of them if they could access the proper ingredients - All of them with the same ingredients - None of them - not enough information === The correct answer is
(Answer)
All of them if they could access the proper ingredients

Question: I was 35 weeks pregnant when I had my stroke. For weeks prior to the event I kept experiencing 'visual disturbances.' I felt when I was reading a newspaper or book a sense that my eyes were crossing. I'd feel aware right before it would occur and I would rush to look in a mirror only to discover my eyes were not crossing. I informed my OB who blamed it on the blood vessels in my eyes enlarging due to pregnancy. Ummm ok. You know more than me. Later I was told by a surgeon what I was experiencing was 'textbook' for the passing of blood clots through my occipital area of the brain! The feeling would eventually subside. I awoke one morning feeling 'kind of fuzzy' headed. Like I had slept too hard. I sat with my husband at the kitchen table for our morning coffee and newspaper and for no reason I could imagine I was unable to swallow my coffee and it dribbled out the left side of my mouth. My husband asked me what was going on and I apparently told him, I was 'stroking' out. He got up from the table assuming I was OK and went off to take his morning shower. While in the shower it occurred to him something might not be right. He came back to the table where I was struggling to lift myself from the chair. I put my hands on the table to lift my body and my left hand kept sliding off the edge. He finally got behind me and tried to lift me under my arms and I crumbled to the floor. He then called my OB and told him he thought I'd had a stroke. My OB immediately expressed his doubt but my husband was advised to call an ambulance to get me to the ER. I never really experienced pain from the stroke. Question: When did the narrator's husband realize that something was not right? Options: - not enough information - After his shower - Before his shower - When he was in the shower === The correct answer is
Answer:
When he was in the shower