#what are sugar substitutes

[diabetes-health-corner]

Sugar Substitutes and Type 2 Diabetes

For individuals living with type 2 diabetes, managing sugar intake is crucial. Sugar substitutes, also known as artificial sweeteners or non-nutritive sweeteners, are often used as alternatives to sugar to sweeten foods and beverages without affecting blood sugar levels. There are several types of sugar substitutes available…

Read to know more: https://www.freedomfromdiabetes.org/blog/post/sugar-substitutes-and-type-2-diabetes-are-they-safe-alternatives/3813

[hwashitape]

Get the gun

[meganechan05]

G-Papillon: Rita. We are leaving.

Rita: to where?

G-P: Ishabana. I'm craving sugar and you need a break ( ￣▽￣)

Rita: I'm busy.

G-P:

Rita:

G-P: *inches closer*

Rita: DON'T YOU DARE- *runs*

G-P: *snatches Rita by their backstrap* To the land of sugar!

I was thinking a lot today bc I couldn't draw much bc of another family event but I can't stop thinking how we're in the 30s but know nothing about the personalities of the Shugods so this is just a headcanon I have for God Papillon and Rita ( ￣▽￣)

[sharknark]

making what is quite possibly the most questionable quiche to have existed

[dearmrsawyer]

hello! it has been a long time since i've talked through my day! this one had such a big turnaround that i needed to document it, mostly for myself.

i had an appointment with a 'root canal specialist' today bc i had my first app with my new dentist a couple of weeks ago and his xray revealed an abscess wow how fun :) i couldn't feel it bc that tooth has a decade old root canal so there are no nerves to reveal there is anything going on!! fun!!!! he's a super nice dentist, i like him but he made me very panicked lol he was showing me how close it is to my sinuses on the xray. so he was like 'go see this guy asap' bc he wanted to know whether there was a chance my old root canal could be redone or if i'd have to get the whole tooth removed/an implant, all for the low low price of $5-6000 🙃 but obviously you can never see specialists asap!!! so i've been walking around for 2.5 weeks with dread/phantom pains that by the time i saw him the infection would've spread and idk had catastrophic consequences??? and then today when i went there was CONSTRUCTION at the turn i needed to make and the road was closed and i was like i don't know how to get there from another street??!?!?!??! i spent 10 minutes driving through suburban streets and my navigation kept trying to take me back to the original route with the closed road, and its the middle of town so there was nowhere i could just temporarily stop and look at the map, and i called them almost crying to let them know i'm coming but i might be late bc i just can't navigate these streets jegjkdgkjdkg

anyway i MADE it, i think i parked in another business's parking lot and just hoped they didn't care lol and then the lady at the desk was like 'our other specialist will have to see you bc the guy you're here for isn't here' so i was feeling uhhhh not good after my dentist talked him up so much. AND my dentist didn't send over my electronic referral and i had LITERALLY been stressed that he would forget to do exactly that for the whole 2.5 weeks oh my god, thankfully they didnt even seem to care. but then as i was filling out the paperwork in the waiting room 'no judgment' came on, and then 'wolves' right after??? and i was like this seems deliberate to try and calm me down 😂 and when the substitute specialist called me in he was so extremely calming and talked me through my options, one of which is indeed to try and redo the root canal bc he's confident he can, it would still cost a lot but wayyyyy less. he also said i could 'do nothing' (which is obv risky, and i would never do nothing, but that made me realise my infection is not about to bust through and spread across my sinuses any second, one fear down!). he was just softly spoken and super relaxed and he made me feel like this was not in fact a crisis and said i could go and think about what i wanted to do, and just call for an appointment when i decided. and then when i went out to pay 'i want to write you a song' was playing 😭 i asked the receptionists if there was a 1d fan in the house and one of them said it must just be a random playlist on spotify, so this was all a complete coincidence????? i told them i was enjoying it very much.

anyway long story short i had already taken the rest of the afternoon off work to go work in the garden, but figured there was a good chance i'd be so down about an unexpected and immiment $5000 hit that i wouldn't want to do anything, but i drove home feeling extremely reassured that i had options and i was not on the clock to decide, and also very relaxed by 1d playing in the background the entire time. i have also been extremely stressed that i would need to take the next step asap and this would be such a bad time as mum is working 50 hour weeks right now bc of the referendum, so i am on caring duty with nonna/nonno anytime we don't have carers here. but there's time! i had a v good afternoon in the garden after all!

[anonprotagging]

hey those 4-ingredient PB cookies are pretty great 😳

[akaluan]

Today I learned that the stevia aftertaste is apparently comparable to licorice and suddenly everything makes sense as to why it doesn't bother me even though I have NEVER come across a stevia-sweetened product that actually tastes "just like regular sugar sweetened counterpart" like some people claim.

Because I actually love licorice. I drink a licorice tea that's so strong my previous coworkers ribbed me about it. I eat black licorice candy.

Things make so much sense now.

[mayra-quijotescx]

i hate you stevia i hate you sucralose i hate you aspartame i hate you splenda i hate you high fructose corn syrup i hate you obstinate american refusal to let food just be food on its own terms without some bastard manufacturer using artificial sweeteners to permeate every crumb or drop with sweetness so cloying it makes every bite/sip taste like an assassination attempt

[seriouslywhodidthis]

As an amateur home cook and baker who learned all my cooking skills from my father, but all my baking skills from my mother, I have found it easiest to explain the difference this way:

Cooking is an art — you do what feels right.

Baking is a science — it is literally chemistry. If you don’t follow the recipe, you will get something RADICALLY different than what you think.

the funniest dynamc between my boyfriend and i is the chef/baker divide runs so deep. experimentally my boyfriend is a genius with figuring out what flavor profiles will not just taste good together but also will be enjoyed by the specific audience he is cooking for. a recipe is not a guidebook so much as a suggestion and he will frankenstein ideas together to get exactly what he wants to happen. he also didnt know that sugar will not work properly if you dont mix it with the wet ingredients in banana bread and when i asked 'why didnt you do it in the order of the recipe' he said 'i didnt really think it mattered'. autistically i exploded his head in my mind

[boneless-mika]

I have a terrible stomachache

[unityrain24]

shout out to bear fruit rolls for being the most nuerodivergent-friendly way to consume fruit

[benign-virus]

Normal night in the sibling chat

[fordragonfliesandme]

Master the Art of Ingredient Substitutions: A Beginner's Guide for Bakers and Cooks

I have often been surprised when I mention you can substitute mayonnaise for an egg when baking and I receive a shocked look. There are many things you can substitute when baking and cooking, so I thought it would be helpful to share some of these tried & true baking and cooking tips! Are you tired of discovering mid-recipe that you’re missing a key ingredient? Or perhaps you’re looking to make…

[k9wa]

𑣲 RILE HIM UP ! ft BOOTHILL.

⠀ — your least favourite cyborg is brought back to you a mangled mess.

⠀ OR

⠀ — being boothill’s mechanic when you lowkey can’t stand each other.

⚠︎ sweet sweet tension, a little suggestive towards the end, gn reader (no referring pronouns), can they fuck already, this was ib by his lightcone, wc 1.9k

boothill's eyes flickered to life, emitting a faint glow of red as his systems began to reboot.

a pair of familiar red pupils met yours, two crosshairs fading into sight as boothill regained his sight and— to your dismay— consciousness.

as the cyborg regained his motion he attempted a step forward, only to realise he didn’t have the feet or legs to do so. the only thing keeping him powered on were some metal claws screwed into his back and a few loose cables connecting to your terminals.

“sugar plum,” boothill's scruffy voice cut through the silence. “do y'care to explain where my legs might’a run off to?”

you actually cocked an eyebrow. how the hell were you supposed to know? boothill was brought back to you in a mess of scraps and wiring— the damn hunk of metal was lucky you made him as blast proof as possible and he was left salvageable. 

“care to tell me how the hell you got this roughed up?”

you asked in turn, crouching down to look at the detached and ruined internals of boothill's torso where the stand-in wires were connected. you ran a finger carefully along the edge of his shredded metallic stomach.

“guess i didn't make you as smart as i thought. time for a newer model, maybe?”

boothill's eyes flickered down to his missing lower half, then to your hand that was more or less caressing him. it was amazing how much annoyance they could show in all their artificial glory.

“look who’s talkin.” the cowboy grumbled, pointy fangs poking out in an irritated grin. 

“how ‘bout, ‘gee, boothill! i’m real glad y’ain’t get blown to smithereens beyond repair!’” 

“it would've been less work for me if whoever blew you up finished the job.”

you sighed as you stood up, putting a hand lazily on your hip.

“how’d it happen?”

boothill bit back another argument with a gruff chuckle.

“some real cutie-pies i was huntin’ down had a lil’ more firepower than i expected. guess they didn’t appreciate me spoilin’ their party.”

boothill visibly cringed as his insult was substituted with some cutesy nickname mid explanation.

“and can you fix my beautiful synesthesia beacon already? this thing is drivin’ me up the wall.”

the request fell on deaf ears as your fingers typed something on your laptop, likely another string of code.

“you’re more concerned about your censor than how long it’s gonna take me to put your legs back on…” you sighed to yourself, still leaned over your workbench, eyes focused on your screen.

“i'm not touching it right now. you’re lucky i’m even letting you stay sentient after this.”

boothill snorted at the remark, brows furrowing in a steady grimace.

“well, ‘scuse me for wantin’ to speak freely–  i’m a grown man!” his pointy teeth shone as they peeked out again in a grin.

“y’know what? just leave yer lil’ tools and all the pieces there— i’ll get my legs back on myself. don’t need no charity work from the likes’a you.” he laughed. “heck, may even give myself a new pecker while i'm at it!”

the mechanic had half a mind to listen, sit back and watch boothill struggle to reassemble himself just to prove a point and simultaneously bask in his embarrassment when the former realised it wasn’t possible.

(not that he would’ve admitted defeat– you would have begrudgingly stepped in and helped before he inevitably messed up his wiring more.)

you stepped back over to boothill, hands moving to hold his cheeks so you could tilt his face side to side to check for any more damage.

“cool it, cowboy.” your eyes squinted in focus as they looked at boothill's, lightly tugging up on his eyelid to check for scratches or cracks.

“i'll get you back up and running, just lose the attitude already.”

boothill's eyes narrowed as he felt your touch on his face. the temperature difference of warm fingers on his cold, mechanical body stirring an oddity where his gut should have been. though he tried to ignore it, the sensation was there, clear as day against all his artificial nerve endings. 

“real easy for you to say,” he huffed, avoiding your eyes as he was examined like a broken toy. “let’s see how peachy you are when yer all strung up and legless, love muffin.”

that censor really was gonna drive him insane.

“just get it over with.'' boothill muttered in annoyance. “and try not t’fuss anythin’ up.”

it took quite some time, as expected, for you to successfully reattach boothill’s legs and fix his mangled midsection. when you were finally finished, you tugged out any leftover wires that connected boothill to your terminals and pushed back in your wheelie chair to beckon the cowboy forward. you pushed your glasses up to your forehead, some hair getting swept out of your eyes with them.

“feel fine?”

boothill rolled his ankles and bent his knees, giving his legs a good stretch to test their mobility.

“mighty fine,” he responded, satisfied to feel they were weighted and moved the same as before. “though i can’t say i’m lovin’ the breeze up my backside.” 

boothill glanced down at himself, steel body completely bare and lacking any of his signature clothing. 

“got my pants lyin’ around anywhere, sugar plum?”

you pointed to another table in the room, where boothills clothes— (or rather the new ones you had to go and get—) were neatly folded, his hat placed on top of them. 

boothill went to get himself dressed, hoisting up his bell bottomed pants and sliding on his jacket. he stole a glance in your direction every so often, resisting the childish urge to roll his eyes at the mere sight of you.

the artificial man hit a small bump in the road as he went to zip his jacket (could you really call it that with how little it covered?) up—  his fingers weren’t responding as well as they should have been. he could open and close his fist, but lacked the precision to pinch and hold the zipper.

“hey, honeybun,'' boothill called over to you with a furrowed brow. “didn’t i tell you not to go fudgin’ anythin’ up?”

you, in all your overtired glory groaned, turning around in your chair and waving boothill back over.

“what are you talking about?” 

“my cute lil’ fingers ain’t workin’ that’s what i’m talkin’ ‘bout!”

boothill's footsteps were clunky and loud as he stomped his way back over to his mechanic.

you reached for his hand, an uncharacteristic gentleness in your touch as you examined five mechanical fingers.

“make a fist,”

boothill obeyed, curling his fingers into his palm.

“open it,”

he obeyed again, letting them open and relax.

“hold up two fingers,”

boothill tried, but his fingers got stuck halfway into the motion, locking at the joints.

“son of a bitch.” you sighed, turning for one of your tools. “sit back down.”

boothill grumbled and went to hoist himself back onto the workbench.

“least one o’us can say it…” 

“do you want me to fix you or not?”

“i'm sittin’ ain’t i??”

you pulled boothill's shirt off his left shoulder and popped open a tiny panel on the curve of his neck, sliding your glasses back on to the bridge of your nose. with a lean forward you began carefully looking at a few thin wires that filled the space.

boothill tapped his fingers against the tabletop while you worked, that same oddity as before settling in his now repaired gut. he rarely got messed up enough for you and him to spend this much time together, or for you to have to really be in such close proximity.

it’s not uncomfortable, but the feeling is by no means familiar. it’s actually a little embarrassing– a galaxy ranger, a space cyborg and expert hunter, feeling almost flustered at some close contact like some kind of shy little girl.

“something the matter?”

boothill nearly jumped as you spoke up quietly to check on him, voice quiet and so close to his ear he had to refrain from leaning both closer and away.

“nah, everything’s just dandy.” boothill’s voice followed yours– quieter and a little softer as a result of the closeness.

“you’re sure?” you looked up from the small mess of wires, eyes glancing up at your cyborg over the rim of your glasses. “might as well fix anything else that’s bugging you while i’m here.”

boothill would have swallowed if he had the need to lubricate his throat. he shook his head, turning to look somewhere— anywhere else.

yours lingered on him, albeit briefly, observing the clench of his jaw and the way he tried to shift in his seat without being disruptive to your work. he didn’t see the little smirk tug at your lips as you refocused on the task at hand.

boothill’s cybernetic limbs felt almost human in their sensitivity, sending faux shivers up a spine he didn’t even have. the mechanics fingers running down his forearm are doing him no favours as they move to hold his hand again.

“close your fist…open it…two fingers up…”

each command was obeyed, ten gunmetal fingers finally holding up a little peace sign.

“that should be it, come see me if they start acting up again.”

you stood up, tentatively reaching out to fix boothill’s jacket and begin to zip it for him.

boothill didn’t protest the act, but it was…confusing, to say the least.

“reckon i’ll just start seein’ those auto bots again,” he leaned back on his palms as your fingers fixed his collar, straightening it out.  “much as i love our lil’ visits.”

you only hummed, smoothing out a few wrinkles and neatly tucking his scarf into it’s neckline, as he liked. “you could,” you mused, hooking your finger lightly into his collar and giving a gentle tug forward. “they don’t take as good care of you as i do, though.”

this time boothill caught the little smirk on your lips, clear as day and enough to make him question if short circuiting was possible.

you’re doing it on purpose, he knows. the careful touches to his hands and body against the sensors you put there, quiet voice leaving him with a frisson you made it possible for him to have.

boothill returned the smirk, albeit a little wobbly.

“you tryin’a rile me up, sugar plum?” 

he entertained you with a lean forward, two white crosshairs looking right at you while he considered if a hand on your waist was too forward or the perfect cornering move. 

“just like watching you squirm.”

you were gone as quickly as you’d arrived, finger unhooked and going to pick up his hat.

“but say i was,” you didn’t bother with a glance over as you made sure the brim was straight and unharmed. “i hardly have to try.” 

boothill hopped down from the table, following your path and offering a scruffy chuckle when you reached up to place it on his head.

“yeah? and what makes y’say that?” his hand found a place on his hip.

you didn’t respond— not verbally, anyway. a quick flick of your eyes downwards was all he received. 

so he followed, looking down as well, to the very appendage he had insisted you give him over and over again pushing against his trousers. 

his own dream, now his downfall. 

boothill pushed passed you, pushing his hat further down onto his head while he stomped away. the profanities that left his lips filled the air— or rather their replacements. something something i love you blah blah peach cobbler something cutie-pie or meow!

“remind me t’settle for them lovely auto bots next time!”

he opened the door with a firm kick of his boot, stomping out with a scowl. 

as if he wouldn’t be back. you took better care of him, after all.

⠀ 𑣲 MASTERLIST / GOT A REQUEST ?

[godessofbucky]

Remember to eat a home cooked meal because this mashed potatoes, corn, gravy and rice, turkey, chucken, beef roast combination with a chocolate chip pancake on the side is about to get DEVOURED!

[handweavers]

something that comes up for me over and over is a deep frustration with academics who write about and study craft but have little hands-on experience with working with that craft, because it leads to them making mistakes in their analysis and even labelling of objects and techniques incorrectly. i see this from something as simple as textiles on display in museums being labelled with techniques that are very obviously wrong (claiming something is knit when it's clearly crochet, woven when that technique could only be done as embroidery applied to cloth off-loom) to articles and books written about the history of various aspects of textiles making considerable errors when trying to describe basic aspects of textile craft-knowledge (ex. a book i read recently that tried to say that dyeing cotton is far easier than dyeing wool because cotton takes colour more easily than wool, and used that as part of an argument as to why cotton became so prominent in the industrial revolution, which is so blatantly incorrect to any dyer that it seriously harms the argument being made even if the overall point is ultimately correct)

the thing is that craft is a language, an embodied knowledge that crosses the boundaries of spoken communication into a physical understanding. craft has theory, but it is not theoretical: there is a necessary physicality to our work, to our knowledge, that cannot be substituted. two artisans who share a craft share a language, even if that language is not verbal. when you understand how a material functions and behaves without deliberate thought, when the material knowledge becomes instinct, when your hands know these things just as well if not better than your conscious mind does, new avenues of communication are opened. an embodied knowledge of a craft is its own language that is able to be communicated across time, and one easily misunderstood by those without that fluency. an academic whose knowledge is entirely theoretical may look at a piece of metalwork from the 3rd century and struggle to understand the function or intent of it, but if you were to show the same piece to a living blacksmith they would likely be able to tell you with startling accuracy what their ancient colleague was trying to do.

a more elaborate example: when i was in residence at a dye studio on bali, the dyer who mentored me showed me a bowl of shimmering grey mud, and explained in bahasa that they harvest the mud several feet under the roots of certain species of mangroves. once the mud is cleaned and strained, it's mixed with bran water and left to ferment for weeks to months.  he noted that the mud cannot be used until the fermentation process has left a glittering sheen to its surface. when layered over a fermented dye containing the flowers from a tree, the cloth turns grey, and repeated dippings in the flower-liquid and mud vats deepen this colour until it's a warm black. 

he didn't explain why this works, and he did not have to. his methods are different from mine, but the same chemical processes are occurring. tannins always turn grey when they interact with iron and they don't react to other additives the same way, so tannins (polyphenols) and iron must be fundamental parts of this process. many types of earthen clay contain a type of bacteria that creates biogenic iron as a byproduct, and mixing bran water with this mud would give the bacteria sugars to feast upon, multiplying, and producing more of this biogenic iron. when the iron content is high enough that the mud shimmers, applying this fermented mixture to cloth soaked in tannins would cause the iron to react with the tannin and finally, miraculously: a deep, living grey-black cloth.

in my dye studio i have dissolved iron sulphide ii in boiling water and submerged cloth soaked in tannin extract in this iron water, and watched it emerge, chemically altered, now deep and living grey-black just like the cloth my mentor on bali dyed. when i watched him dip cloth in this brown bath of fermented flower-water, and then into the shimmering mud and witness the cloth emerge this same shade of grey, i understand exactly what he was doing and why. embodied craft knowledge is its own language, and if you're going to dedicate your life to writing about a craft it would be of great benefit to actually "speak" that language, or you're likely to make serious errors.

the arrogance is not that different from a historian or anthropologist who tries to study a culture or people without understanding their written or spoken tongue, and then makes mistakes in their analysis because they are fundamentally disconnected from the way the people they are talking about communicate. the voyeuristic academic desire to observe and analyse the world at a distance, without participating in it. how often academics will write about social movements, political theory and philosophy and never actually get involved in any of these movements while they're happening. my issue with the way they interact with craft is less serious than the others i mentioned, but one that constantly bothers me when coming into contact with the divide between "those who make a living writing about a subject" and "those who make a living doing that subject"