When food manufacturers label a product “low fat”, they should probably be obliged to also label it ‘high sugar’. For decades, the food industry has ridden the wave of fat-phobia, convincing consumers that cutting fat automatically means eating healthily. Yet, in reality, the fat often removed for marketing appeal is replaced by sugar or refined carbohydrates to maintain taste and texture. The result isn’t a healthier product, but one that can be just as (if not more) damaging to our bodies.
Fat, especially unsaturated fat, is essential for energy, hormone balance, and nutrient absorption. Sugar, on the other hand, offers empty calories and can wreak havoc on our metabolism when consumed excessively. The problem is that consumers trying to make responsible choices are often misled by selective labelling. “Low fat” sounds virtuous, but without full disclosure, people may unknowingly choose foods that spike blood sugar and contribute to weight gain, diabetes, and heart disease.
If honesty were the rule rather than the exception, a “low fat” label would have to sit alongside a clear statement of sugar content; ideally in simple, visible language rather than fine print. People deserve to know what they’re eating without needing a degree in nutrition. Transparency shouldn’t be optional; it’s a matter of public health. Perhaps then, we’d think twice before assuming that “low fat” yoghurt or cereal bar is a healthy choice, and start valuing balance, moderation, and genuine nourishment over clever marketing.
The Bible tells a timeless story of the human spirit’s journey toward God. It begins in Eden, where humankind walked in harmony with its Creator, and continues through exile, covenant, and redemption. Though that first closeness was broken by disobedience, God’s love never withdrew. A promise of restoration was planted even in the soil of the Fall, it grew through the live of the prophets, and bloomed in the life of Jesus Christ.
Throughout Scripture, God’s people stand at crossroads, choosing between faith and fear, obedience, and rebellion. The Israelites faced the Red Sea, Elijah stood before the prophets of Baal, and Jeremiah cried, Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for the ancient paths, ask where the good way is, and walk in it, and you will find rest for your souls. (Jeremiah 6:16). Yet time and again, the people said, We will not walk in it. Their refusal led to exile, a symbol of spiritual disconnection that echoes every time we turn away from God’s ways.
But grace always waits at the crossroads. Jesus came as the “good way” made flesh, calling us to follow him through the narrow gate that leads to life. He invites the weary and burdened to come and find rest, not just as a feeling, but as a deep peace rooted in restored relationship. The early church learned this truth anew when they chose inclusion over exclusion, grace over law, love over fear.
Our journey of faith still unfolds in daily choices; to listen or ignore, to trust or resist, to walk in the ancient paths of mercy and truth. Each moment of prayer, forgiveness, and quiet obedience is another step toward home. God’s word remains a lamp to our feet and a light to our path, guiding us when the road is unclear.
At every crossroads, he still whispers, this is the way; walk in it. And when we do, we find what Jeremiah promised, rest for our souls.
Believing all politicians are as bad as each other empowers the worst, diminishes the best, and damages democracy. When cynicism takes hold, it creates a fog of apathy in which corruption thrives. Those who care least about truth or service often benefit most when people give up on believing that integrity in politics is even possible. It’s an abdication of responsibility disguised as realism. Of course, politics attracts flawed people, it always has, but so does every sphere of life. The difference is that in a democracy, citizens have the power to choose, to discern, and to hold their representatives accountable.
To say “they’re all the same” is to silence that responsibility. It’s a convenient shrug that excuses disengagement and hands power to those who’ll exploit it. Meanwhile, good, honest politicians, those who genuinely want to serve, are undermined by blanket distrust. They become targets of the same contempt that should be reserved for those who lie, cheat, or misuse authority.
Democracy depends on participation, on people who still care enough to ask questions, read manifestos, and vote with conscience rather than despair. It’s imperfect, slow, and sometimes infuriating, but it’s also one of the few systems that allows correction, renewal, and moral progress. The temptation to give up on politics altogether might feel cleansing, but it’s actually corrosive. To protect democracy, we must resist cynicism, reward integrity where we see it, and remember that hope itself is a political act.
All the apps on your smartphone are designed to draw you in, and this can be unhealthy. So, think about turning OFF notifications and choosing when you access social media and the like.
Every ping, buzz, and pop-up is crafted to capture your attention, keeping you scrolling longer than you meant to. What begins as a quick check of messages or news often turns into half an hour lost to endless feeds and fleeting updates. These platforms aren’t neutral; they’re engineered to manipulate human psychology, using likes, alerts, and endless refresh loops to reward your brain just enough to keep you hooked.
It’s easy to feel that you’re in control because you choose what to click, but often it’s the algorithms choosing for you. They decide what you see, what you think about, and how long you stay. Over time, this constant digital noise can increase anxiety, shorten your attention span, and leave you oddly unsatisfied.
Breaking free doesn’t mean rejecting technology altogether. It means reclaiming your time and focus. Try setting boundaries; keep your phone out of reach during meals, resist checking it first thing in the morning, and take moments of quiet without the screen. Notice how your thoughts clear, how real conversations deepen, how silence feels less awkward.
You’ll discover that connection, creativity, and calm are still possible beyond the glow of your phone. Take back control. Don’t let the apps control you. Apps are tools NOT masters. Life is more important.
When it comes to climate change and pollution, we’re all hypocrites. There’s no inconsistency here, and that’s the point of the protests as I understand them. This is so bound up to our whole way of life that radical change is needed. As individuals we can only do so much, corporations and governments have to make the changes for the wellbeing of the planet.
Every one of us depends on systems that damage the environment, transport, food, technology, energy, even healthcare. It’s impossible to live in the modern world without leaving a carbon footprint, and yet we’re rightly alarmed by the damage being done. The hypocrisy isn’t moral failure; it’s a symptom of being trapped within a system that’s built on unsustainable foundations. Protesters aren’t pretending to be pure; they’re acknowledging the truth that we’re all implicated, but still calling for something better. They remind us that caring about the planet doesn’t require perfection; it requires persistence, honesty, and courage.
Recycling, eating less meat, or driving electric cars are valuable acts, but they’re not enough to counteract industries that pour billions of tonnes of carbon into the atmosphere each year. Systemic change demands bold political leadership and corporate accountability. Governments must legislate for cleaner energy, fairer trade, and sustainable agriculture. Corporations must stop externalising costs to the environment and start treating the planet as a partner, not a resource to exploit.
Humanity is capable of extraordinary cooperation when the stakes are high, and they couldn’t be higher than this. If we can face our shared hypocrisy with humility and hope, perhaps that’s where true change begins.
There’s something unsettlingly fascinating about The Traitors. On the surface, it’s a game of bluff and deduction wrapped in the grandeur of a Scottish castle; a clever blend of mystery, competition, and psychology. Yet beneath its glossy entertainment lies an ethical puzzle that speaks to the darker corners of human nature and our appetite for deceit when packaged as prime-time television.
At its heart, The Traitors thrives on manipulation. Participants are encouraged to lie, deceive, and even feign friendship to survive. The audience is complicit too, delighting in the tension as alliances fracture and trust dissolves. It’s compelling to watch, but it also raises uncomfortable questions: what does it say about us that we find deceit so entertaining? When lying becomes a route to success and betrayal earns applause, are we dulling our moral senses or simply exploring them in a safe, constructed world?
There’s also the matter of emotional harm. Contestants form real attachments under pressure, and betrayal, though part of the format, can cut deeply. The post-show interviews often reveal lingering hurt or guilt. While participants consent to this psychological theatre, consent doesn’t erase impact. As viewers, we’re drawn to their vulnerability, but perhaps we should pause to consider the cost of such raw exposure. The castle’s beauty and the game’s suspense disguise a truth: human emotion is the real currency here.
Ethically, The Traitors sits in the grey zone where entertainment and morality collide. It can be seen as a mirror to life itself, where trust must sometimes be tested, and truth can be elusive. Perhaps the real value of The Traitors isn’t in who wins or loses, but in what it reveals about integrity, empathy, and the fragility of trust. Watching it might challenge us to ask: if we were in that castle, surrounded by secrets and suspicion, how faithfully would we play?
Because the law rightly upholds the principle that a man is innocent until proved guilty, it can unintentionally create an uneven playing field for women who come forward with allegations of sexual abuse.
The burden of proof often falls heavily upon them, forcing survivors to relive their trauma in an atmosphere of doubt and scrutiny. When their words are met with suspicion rather than compassion, it reinforces the deep sense of violation they’ve already endured. The fear of not being believed can silence many women altogether, leaving abuse unchallenged and perpetrators unaccountable.
For those who do speak out, disbelief can wound as deeply as the original assault, eroding trust in justice, in community, and even in themselves. In this way, a principle designed to protect fairness can, without sensitivity and balance, deepen injustice for those whose voices most need to be heard.
Only through sensitivity, compassion, and a willingness to truly listen can we begin to create a culture where justice is balanced with understanding, and survivors are met not with doubt, but with dignity.
The debate over whether pineapple belongs on pizza is one of the most divisive culinary discussions in contemporary popular culture. While some celebrate the sweet and savoury contrast it provides, others view the fruit’s presence as a culinary abomination. This post explores the origins of pineapple on pizza, the cultural and gastronomic arguments for and against it, and the broader implications of food preferences, ultimately concluding that while pineapple on pizza may not suit every palate, it certainly deserves its place in the pantheon of global pizza toppings.
Pineapple on pizza, often referred to as “Hawaiian pizza”, was not born in Hawaii but in Canada. It was created in 1962 by Sam Panopoulos, a Greek immigrant who ran a restaurant in Ontario. His intention was to experiment with the contrast between sweet and savoury flavours by adding canned pineapple to the traditional cheese and tomato base. The topping combination caught on, becoming popular in parts of North America and eventually worldwide. The name “Hawaiian” was derived from the brand of canned pineapple Panopoulos used, not the state itself.
Despite its innocuous beginnings, the pineapple-on-pizza phenomenon became a flashpoint for cultural and culinary controversy. From a gastronomic standpoint, the pairing of pineapple with pizza has merit. Sweet and savoury combinations are common in various cuisines, such as duck à l’orange in French cooking or teriyaki dishes in Japanese cuisine. The sweet acidity of pineapple can cut through the richness of cheese and fatty meats like ham or bacon, creating a balanced flavour profile.
According to chef and food writer J. Kenji López-Alt, flavour balance is crucial in food pairings. Pineapple offers a tangy sweetness that can elevate salty and umami-rich toppings, adding complexity to a dish that might otherwise be monotonous. Furthermore, the texture of cooked pineapple, soft yet juicy, provides a pleasant contrast to the chewiness of dough and the melt of cheese.
However, critics argue that pineapple’s moisture content can lead to soggy pizzas and that its flavour is too strong or cloying. Traditionalists, particularly those steeped in Italian culinary heritage, often view the addition as sacrilegious. The Associazione Verace Pizza Napoletana (AVPN), which certifies authentic Neapolitan pizza, maintains strict guidelines on what constitutes a traditional pizza, and pineapple is not included.
The pineapple-on-pizza debate often transcends culinary criticism and enters the realm of identity and tradition. Food is deeply personal and cultural, and deviations from traditional forms can be seen as disrespectful or heretical. For some Italians, for instance, pineapple pizza may symbolise the dilution or commercialisation of their cherished cuisine.
However, the globalisation of food has led to an evolution of traditional dishes. As cuisines cross borders, they adapt to local tastes and ingredients. For instance, the British curry has evolved separately from its Indian origins, incorporating elements such as chicken tikka masala, which is now considered a national dish. Similarly, sushi has adapted in Western cultures to include ingredients like avocado and mayonnaise.
In this context, pineapple pizza can be viewed not as an affront to tradition but as a natural evolution of a globalised dish. Pizza itself, while originating in Italy, has become a canvas for creativity in many cultures. The idea that there is a “correct” way to enjoy pizza is increasingly challenged in a world where fusion cuisine is celebrated.
Taste is subjective and heavily influenced by genetics, culture, and individual experience. Humans have receptors for five basic tastes: sweet, sour, salty, bitter, and umami. A combination of pineapple and ham brings together sweet, salty, and umami elements, appealing to multiple receptors at once. This multisensory experience can be particularly satisfying for some.
Research in the field of neurogastronomy, which explores how the brain perceives flavour, shows that individuals interpret flavours differently based on previous exposure and emotional associations. For example, someone who grew up eating Hawaiian pizza may associate it with comfort and nostalgia, while others may find the combination unfamiliar or off-putting.
Much of the disdain for pineapple on pizza may stem from food snobbery, an elitist attitude that dismisses popular or unconventional choices as inferior. In recent years, food trends have increasingly been influenced by social media and pop culture, with pineapple pizza often used as a meme-worthy flashpoint in culinary debates.
In 2017, Iceland’s president Guðni Th. Jóhannesson jokingly suggested that pineapple on pizza should be banned, sparking international headlines. The humorous comment prompted a global response, including a defence of pineapple pizza by Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau. Such events highlight how deeply food choices can resonate within society, even at the highest levels.
Ultimately, food is about enjoyment and community. The beauty of pizza lies in its adaptability; it can cater to vegetarians, vegans, meat-lovers, gluten-free diets, and yes, those who like pineapple. The insistence that there is a “right” way to eat pizza undermines the inclusive and personal nature of food.
As the culinary world becomes more open to fusion and experimentation, it is important to acknowledge that food preferences are not static. What was once considered bizarre can become mainstream. Sushi burritos, cronut pastries, and Korean tacos all emerged from the blending of traditions and have gained popularity in recent years.
Moreover, the argument over pineapple on pizza often serves as a gateway to larger discussions about cultural openness, culinary experimentation, and personal freedom. While it is valid to uphold and respect traditional recipes, it is equally valid to embrace innovation and diversity in food.
In conclusion, the question of whether pineapple belongs on pizza cannot be answered definitively, as it ultimately boils down to individual taste. Pineapple on pizza represents more than just a topping, it encapsulates issues of tradition versus innovation, cultural exchange, and personal freedom in culinary expression. While it may not be for everyone, dismissing it outright ignores the richness that diversity brings to the global food scene. Whether one relishes or reviles pineapple on pizza, it undeniably has earned its place at the table.
There’s a moment in Jeremiah when the tone shifts from lament to hope, from exile to promise. In Chapter 31:27-34, God speaks of planting again, people and animals, life and laughter. It’s a turning point in Israel’s story, but it’s also something deeper: a vision of renewal that stretches across time, reaching right into the heart of biblical prophecy.
The days are coming, declares the Lord, when I will make a new covenant… I will put my law in their minds and write it on their hearts. This isn’t about tablets of stone or broken promises; it’s about intimacy. God is moving closer, rewriting the relationship not in ink or ritual, but in love. It’s the same longing that runs through the prophets, the hope that one day humanity won’t just follow God, but know God, in the marrow of our being.
In exile, Israel had learned what it meant to lose everything familiar. Yet out of that loss came revelation. God wasn’t confined to the temple, nor limited by geography or history. The new covenant Jeremiah spoke of finds its fullness in Jesus, who took the scattered fragments of humanity and wove them into something whole. Through him, forgiveness isn’t a theory but a pulse, alive in every act of grace, every whispered prayer of return.
When we fail, when the world feels exiled from its better self, this prophecy breathes again. It tells us that restoration isn’t about going back, it’s about being made new. God’s word, written not on scrolls but on hearts, continues to shape us quietly, faithfully, from the inside out – until knowing him becomes as natural as breathing.
I will be their God, and they will be my people. That promise still holds, tender and unbroken.
Christian nationalism is a dangerous distortion of both faith and politics. It arises when the message of Jesus is bound too tightly to national identity, power, and cultural dominance. The gospel ceases to be good news for all people and becomes instead a tool for exclusion, control, and fear. History offers painful reminders of what happens when Christianity is co-opted by nationalism: it becomes a flag to wave, a weapon to wield, and a mask to justify prejudice.
At its heart, Christian nationalism places the nation above the kingdom of God. Jesus taught that his kingdom is not of this world, yet Christian nationalism insists otherwise, often presenting one country or culture as uniquely chosen and blessed. This not only fosters pride and superiority, but it also blinds believers to the global and inclusive nature of God’s love. It narrows the expansive message of Christ into a political ideology, one that often resists humility, repentance, and compassion for outsiders.
The danger isn’t simply theoretical. Christian nationalism has been linked with hostility towards immigrants, resistance to racial justice, and the suppression of religious freedom for others. When Christianity is equated with patriotism, dissenting voices are silenced, and those who don’t conform are seen as enemies. The cross becomes overshadowed by the flag, and worship of God risks becoming entangled with loyalty to the state. In such an environment, the church loses its prophetic voice and instead baptises the status quo.
True Christianity should never seek dominance but should model service, reconciliation, and peace. As Paul reminds us in Philippians, “our citizenship is in heaven,” and it’s from there that we find our identity, not in earthly power structures. To resist Christian nationalism isn’t to reject one’s love of country, but to insist that no nation may claim divine supremacy. The kingdom of God is wider, deeper, and more just than any political project.
Christians are called to bear witness to a love that crosses borders, heals divisions, and refuses to be hijacked by ideology. To confuse God with nation is to risk idolatry, to follow Christ faithfully is to place love above power.
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