Beef Ribs Quotes

In the window I smelled all the food of San Francisco. There were seafood places out there where the buns were hot, and the baskets were good enough to eat too; where the menus themselves were soft with foody esculence as though dipped in hot broths and roasted dry and good enough to eat too. Just show me the bluefish spangle on a seafood menu and I’d eat it; let me smell the drawn butter and lobster claws. There were places where they specialized in thick and red roast beef au jus, or roast chicken basted in wine. There were places where hamburgs sizzled on grills and the coffee was only a nickel. And oh, that pan-fried chow mein flavored air that blew into my room from Chinatown, vying with the spaghetti sauces of North Beach, the soft-shell crab of Fisherman’s Wharf — nay, the ribs of Fillmore turning on spits! Throw in the Market Street chili beans, redhot, and french-fried potatoes of the Embarcadero wino night, and steamed clams from Sausalito across the bay, and that’s my ah-dream of San Francisco…

Dinner was a fur muff, a dozen clothespins, and some old dish towels boiled up with carrots. The fact that the meal was served with a bottle of prepared horseradish enabled Sammy to conclude that it was intended to pass for braised short ribs of beef - flanken. Many of Ethel's specialties arrived thus encoded by condiments.

We shared a Marlboro Man-prepared meal of rib eye steaks, baked potatoes, and corn. I’d been a vegetarian for seven years before returning home to Oklahoma and hadn’t touched a speck of beef to my lips in ages, which made my first bite of the rib eye that much more life-altering. The stress of the day had melted away in Marlboro Man’s arms, and now that same man had just rescued me forever from a life without beef. Whatever happened between the cowboy and me, I told myself, I never wanted to be without steak again.

Everybody knows, but many deny, that eating red meat gives one character. Strength, stamina, stick-to-it-iveness, constitution, not to mention a healthful, glowing pelt. But take a seat for a second. Listen. I eat salad. How’s that for a punch in the nuts, ladies? What’s more, as I sit typing this on a Santa Fe patio, I just now ate a bowl of oatmeal. That’s right. Because I’m a real human animal, not a television character. You see, despite the beautifully Ron Swanson–like notion that one should exist solely on beef, pork, and wild game, the reality remains that our bodies need more varied foodstuffs that facilitate health and digestive functions, but you don’t have to like it. I eat a bunch of spinach, but only to clean out my pipes to make room for more ribs, fool! I will submit to fruit and zucchini, yes, with gusto, so that my steak-eating machine will continue to masticate delicious charred flesh at an optimal running speed. By consuming kale, I am buying myself bonus years of life, during which I can eat a shit-ton more delicious meat. You don’t put oil in your truck because it tastes good. You do it so your truck can continue burning sweet gasoline and hauling a manly payload.

He’s doing very well. He ate something and now he’s resting.” “What did he have?” Like he was her kid or something. “That ginger and rice—” “Roast beef.” “Oh, that’s great! A serving or two of that can help his iron counts.” “It wasn’t just a serving. He had a whole roast beef. As in . . . a bone-in, standing prime rib roast. I believe they said it weighed sixteen pounds.” Sarah blinked. “Jeez, what was dessert—an entire pie?” “Vanilla ice cream.” “Oh, that’s more reasonable. It’s not like he ate a whole half gallon.” “And the pie.” “What?” “He ate a half gallon of vanilla ice cream with an apple pie. He’s in a food coma now.” Sarah threw her head back and laughed.

There, done! A Petite Loco Moco Bowl! *Loco Moco is traditional Hawaiian fare of hamburger and fried egg over rice.* "Wow, that looks super yummy!" "Huh. Loco Moco at a buffet? How interesting! Ooh, hot! The egg has been coddled to the perfect tenderness... ... and it melds beautifully with the powerful taste of the hamburger made from ground rib roast! Add to that the mild, fluffy rice to tie it all together and it fills the mouth with deliciousness... It's a dish that brings out the strength in you with every bite! Not only that, typical Loco Moco is covered with beef gravy... ... but you've used a vinaigrette instead! The tangy lightness of the white-wine vinegar in the vinaigrette wonderfully accentuates the richness of the egg yolk and the juiciness of the meat.

There are a dozen factors that make Japanese food so special- ingredient obsession, technical precision, thousands of years of meticulous refinement- but chief among them is one simple concept: specialization. In the Western world, where miso-braised short ribs share menu space with white truffle ceviche, restaurants cast massive nets to try to catch as many fish as possible, but in Japan, the secret to success is choosing one thing and doing it fucking well. Forever. There are people who dedicate their entire lives to grilling beef intestines, slicing blowfish, kneading buckwheat into tangles of chewy noodles- microdisciplines with infinite room for improvement. The concept of shokunin, an artisan deeply and singularly dedicated to his or her craft, is at the core of Japanese culture.

Don't believe vegetarians who tell you that meat has no flavor, that it comes from the spices or the marinade. The flavor is already there: earth and metal, salt and fat, blood. My favorite meat is chicken. I can eat a whole bird standing up in the kitchen, straight from the oven, burning my bare hands on its flesh. Anyone can roast a chicken, it is a good animal to cook. Lamb, on the other hand, is much harder to get right. You have to lock in the flavor, rubbing it with sea salt like you are exfoliating your own drying skin, tenderly basting it in its own juices, hour after hour. You have to make small slits across the surface of the leg, through which you can insert sprigs of rosemary, or cloves of garlic, or both. These incisions should run against the grain, in the opposite direction to which the muscle fibers lie. You can tell the direction better when the meat is still uncooked, when it is marbled and raw. It is worth running your finger along those fibers, all the way from one end to the other. This doesn't help with anything. It won't change how you cook it. But it is good to come to terms with things as they are. Preparing meat is always an act of physical labor. Whacking rib eye with a rolling pin. Snapping apart an arc of pork crackling. And there is something inescapably candid about it, too. If you've ever spatchcocked a goose- if you've pressed your weight down on its breastbone, felt it flatten and give, its bones rearranging under your hands- you will know what I am talking about. We are all capable of cruelty. Sometimes I imagine the feeling of a sliver of roast beef on my tongue: the pink flesh of my own body cradling the flesh of something else's. It makes sense to me that there is a market for a vegetarian burger that bleeds.

Street food, she saw. Silky pasta, doughy pizza, steaming pho, obnoxiously tall burgers. Benches had been nestled behind the Royal Festival Hall, and they were filled with people eating personal feasts from paper plates: vast thalis; racks of sticky, black ribs; half lobsters with melting garlic butter and bread. Rows of diners craning to read menus wound between food trucks; queues intermingled, new arrivals negotiating for space. Piglet looked around, the National behind her. She had left the office early, she reasoned; she had time before finding a place to work. She edged forward, walking among the tables. The benches were full, some having to stand, juggling their fried chicken with their phones. There were young men who talked too loudly, laughed with their mouths full, and wore round, tortoiseshell glasses; glamorous women in their fifties and sixties, lunching and drinking; and au pairs with charges no older than twelve who ate salt beef bagels, cacio e pepe, and laksa.

I found Chinatown both impossibly sophisticated and unbearably out of vogue. Chinese restaurants were a guilty pleasure of mine. I loved how they evoked the living world- either the Walden-like sense of individualism of the Ocean or Happy Garden, or something more candid ("Yummies!"). Back home they had been a preserve of birthdays and special celebrations: a lazy Susan packed with ribs and Peking duck, rhapsodically spun to the sound of Fleetwood Mac or the Police, with banana fritters drenched in syrup and a round of flowering tea to finish. It felt as cosmopolitan a dining experience as I would ever encounter. Contextualized amid the big-city landscape of politicized microbreweries and sushi, a hearty table of MSG and marinated pork felt at best crass, at worst obscurely racist. But there was something about the gloop and the sugar that I couldn't resist. And Chinatown was peculiarly untouched by my contemporaries, so I could happily nibble at plates of salt and chili squid or crispy Szechuan beef while leafing through pages of a magazine in peace.

In the window I smelled all the food of San Francisco. There were seafood places out there where the buns were hot, and the baskets were good enough to eat too; where the menus themselves were soft with foody esculence as though dipped in hot broths and roasted dry and good enough to eat too. Just show me the bluefish spangle on a seafood menu and I’d eat it; let me smell the drawn butter and lobster claws. There were places where they specialized in thick red roast beef au jus, or roast chicken basted in wine. There were places where hamburgs sizzled on grills and the coffee was only a nickel. And oh, that pan-fried chow mein flavored air that blew into my room from Chinatown, vying with the spaghetti sauces of North Beach, the soft-shell crab of Fisherman’s Wharf—nay, the ribs of Fillmore turning on spits! Throw in the Market Street chili beans, redhot, and french-fried potatoes of the Embarcadero wino night, and steamed clams from Sausalito across the bay, and that’s my ah-dream of San Francisco. Add fog, hunger-making raw fog, and the throb of neons in the soft night, the clack of high-heeled beauties, white doves in a Chinese grocery window . . .

There is a wide variety of good meat available, often simply grilled or roasted on the spit, and the preference is for farmyard animals, such as rabbit, lamb, chicken, duck and wood pigeons. The famous bistecca alla fiorentina, a T-bone steak, is always cooked over charcoal, and rosticciana is grilled spare ribs. In Tuscany, meat dishes are often stewed slowly in a tomato sauce, called in umido (stracotto is beef cooked in this way or in red wine). In the Maremma, wild boar (cinghiale) is sometimes prepared alla cacciatora, marinated in red wine, with parsley, bay leaves, garlic, rosemary, onion, carrot, celery, sage and wild fennel. It is then cooked slowly at a low heat in a terracotta pot with oil, lard, hot spicy pepper, and a little tomato sauce.

Best Beef Soup Ever This hearty and yummy winter soup is good any time of the year. 8–10 cups (1.9–2.4 L) water 2 large onions, quartered 5 pounds (2.3 kg) short ribs with bone cut into 1-inch (2.5-cm) chunks (results in 2½ pounds, or 1.1 kg, beef chunks) 1 tablespoon (18 g) kosher salt

Lean meats: beef (except ribs and rib eye), veal, grilled or roasted without oil or fat, buffalo, and venison, except cuts used for braising or stewing Organ meats: kidneys, liver, and tongue All poultry, except duck and goose, but without the skin Lean pork All fish—fatty, lean, white, oily, raw or cooked All shellfish Low-fat ham, sliced low-fat chicken Eggs Nonfat dairy products

Somehow, though, Strachey and others on the vessel found the will to keep struggling, to fight for their lives though it seemed all was lost. Terrified now, the passengers forgot all class pretensions. Sir Thomas Gates and Admiral Somers and Captain Newport joined Ravens and Strachey and Rolfe and other crewmen and passengers in the half-flooded hold, where they began frantically searching the ship’s innards to find places where the planks had separated and seawater rushed in. Their chests heaving with exertion, their breathing ragged, their eyes wide with fear, they scrabbled in the dark, flooded belly of the pitching, rolling vessel, holding guttering candles high as they searched the ship’s ribs, the planks, every corner of the hold, listening to discover where the water was flowing in. “Many a weeping leak was this way found,” Strachey would later report. When a leak was found, Strachey or one of the others tried to stem the flow, using whatever was at hand. Perhaps one of the mariners, or possibly even Strachey himself, had heard how Magellan’s crew, almost a hundred years earlier, had used chunks of beef to stop leaks in the hull of their vessel as they sailed around the world. The Sea Venture’s crew tried the same remedy, using pieces of the beef taken on board in Plymouth to try to stop or slow the flow of water into the ship’s rapidly filling hold. But all, Strachey said, “was to no purpose.”10 The ship kept taking water despite the crew’s best efforts.

WILD GAME MARINADE WITH JUNIPER AND GIN The year was 1976; the place, the La Varenne cooking school in Paris. A nice Jewish guy from Baltimore (yours truly) was about to have his first taste of wild game. Our instructor, Chef Fernand Chambrette, had secured a haunch of wild boar, and he prepared a traditional marinade of red wine and juniper berries to heighten its gamy flavor. A shot of gin reinforced the woodsy flavor of the juniper. If I’d known game could be this good, I would have tried it a lot sooner. You’ll be amazed by the power of this simple marinade to turn tame supermarket pork, beef, and even lamb into “wild” game. 3 cups dry red wine ½ cup balsamic vinegar ½ cup extra virgin olive oil 2 tablespoons gin 1 medium onion, thinly sliced 1 carrot, thinly sliced 1 rib celery, thinly sliced 2 cloves garlic, flattened with the side of a cleaver

At seven, Liam runs out to pick up some food for us. Her returns forty minutes later with seventy pounds of Chinese food from Orange Garden. "I didn't know what everyone liked. Plus none of us had lunch." He shrugs, unpacking egg rolls, pot stickers, barbecue ribs, pork lo mein, vegetable fried rice, sesame chicken, beef and broccoli, ma po tofu, cashew chicken, shrimp with peapods and water chestnuts, combination chow fun, and mushroom egg foo young. White rice, plenty of sauces, and about forty-two fortune cookies. A six-pack of Tsingtao beer.

Mini Chicago hot dogs, with all seven of the classic toppings for people to customize. Miniature pita breads ready to be filled with chopped gyro meat and tzatziki sauce. Half-size Italian beef sandwiches with homemade giardiniera my mom put up last summer. We did crispy fried chicken tenders atop waffle sticks with Tabasco maple butter, and two-inch deep-dish pizzas exploding with cheese and sausage. Little tubs of cole slaw and containers of spicy sesame noodles. There are ribs, chicken adobo tacos, and just for kicks, a macaroni and cheese bar with ten different toppings.

VEGETABLE BEEF SOUP Making this soup with roast beef you’ve saved from another meal (maybe Easy Roast Beef) cuts down on both prep time and cooking time. Even people who think they don’t like leftovers will enjoy this soup, which gets lots of flavor from fresh produce. SERVES 6 | 1 cup per serving Cooking spray 1 medium onion, chopped 1 medium rib of celery, diced 1 medium carrot, sliced 1½ teaspoons chopped fresh oregano or ½ teaspoon dried, crumbled 2 medium garlic cloves, minced ½ teaspoon dried thyme, crumbled 4 cups Beef Broth or commercial fat-free, no-salt-added beef broth 1 cup chopped cooked lean roast beef, cooked without salt, all visible fat discarded 1 cup cut fresh or frozen green beans 1 medium tomato, chopped Pepper to taste Lightly spray a Dutch oven with cooking spray. Cook the onion, celery, carrot, oregano, garlic, and thyme over medium heat for 4 minutes, or until the onion is soft, stirring occasionally. Stir in the remaining ingredients. Bring to a simmer. Reduce the heat and simmer, covered, for 30 minutes, or until the vegetables are tender. COOK’S TIP ON THICKENING SOUP To thicken and enrich most kinds of soup, either add some vegetables if none are called for or use more vegetables than the recipe specifies. Once they’ve cooked, transfer some or all of the vegetables to a food processor or blender and process until smooth, adding a little liquid if needed. Stir the processed vegetables back into the soup. PER SERVING calories 70 total fat 1.0 g saturated 0.5 g trans 0.0 g polyunsaturated 0.0 g monounsaturated 0.5 g cholesterol 13 mg sodium 46 mg carbohydrates 6 g fiber 2 g sugars 3 g protein 9 g calcium 35 mg potassium 304 mg dietary exchanges 1 vegetable 1 very lean meat

The first had been ordinary ground chuck, good and fatty, seasoned with salt and pepper- the most underrated beef seasoning there was- and smashed on the griddle. The second was brisket. Toothsome, but leaner than chuck. If she went with that, she'd have to add some oil to the mix, maybe smoky olive oil, to give it some juice. For now, the buttered bun did some of the work for her and kept the playing field even. But she would probably go with her third option: brisket, chuck, and short rib mixed. It wasn't as expensive as the pure brisket, but she thought it was far better. Then again, the fact that it wasn't as expensive was part of what made it a better option to her, so she wasn't entirely sure she trusted her own taste on this.

Barbecue, vegetable plate, baked beans, sweet tea, fried cherry pie, and an apple I'm almost catatonic as I hold the little slip of paper in my hand now. Harlan, Cody, and I didn't need Shawn to go into what "barbecue" meant. Classic Texas barbecue is a beef brisket, sausage, and ribs. A "vegetable plate" is traditionally a potato salad, raw white onions, and pickles. Not quite what most people would call a healthy vegetable plate, but this is how we do it in Texas.

Seared Beef Rib-Eye with Prunes, Almonds, and Bourbon-washed Butter

What’s wrong with Barbara Kingsolver?” Eva asked. “She is the embodiment of liberal piety at its most middlebrow and tendentious. Her novels are the beef ribs of fiction.

Loretta’s shoulders slumped in defeat. With numb hands she lowered the rifle to the dirt. A nasty grin twisted Hunter’s mouth. “So it is a trade? You are my woman?” For once, she was glad she couldn’t talk. “You can make sign language, herbi.” His eyes locked with hers, glinting, watchful. Amy cried, “No, Loretta, no, don’t do it!” Lifting an eyebrow, the Comanche waited. The tension mounted, reminding Loretta of the lull right before a storm, thick, heavy, unnaturally quiet. She caught the inside of her cheek between her teeth and forced herself to nod. His eyes flickered with satisfaction. Nudging his mount forward, he closed the distance between them and leaned down to encircle her waist with a steely arm. With little effort he lifted her onto his horse, positioning her sideways in front of him so her shoulder pressed against his chest, her bottom wedged between him and the ridge of his stallion’s neck. Never had she felt such quivering, helpless fear. He was going to take her. The reality of it sank home now that he had her on his horse. “Tani-har-ro,” he said softly. She turned her head to find that he was sniffing her hair, his expression quizzical. The moment their eyes met, her insides tightened. Up close, his face seemed even harsher than it had the night before, features chiseled, lips narrowed to an uncompromising line, his skin baked brown by the sun. She could see in minute detail the tiny cracks in his grease paint, the thick sweep of his lashes, the knife scar that slashed his cheek. His eyes were without question the darkest blue she had ever seen and seemed to cut right through her. If she had been entertaining the thought of pleading with him, it fled her mind now. She remembered what he had said to her that first day. Look at me and know the face of your master. She supposed, by his standards, he had a right to smell her hair since he had paid dearly for every strand. A flush slid up her neck. In nothing but a nightgown, she would have been embarrassed in front of any man; with Hunter her humiliation was tenfold. He swept his gaze over her with no sign of guilt, no hesitation, his attention lingering on whatever drew his interest. When he traced her collarbone with a fingertip and gave her arm a squeeze, she felt like a head of beef at auction. “You are too skinny. Your father should feed you more.” Catching hold of her chin, he tipped her head back and forced her mouth open to check her teeth. “Hmph-hh,” he grunted, returning his arm to her waist. “This Comanche paid too many horses. Without your pitsikwina to cover you, you are all bones.” She flashed him a glare, only to discover that his eyes were filled with laughter. He slid a hand up her side, his fingers firm and warm where they hugged the curve of her ribs. She stiffened when he cupped the underside of her breast, but she didn’t resist his touch. “Maybe not all bones. What do you have there, herbi? Do you try to hide the sweet places your mother promised me?” He watched her for a moment, as if trying to predict what her reaction might be to such outrageous familiarity. Then his mouth twisted in a mocking smile. “You do not spit when your sister may suffer my wrath. I should keep her, I think. She is a brave warrior, no?

A flush slid up her neck. In nothing but a nightgown, she would have been embarrassed in front of any man; with Hunter her humiliation was tenfold. He swept his gaze over her with no sign of guilt, no hesitation, his attention lingering on whatever drew his interest. When he traced her collarbone with a fingertip and gave her arm a squeeze, she felt like a head of beef at auction. “You are too skinny. Your father should feed you more.” Catching hold of her chin, he tipped her head back and forced her mouth open to check her teeth. “Hmph-hh,” he grunted, returning his arm to her waist. “This Comanche paid too many horses. Without your pitsikwina to cover you, you are all bones.” She flashed him a glare, only to discover that his eyes were filled with laughter. He slid a hand up her side, his fingers firm and warm where they hugged the curve of her ribs. She stiffened when he cupped the underside of her breast, but she didn’t resist his touch. “Maybe not all bones. What do you have there, herbi? Do you try to hide the sweet places your mother promised me?” He watched her for a moment, as if trying to predict what her reaction might be to such outrageous familiarity.

What do you want for lunch?" "Jag and I were talking about maybe needing a little Persian fix. What do you think?" "I think I will do an order to Noon O Kabab, and then take the dog for a walk. Can you keep an ear out for the doorbell?" "Will do?" I grab my iPad and log in to the restaurant website and place an order for hummus, baba ghanouj, spicy pomegranate wings, and skewers of chenjeh, koubideh, and lamb. The combination of grilled marinated rib eye, minced spiced beef, and tender lamb should be plenty for three hungry worker bees, with Persian rice and grilled vegetables, chunks of feta, and their delicious large pita breads.

Carbonado was a method of cutting and notching meat for more even cooking. The term was derived from carbone, the Italian for charcoal. One 1615 recipe for beef carbonado came with a warning: “indeed a dish used most for wantonness!” … He scotched him and notched him like a carbonado. CORIOLANUS, 4.5 Prime Rib Roast with Orange-Glazed Onions SERVES 6 TO ROAST a Fillet of Beef,” as indicated in the original recipe, meant skewering and turning it on a spit before an open fire.

The fact that there were more adults than children at her party didn't seem to faze Dixie. "That child is like a dandelion," Lettie said. "She could grow through concrete." Dixie's birthday party had a combination Mardi Gras/funeral wake feel to it. Mr. Bennett and Digger looped and twirled pink crepe paper streamers all around the white graveside tent until it looked like a candy-cane castle. Leo Stinson scrubbed one of his ponies and gave pony rides. Red McHenry, the florist's son, made a unicorn's horn out of flower foam wrapped with gold foil, and strapped it to the horse's head. "Had no idea that horse was white," Leo said, as they stood back and admired their work. Angela, wearing an old, satin, off-the-shoulder hoop gown she'd found in the attic, greeted each guest with strings of beads, while Dixie, wearing peach-colored fairy wings, passed out velvet jester hats. Charlotte, who never quite grasped the concept of eating while sitting on the ground, had her driver bring a rocking chair from the front porch. Mr. Nalls set the chair beside Eli's statue where Charlotte barked orders like a general. "Don't put the food table under the oak tree!" she commanded, waving her arm. "We'll have acorns in the potato salad!" Lettie kept the glasses full and between KyAnn Merriweather and Dot Wyatt there was enough food to have fed Eli's entire regiment. Potato salad, coleslaw, deviled eggs, bread and butter pickles, green beans, fried corn, spiced pears, apple dumplings, and one of every animal species, pork barbecue, fried chicken, beef ribs, and cold country ham as far as the eye could see.

Regular guests had claimed she'd outdone herself with such creations as her Aberdeen Angus grass-fed rib eye with mushroom puree and beef tea; they'd gushed over her sea bass with prawn tortellini accompanied by fennel and a white wine sauce, and the crowd favorite always received lots of compliments, a chocolate orange mousse with fruit brioche.

chuck roast, strip, chuck eye, sirloin and beef are beset. You’ll also want chick brisk, prime rib, brisket or other roasts. Ground beef is fine as long as you are getting fatty ground beef. You can also eat beef organs. There are many who practice the carnivore diet that believe that organs are necessary if you want to have complete nutrition on this diet.

By summer's end, the crepe myrtles and magnolias were all overgrown, and their petals littered the sidewalks like when meat is so tender it falls right off the bones. I remember at Grandpa Falcon's barbecues, he'd do barbecue pork chops and beef ribs and chicken legs. And I remember how, when you picked up a drumstick, hunks of juicy meat would slide right off the leg bone. For me, it's all about the cooking down here. Yam-pecan pies, Brussels sprouts and egg whites, chicken and waffles.

Chicken legs: 35 to 40 minutes Duck legs: 1 1/2 to 2 hours Turkey legs: 2 1/2 to 3 hours Pork shoulder: 2 1/2 to 3 1/2 hours, longer if on the bone Bony beef (short ribs, osso buco, oxtail): 3 to 3 1/2 hours Meaty beef (chuck, brisket, round): 3 to 3 1/2 hours

From a time even before then, from before James was born, there's a list of frequently requested items in English and Chinese: Egg rolls Wontons Pot stickers Crab rangoons (What are these? Winnie, their mother, annotated in Chinese. Their father wrote underneath, Wontons filled with cream cheese.) Beef with broccoli Following a scattershot statistical analysis, Winnie also compiled a list of things Americans liked: Large chunks of meat Wontons and noodles together in the same soup Pea pods and green beans, carrots, broccoli, baby corn (no other vegetables) Ribs or chicken wings Beef with broccoli Chicken with peanuts Peanuts in everything Chop suey (What is this? Leo wrote. I don't know, Winnie wrote.) Anything with shrimp (The rest of them can't eat shrimp, she annotated. Be careful.) Anything from the deep fryer Anything with sweet and sour sauce Anything with a thick, brown sauce And there is, of course, the list of things the Americans didn't like: Meat on the bone (except ribs or chicken wings) Rice porridge Fermented soybeans

my family’s elemental dish, the food equivalent of DNA. My mother learned it from Mary, my grandmother, who in turn got it from Russ’s sisters. My aunts make it; so do I. In one pan, brown country pork ribs and chicken pieces. In another, brown chopped onions and celery in olive oil; add garlic. Add tomato sauce, tomato puree, tomato paste, basil, oregano, parsley, salt and pepper to the meat. Add the vegetables to the meat. Add a green pepper and let stew. Remove the pepper. The meatballs: ground pork, ground beef, ground veal, stale bread, Romano cheese, chopped onion, celery, parsley, raw egg, salt and pepper. Fry the meatballs, add some to the sauce and keep some separate.

This is beef short ribs marinated in miso. First you mix hatchō miso and Sendai's red miso with sake. Then you place the short ribs in the mixture; they should be left to marinate for a day or so. Then you take the ribs out and grill them over a charcoal fire." "Miso and beef are a great match, aren't they? It's a pity that people in other countries don't know about miso.

When I was a little girl, I would gorge on her fried tofu with chilies. I was much slimmer back then, you know." "Was the tofu your favorite dish of hers?" I asked. "Oh no, there's too many to count." Celia's tone softened as if she were waxing nostalgic about a lost, grand romance, rather than a recipe. "Everything she cooked was excellent. I still remember every dish that she made: beef noodle soup, braised short ribs, drunken chicken wings, deep-fried shrimp rolls... Your laolao cooked from her heart, and that's why her food was the best in Chinatown.

The soup kettles included oyster stew, chili, matzoh ball soup, tomato soup, vegetable beef soup, hot and sour soup, and miso soup. The main dish table featured turkey, Virginia ham, prime rib, standing rib roast, pork roast, roast goose, Peking duck, lasagna, pizza, burritos, tamales, macaroni and cheese, and, in direct defiance of Grandfather's orders, grilled portobello mushrooms in red wine sauce.

In 1951, Aerojet provided an employee cafeteria that featured roast prime rib of beef (seventy-five cents) on Thursdays, New York steaks (eighty-five cents) on Wednesdays and lobster (seventy-five cents) on Friday.

She is never going to let me live down that stupid Thanksgiving," Kai says. I can't help but take the bait. "You made prime rib!" "It was delicious," Kai says, shrugging. "IT WAS BEEF! You can't have beef on Thanksgiving, except for appetizers like meatballs or something. You have TURKEY on Thanksgiving." Last Thanksgiving I spent with Phil and Kai, since I was orphaned and separated and Gilly couldn't make it from London. Everything was delicious, but it was like a dinner party and not Thanksgiving. The prime rib wasn't the only anomaly. No mashed potatoes or stuffing or sweet potatoes with marshmallows or green bean casserole. He had acorn squash with cippolini onions and balsamic glaze. Asparagus almondine. Corn custard with oyster mushrooms. Wild rice with currants and pistachios and mint. All amazing and perfectly cooked and balanced, and not remotely what I wanted for Thanksgiving. When I refused to take leftovers, his feelings were hurt, and when he got to the store two days later, he let me know. "Look," Kai says with infinite patience. "For a week we prepped for the Thanksgiving pickups." He ticks off on his fingers the classic menu we developed together for the customers who wanted a traditional meal without the guilt. "Herb-brined turkey breasts with apricot glaze and roasted shallot jus. Stuffing muffins with sage and pumpkin seeds. Cranberry sauce with dried cherries and port. Pumpkin soup, and healthy mashed potatoes, and glazed sweet potatoes with orange and thyme, and green beans with wild mushroom ragu, and roasted brussels sprouts, and pumpkin mousse and apple cake. We cooked Thanksgiving and tasted Thanksgiving and took Thanksgiving leftovers home at the end of the day. I just thought you would be SICK OF TURKEY!

Chicken legs, beef ribs- they ate the food with their fingers, dipping into the horseradish sauce, feeding each other greedily. Laughing. They rolled leaves of cabbages and chewed on them like monkeys. They ate the golden potatoes as if they were apples. By the time they returned to the making of stock, and took the roasted veal bones from the stove and put them into the pot and filled it with enough cold water so that it could slowly simmer, their own legs no longer ached, their feet felt as if they could stand the weight of their bones for yet another day and they tasted of garlic and wine. "Thank you, chef," he said. "Thank you, chef." She opened the cheese larder and took out a wedge of runny Camembert, which she covered with a handful of white raspberries that he had draining in a colander by the sink. He opened a bottle of port. The dishes could wait. They sat on the back stairs of the tall thin house and looked over the lights of the steep city of Monte Carlo and out into the endless sea. The air was cool, the cheese and raspberries were rich and tart; the port was unfathomably complex with wave and wave of spiced cherries, burnt caramel and wild honey.

Chicken Cacciatore I am a lover of braised meats, whether it’s pot roast or short ribs or beef brisket…or this beautiful stewed chicken dish. Just give me some meat, a pot with a lid, and some combination of liquid ingredients, and I’ll be eating out of your hand…as long as your hand is holding braised meat. That might have been the weirdest introductory sentence of any recipe I’ve ever written. Chicken cacciatore generally involves browning chicken pieces in a pot over high heat, then sautéing a mix of vegetables--onions, peppers, mushrooms, tomatoes--in the same pot. Spices are added, followed by a little wine and broth, and the chicken and veggies are allowed to cook together in the oven long enough for magic to happen… And magic does happen. I use chicken thighs for this recipe because I happen to love chicken thighs. But you can use a cut-up whole chicken or a mix of your favorite pieces. Just be sure to leave the skin on or you’ll regret it the rest of your life. Not that I’m dramatic or anything.

Note: When shopping for ground beef, look for a fat content of at least 20 percent (80/20 beef). Plain old ground chuck will do. For a superior burger, combine 50 percent ground sirloin with 25 percent ground fatty short rib and 25 percent ground brisket. To clarify butter, place it in a small microwave-safe container and microwave in 15-second increments until fully melted. Skim off the white scum from the top surface with a spoon and discard. Carefully pour off and reserve the yellow butterfat, discarding the milky white liquid at the bottom.