Butter Beer Quotes

Holy shit. Who the fuck complains about going to Harry Potter World? Or Butter Beer? Or wands?

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple with a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me. And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves and satin sandles, and say we've no money for butter. I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain and pick flowers in other people's gardens And learn to spit. You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go Or only bread and pickle for a week And hoard pens and pencils and beer mats and things in boxes. But now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not swear in the street And set a good example for the children.

The first sip of beer on a hot day is like that first finger-dip when you open a new jar of peanut butter.

Took us to fucking Harry Potter World for the third year in a row. I’m sick of Butter Beer and corny family photos with wands.” Holy shit. Who the fuck complains about going to Harry Potter World? Or Butter Beer? Or wands?

Who the fuck complains about going to Harry Potter World? Or Butter Beer? Or wands?

They thought of home, naturally, but there was no burning desire to be in civilization for its own sake. Worsley recorded: "Waking on a fine morning I feel a great longing for the smell of dewy wet grass and flowers of a Spring morning in New Zealand or England. One has very few other longings for civilization—good bread and butter, Munich beer, Coromandel rock oysters, apple pie and Devonshire cream are pleasant reminiscences rather than longings.

For much of the twentieth century, American visitors to Britain found that everything was the wrong temperature: cold, drafty rooms; warm beer and milk; rancid butter and sweating cheese.

Terence's idea of roughing it consisted of pork pie, veal pie, cold roast beef, a ham, pickles, pickled eggs, pickled beets, cheese, bread and butter, ginger beer and a bottle of port. It was possibly the best meal I had ever had in my life.

In other words, after Winthrop has acquired all his butter firkins, food stirrers, and beer along with six dozen candles, twenty thousand biscuits, and twenty-nine sides of beef, he goes through the Bible and writes down a bunch of verses commanding him to be willing to cheerfully give all that stuff away. My firkin is your firkin being one of Christianity's primary creeds.

To begin with, there is the frightful debauchery of taste that has already been effected by a century of mechanisation. This is almost too obvious and too generally admitted to need pointing out. But as a single instance, take taste in its narrowest sense - the taste for decent food. In the highly mechanical countries, thanks to tinned food, cold storage, synthetic flavouring matters, etc., the palate it almost a dead organ. As you can see by looking at any greengrocer’s shop, what the majority of English people mean by an apple is a lump of highly-coloured cotton wool from America or Australia; they will devour these things, apparently with pleasure, and let the English apples rot under the trees. It is the shiny, standardized, machine-made look of the American apple that appeals to them; the superior taste of the English apple is something they simply do not notice. Or look at the factory-made, foil wrapped cheeses and ‘blended’ butter in an grocer’s; look at the hideous rows of tins which usurp more and more of the space in any food-shop, even a dairy; look at a sixpenny Swiss roll or a twopenny ice-cream; look at the filthy chemical by-product that people will pour down their throats under the name of beer. Wherever you look you will see some slick machine-made article triumphing over the old-fashioned article that still tastes of something other than sawdust. And what applies to food applies also to furniture, houses, clothes, books, amusements and everything else that makes up our environment. These are now millions of people, and they are increasing every year, to whom the blaring of a radio is not only a more acceptable but a more normal background to their thoughts than the lowing of cattle or the song of birds. The mechanisation of the world could never proceed very far while taste, even the taste-buds of the tongue, remained uncorrupted, because in that case most of the products of the machine would be simply unwanted. In a healthy world there would be no demand for tinned food, aspirins, gramophones, gas-pipe chairs, machine guns, daily newspapers, telephones, motor-cars, etc. etc.; and on the other hand there would be a constant demand for the things the machine cannot produce. But meanwhile the machine is here, and its corrupting effects are almost irresistible. One inveighs against it, but one goes on using it. Even a bare-arse savage, given the change, will learn the vices of civilisation within a few months. Mechanisation leads to the decay of taste, the decay of taste leads to demand for machine-made articles and hence to more mechanisation, and so a vicious circle is established.

Peasant families ate pork, beef, or game only a few times a year; fowls and eggs were eaten far more often. Milk, butter, and hard cheeses were too expensive for the average peasant. As for vegetables, the most common were cabbage and watercress. Wild carrots were also popular in some places. Parsnips became widespread by the sixteenth century, and German writings from the mid-1500s indicate that beet roots were a preferred food there. Rutabagas were developed during the Middle Ages by crossing turnips with cabbage, and monastic gardens were known for their asparagus and artichokes. However, as a New World vegetable, the potato was not introduced into Europe until the late 1500s or early 1600s, and for a long time it was thought to be merely a decorative plant. "Most people ate only two meals a day. In most places, water was not the normal beverage. In Italy and France people drank wine, in Germany and England ale or beer.

Beginning with Bilbo's unexpected party in chapter 1 with its tea, seed-cakes, buttered scones, apple-tarts, mince-pies, cheese, eggs, cold chicken, pickles, beer, coffee, and smoke rings, we find that a reverence, celebration, and love of the everyday is an essential part of Tolkien's moral vision

Set the oven to 350 degrees. Grab flour. Butter. Salt. Dried oregano. A beer I planned to use to braise a steak. Julio once told me my mom loved to bake. Aunt Sarah has confirmed it's true, although none of the recipes she's ever sent me mention them being my mother's. I mix all the ingredients together.

There was a jug of creamy milk for the children (Mr Beaver stuck to beer) and a great lump of deep yellow butter in the middle of the table from which everyone took as much as he wanted to go with his potatoes, and all the children thought- and I agree with them- that there's nothing to beat good freshwater fish if you eat it when it has been alive half an hour ago and has come out of the pan half a minute ago. And when they had finished the fish Mrs. Beaver brought unexpectedly out of the oven a great and gloriously sticky marmalade roll, steaming hot, and at the same time moved the kettle onto the fire, so that when they had finished the marmalade roll the tea was made and ready to be poured out.

From my example, a great part of them left their muddling breakfast of beer, and bread, and cheese, finding they could with me be supplied from a neighboring house with a large porringer of hot water-gruel, sprinkled with pepper, crumbed with bread, and a bit of butter in it, for the price of a pint of beer, viz., three half-pence. This was a more comfortable as well as cheaper breakfast, and keep their heads clearer.

Dink, my boy, I'll be a millionaire in ten years. You know what I'm figuring out all this time? I'm going at this scientifically. I'm figuring out the number of fools there are on the top of this globe, classifying 'em, looking out what they want to be fooled on. I'm making an exact science of it." "Go on," said Dink, amused and perplexed, for he was trying to distinguish the serious and the humorous. "What's the principle of a patent medicine?—advertise first, then concoct your medicine. All the science of Foolology is: first, find something all the fools love and enjoy, tell them it's wrong, hammer it into them, give them a substitute and sit back, chuckle, and shovel away the ducats. Bread's wrong, coffee's wrong, beer's wrong. Why, Dink, in the next twenty years all the fools will be feeding on substitutes for everything they want; no salt—denatured sugar—anti-tea—oiloline—peanut butter—whale's milk—et cetera, et ceteray, and blessing the name of the fool-master who fooled them.

Cheat (sometimes) Eating healthily is a part of my lifestyle, but I’m no superhuman. My Kryptonite is at the movie theater. I can’t go to the movies unless I have popcorn (with butter and salt, of course), and I’ll also get nachos with extra cheese and jalapeños, then some M&Ms, water, and a root beer if I really want to get crazy. It’s okay to cheat…provided you do it only occasionally. If you never allow yourself to cheat, you put too much pressure on yourself and doom yourself to failure. Work hard and practice hard, but it’s okay to cut yourself a break now and then.

defining the magic a good poem is like a cold beer when you need it, a good poem is a hot turkey sandwich when you’re hungry, a good poem is a gun when the mob corners you, a good poem is something that allows you to walk through the streets of death, a good poem can make death melt like hot butter, a good poem can frame agony and hang it on a wall, a good poem can let your feet touch China, a good poem can make a broken mind fly, a good poem can let you shake hands with Mozart, a good poem can let you shoot craps with the devil and win, a good poem can do almost anything, and most important a good poem knows when to stop.

What about childhood? What did you like to do?” I ask, fishing for any commonality now. “Take pictures of moss. Collect stickers. Pretend that the sticks I found were a wand, and I was Hermione Granger.” I pause and glance at her. “You’re a Potter head?” She grips the edge of the table. “Please, for the love of all that is holy, please tell me that you’re a Potter head as well.” “Eh, not so much.” She groans. “Ughhh, really?” “No, I actually am.” “Stop, are you?” she asks. “Yes, and I read some of the books when they were first released. That’s how old I am compared to you. I have some first editions.” “You’re a liar,” she yells, excitement bustling in her eyes. “Seriously?” “Yes, they’re my prized possessions. Have you been to Harry Potter World?” “No,” she bemoans. “But when I graduate, I plan on going. I’m assuming since you’re rich and can do whatever you want when you’re not playing, you’ve been?” “I have.” “Is the butter beer everything I think it would be?” “And then some,” I answer. “Harry Potter World is probably one of the best things that has ever happened to fandom. It feels so real.” “Urrghh, I’m so jealous. Did you get sorted into a house?” “Yeah, Gryffindor.” “Of course. You seem like an overachiever. I know I’m Hufflepuff through and through, and I’m damn proud of it.” “Do you ever feel bad for people who get Ravenclaw?” I ask. “No one ever talks about it. Gryffindor is clearly superior, Slytherin has its own merit because it’s evil, and then Hufflepuff is for all the fun-loving people. What about Ravenclaw?” “You know, now that you mentioned it, I don’t think I ever hear anyone claim they’re from Ravenclaw. That’s sad.” “It is.” She tilts her head to the side. “I think we figured out what we bonded over.

Leo! Scusi, Nonna." But he still managed to get a good, quiet curse or two out as he backed his way gingerly through the swinging door. "Here.I got it." Tina took the beer and glass from me. "Ya know them?" I nodded. "She looks like butter wouldn't melt.But her kid..." She pursed brilliantly pink lips. "All that and a bag of baked tofu chips?" I had to smile a little at the image. "No.He's not...He doesn't act like..." I wasn't entirely sure why I was defending him.He hadn't exactly been the Prince Charming of Dinner Orders. Come to think of it, I couldn't completely vouch for Alex Bainbridge being Prince Charming of Anything. Except my own little Villink fantasy. "Maybe." "Cute,though." "Yeah." "Yeah?" I have no idea what is was Tina saw in my face. Something. "Aw, sweetie." She sighed. "Want me to shake up Daddy's beer a little?" "No," I answered. "but thanks for the offer.

All about them the golden girls, shopping for dainties in Lairville. Even in the midst of the wild-maned winter's chill, skipping about in sneakers and sweatsocks, cream-colored raincoats. A generation in the mold, the Great White Pattern Maker lying in his prosperous bed, grinning while the liquid cools. But he does not know my bellows. Someone there is who will huff and will puff. The sophmores in their new junior blazers, like Saturday's magazines out on Thursday. Freshly covered textbooks from the campus store, slide rules dangling in leather, sheathed broadswords, chinos scrubbed to the virgin fiber, starch pressed into straight-razor creases, Oxford shirts buttoned down under crewneck sweaters, blue eyes bobbing everywhere, stunned by the android synthesis of one-a-day vitamins, Tropicana orange juice, fresh country eggs, Kraft homogenized cheese, tetra-packs of fortified milk, Cheerios with sun-ripened bananas, corn-flake-breaded chicken, hot fudge sundaes, Dairy Queen root beer floats, cheeseburgers, hybrid creamed corn, riboflavin extract, brewer's yeast, crunchy peanut butter, tuna fish casseroles, pancakes and imitation maple syrup, chuck steaks, occasional Maine lobster, Social Tea biscuits, defatted wheat germ, Kellogg's Concentrate, chopped string beans, Wonderbread, Birds Eye frozen peas, shredded spinach, French-fried onion rings, escarole salads, lentil stews, sundry fowl innards, Pecan Sandies, Almond Joys, aureomycin, penicillin, antitetanus toxoid, smallpox vaccine, Alka-Seltzer, Empirin, Vicks VapoRub, Arrid with chlorophyll, Super Anahist nose spray, Dristan decongestant, billions of cubic feet of wholesome, reconditioned breathing air, and the more wholesome breeds of fraternal exercise available to Western man. Ah, the regimented good will and force-fed confidence of those who are not meek but will inherit the earth all the same.

I sliced the chicken with my fingers and put it into a small skillet to warm, separate a couple of eggs, and whisk the yolks quickly until they have lightened and thickened. Pour in a healthy glug of cream, then grate a flurry of cheese over the top, mixing it in. I zest a lemon from the bowl into the mix, and then squeeze in the juice. Some salt and pepper. I go over to the pots in my window and, with the scissors I keep there, snip off some parsley and chives, which I chop roughly and add to the mix. When the pasta is al dente, I drain it quickly, reserving a bit of the cooking water, and add it to a large bowl with a knob of butter, mixing quickly to coat the pasta. I add in the lemon sauce, tossing with a pair of tongs. When the whole mass comes together in a slick velvet tumble of noodles, I taste for seasoning, add a bit more ground black pepper, and put the shredded chicken on top with a bit more grated cheese. A fork and a cold beer out of the fridge, and I take the bowl out to the living room, tossing Simca a piece of chicken, and settle on the couch to watch TV, twirling long strands of the creamy lemony pasta onto my fork with pieces of the savory chicken, complete comfort food.

The menu is spectacular. Passed hors d'oeuvres include caramelized shallot tartlets topped with Gorgonzola, cubes of crispy pork belly skewered with fresh fig, espresso cups of chilled corn soup topped with spicy popcorn, mini arepas filled with rare skirt steak and chimichurri and pickle onions, and prawn dumplings with a mango serrano salsa. There is a raw bar set up with three kinds of oysters, and a raclette station where we have a whole wheel of the nutty cheese being melted to order, with baby potatoes, chunks of garlic sausage, spears of fresh fennel, lightly pickled Brussels sprouts, and hunks of sourdough bread to pour it over. When we head up for dinner, we will start with a classic Dover sole amandine with a featherlight spinach flan, followed by a choice of seared veal chops or duck breast, both served with creamy polenta, roasted mushrooms, and lacinato kale. Next is a light salad of butter lettuce with a sharp lemon Dijon vinaigrette, then a cheese course with each table receiving a platter of five cheeses with dried fruits and nuts and three kinds of bread, followed by the panna cottas. Then the cake, and coffee and sweets. And at midnight, chorizo tamales served with scrambled eggs, waffle sticks with chicken fingers and spicy maple butter, candied bacon strips, sausage biscuit sandwiches, and vanilla Greek yogurt parfaits with granola and berries on the "breakfast" buffet, plus cheeseburger sliders, mini Chicago hot dogs, little Chinese take-out containers of pork fried rice and spicy sesame noodles, a macaroni-and-cheese bar, and little stuffed pizzas on the "snack food" buffet. There will also be tiny four-ounce milk bottles filled with either vanilla malted milk shakes, root beer floats made with hard root beer, Bloody Marys, or mimosas.

The question revives Kropp, more particularly as he hears there’s no more beer in the canteen. “It’s not only Himmelstoss, there are lots of them. As sure as they get a stripe or a star they become different men, just as though they’d swallowed concrete.” “That’s the uniform,” I suggest. “Roughly speaking it is,” says Kat, and prepares for a long speech; “but the root of the matter lies somewhere. For instance, if you train a dog to eat potatoes and then afterwards put a piece of meat in front of him, he’ll snap at it, it’s his nature. And if you give a man a little bit of authority he behaves just the same way, he snaps at it too. The things are precisely the same. In himself man is essentially a beast, only he butters it over like a slice of bread with a little decorum. The army is based on that; one man must always have power over the other. The mischief is merely that each one has much too much power. A non-com. can torment a private, a lieutenant a non-com., a captain a lieutenant, until he goes mad. And because they know they can, they all soon acquire the habit more or less. Take a simple case: we are marching back from the parade-ground dog-tired. Then comes the order to sing. We sing spiritlessly, for it is all we can do to trudge along with our rifles. At once the company is turned about and has to do another hour’s drill as punishment. On the march back the order to sing is given again, and once more we start. Now what’s the use of all that? It’s simply that the company commander’s head has been turned by having so much power. And nobody blames him. On the contrary, he is praised for being strict. That, of course, is only a trifling instance, but it holds also in very different affairs. Now I ask you: Let a man be whatever you like in peacetime, what occupation is there in which he can behave like that without getting a crack on the nose? He can only do that in the army. It goes to the heads of them all, you see. And the more insignificant a man has been in civil life the worse it takes him.

Mark came home late one frozen Sunday carrying a bag of small, silver fish. They were smelts, locally known as icefish. He’d brought them at the store in the next town south, across from which a little village had sprung up on the ice of the lake, a collection of shacks with holes drilled in and around them. I’d seen the men going from the shore to the shacks on snowmobiles, six-packs of beer strapped on behind them like a half dozen miniature passengers. “Sit and rest,” Mark said. “I’m cooking.” He sautéed minced onion in our homemade butter, added a little handful of crushed, dried sage, and when the onion was translucent, he sprinkled n flour to make a roux, which he loosened with beer, in honor of the fishermen. He added cubed carrot, celery root, potato, and some stock, and then the fish, cut into pieces, and when they were all cooked through he poured in a whole morning milking’s worth of Delia’s yellow cream. Icefish chowder, rich and warm, eaten while sitting in Mark’s lap, my feet so close to the woodstove that steam came off my damp socks.

Here are some tips to help you feed your family a healthy diet; they’ll save you money in the long run: 1. Skim Milk: skim milk has no empty calories, according to the U.S. Department of Agriculture; serve that as alternative to whole milk or even 2%. 2. Extra Lean Ground Beef: extra lean ground beef also has no empty calories; regular ground beef gets about one quarter of its calories from fat. 3. Skinless Chicken Breast: A skinless chicken breast has no empty calories. Battered and fried chicken wings get almost 80 percent of their calories from fat. 4. Wheat Bread: Wheat bread, which should be a staple in virtually every home, has no empty calories; a croissant has almost 50 percent empty calories. 5. Junk Drinks: soda pop, beer, wine and distilled spirits all provide no nutritional value for their calories. Money spent here is simply wasted. 6. Toppings: Butter, margarine, cream cheese and whipped toppings are almost completely empty calories. 7. Water: water from the tap in America is generally safe to drink, virtually free and is the healthiest option for most people. 8. Eating at Home: At home, you have the opportunity to influence your family’s eating habits more than when you eat out. If you provide food they love to eat at home, you can save money by eating out less. If it’s healthy food at home,

For that voyage, Frobisher packed one pound of biscuit and one gallon of beer per man per day, one pound of salt meat (beef or pork) per man for each “flesh” day, as well as one dried codfish for every four men on fast days. Each man was supplied with a quarter pound of butter daily, along with a half pound of cheese, as well as four bushels of peas (pease) per man during the voyage.

When I was a kid…We believed it was butter, and we drank whole milk. Now, coffee, cheese, flour, oil, sugar, salt, beer, and ice cream are bad for us, and we should eat foods that are improved, no-fat, lo-cal, lite, organic, unsaturated, decaffeinated, artificial, or taste awful, and contain enough dyes and preservatives to look appetizing and last a long time in their pretty packaging that is 43% of their retail cost figuring in advertising.

She went to Kildare, where she became the abbess of one of Ireland’s first convents. She wrote a reputedly strict rule and continued to witness to God’s abundant love. Hers were the miracles of the multiplication of butter, beer, and bacon—always for the succor of the poor. She restored cows and sheep and blessed the marriage bed. Hers was the vision of heaven as endless feast, according to the ancient poem: “I should like a lake of ale for the King of Kings/ I should like the household of heaven to be there drinking it for eternity…/ I should like cheerfulness to be in their drinking/ I should like Jesus here also.

responsibilities of the colonial wife, who was “expected to cook, wash, sew, milk, spin, clean, and garden,” note Mintz and Kellogg. “Her activities included brewing beer [which was perceived as healthier than water], churning butter, harvesting fruit, keeping chickens, spinning wool, building fires, baking bread, making cheese, boiling laundry, and stitching shirts, petticoats, and other garments. She participated in trade—exchanging surplus fruit, meat, cheese, or butter for tea, candles, coats, or sheets—and manufacturing—salting, pickling,

Cut the brisket into bite-size cubes. 2. Peel and chop the onions. 3. Melt the butter in a thick-bottomed pot or Dutch oven and sauté the onions until they are translucent (they should not brown). 4. Add the meat, bay leaves, and peppercorns, then pour the boiling chicken stock into the pot. It should just cover the meat and onions. 5. Cover and leave to simmer for about forty-five minutes. Peel the potatoes and cut them into bite-size pieces. 6. Put half of the potatoes on top of the meat and put the lid back on. 7. After fifteen minutes, stir the contents of the pot and add the rest of the potatoes—and a bit of extra chicken stock if needed. Simmer for another fifteen to twenty minutes on low heat, remembering to stir frequently so the stew doesn’t burn on the bottom. The aim is for the meat to be sitting in a potato mash but for there still to be whole pieces of tender potato. 8. Season with salt and pepper, and serve hot with a pat of butter, a generous amount of chives, one pickled beet per person, and rye bread. BRAISED PORK CHEEKS IN DARK BEER WITH POTATO-CELERIAC MASH This is one of my favorite winter dishes.

Because for all my massive appetite, I cannot cook to save my life. When Grant came to my old house for the first time, he became almost apoplectic at the contents of my fridge and cupboards. I ate like a deranged college frat boy midfinals. My fridge was full of packages of bologna and Budding luncheon meats, plastic-wrapped processed cheese slices, and little tubs of pudding. My cabinets held such bounty as cases of chicken-flavored instant ramen noodles, ten kinds of sugary cereals, Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, and cheap canned tuna. My freezer was well stocked with frozen dinners, heavy on the Stouffer's lasagna and bags of chicken tenders. My garbage can was a wasteland of take-out containers and pizza boxes. In my defense, there was also always really good beer and a couple of bottles of decent wine. My eating habits have done a pretty solid turnaround since we moved in together three years ago. Grant always leaved me something set up for breakfast: a parfait of Greek yogurt and homemade granola with fresh berries, oatmeal that just needs a quick reheat and a drizzle of cinnamon honey butter, baked French toast lingering in a warm oven. He almost always brings me leftovers from the restaurant's family meal for me to take for lunch the next day. I still indulge in greasy takeout when I'm on a job site, as much for the camaraderie with the guys as the food itself; doesn't look good to be noshing on slow-roasted pork shoulder and caramelized root vegetables when everyone else is elbow-deep in a two-pound brick of Ricobene's breaded steak sandwich dripping marinara.

I look over the recipe again. It sounds very simple. You boil some rice in water like pasta, I can do that. You cook some onion in butter, stir in the rice, pop it in the oven. Add some cream and grated cheese and mix it up. And voila! A real dinner. I pull out a couple of the pots Caroline gave me, and began to get everything laid out. Grant always yammered on about mise en place, that habit of getting all your stuff together before you start cooking so you can be organized. It seems to make sense, and appeals to the part of me that likes to make lists and check things off of them. I manage to chop a pile of onions without cutting myself, but with a lot of tears. At one point I walk over to the huge freezer and stick my head in it for some relief, while Schatzi looks at me like I'm an idiot. Which isn't unusual. Or even come to think of it, wrong. But I get them sliced and chopped, albeit unevenly, and put them in the large pot with some butter. I get some water boiling in the other pot and put in some rice. I cook it for a few minutes, drain it, and add it to the onions, stirring them all together. Then I put the lid on the pot and put it in the oven, and set my phone with an alarm for thirty-five minutes. The kitchen smells amazing. Nothing quite like onions cooked in butter to make the heart happy. While it cooks, I grab a beer, and grate some Swiss cheese into a pile. When my phone buzzes, I pull the pot out of the oven and put it back on the stovetop, stirring in the cream and cheese, and sprinkling in some salt and pepper. I grab a bowl and fill it with the richly scented mixture. I stand right there at the counter, and gingerly take a spoonful. It's amazing. Rich and creamy and oniony. The rice is nicely cooked, not mushy. And even though some of my badly cut onions make for some awkward eating moments, as the strings slide out of the spoon and attach themselves to my chin, the flavor is spectacular. Simple and comforting, and utterly delicious.

When enough people share a short-lived delusion, vast sums of money can be acquired overnight. The ‘tulip mania’ in Holland in the mid-seventeenth century was such a time. Tulips had been imported into Holland for forty years before the madness hit. By 1635, a single tulip bulb was swapped for a collection of valuable articles, which included the following: four tons of wheat eight tons of rye a bed four oxen eight pigs a suit of clothes two caskets of wine four tonnes of beer two tons of butter one thousand pounds of cheese a silver drinking cup The current value of the above would be $50,000 or more. And this was for a single tulip bulb! Fortunes were made or lost, especially the latter, when the music stopped. Within a few years, a tulip bulb was worth less than a dollar in today’s money. Here is the wonder of collective short-term delusion writ large.

Hacking Blood Sugar Several months ago, I received a text from Kevin stating “I found the grail” with a screenshot of his Dexcom continuous glucose monitor showing his levels at 79mg/dL (which is healthily low) after consuming two beers, a pork chop with honey glaze, 4 slices of corn bread with honey and butter, and a side order of potato gnocchi. What was the “grail”? 25 mg of acarbose (¼ pill) with food. He learned this trick from Peter Attia (page 59), who I introduced him to.

Reuben Sandwich YIELD: 4 SERVINGS WHILE LIVING in New York City, I became a sucker for sandwiches, which for me represent the American spirit and lifestyle: easy, unstructured, and casual. They are convenient, fast, and mess-free and may well be the most versatile of all foods. Sandwiches can be healthful or decadent, light or heavy, with ingredients to please vegetarians and carnivores. Made with pita, regular bread, tortilla wraps, or baguettes, they can reflect different ethnic traditions. I believe it was James Beard who said not many people understand a good sandwich. I like to think that I still do. I first tasted this sandwich in a restaurant near 42nd Street a few weeks after I arrived in New York. With a cold beer and a bit of salad, it makes a perfect meal for either lunch or dinner. You can use commercial Russian or Thousand Island dressing on the sandwich or create your own Russian dressing. I sometimes make the Reuben with pastrami, although corned beef is the traditional choice, and I use rye as well as pumpernickel bread. Be sure to use good Swiss cheese (Emmenthaler or Gruyère). I prefer the sauerkraut available in plastic bags to the canned varieties. RUSSIAN DRESSING ½ cup mayonnaise 3 tablespoons ketchup 1 tablespoon fresh or bottled horseradish 1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce Good dash Tabasco hot pepper sauce SANDWICHES 8 large slices pumpernickel bread (each about 6 by 4 inches in diameter, ½ inch thick, and weighing about 1 ounce) 6 ounces Swiss cheese (preferably Emmenthaler or Gruyère), cut into enough slices to completely cover the bread (about 1½ ounces per sandwich) 1⅓ cups drained sauerkraut 8 ounces thinly sliced corned beef (not too lean) 2 tablespoons unsalted butter 2 tablespoons corn or peanut oil FOR THE DRESSING: Mix all the dressing ingredients together in a small bowl. FOR EACH SANDWICH: Spread 2 pieces of the bread with 1 tablespoon each of the Russian dressing, and arrange enough cheese slices on both pieces of bread to cover them. Measure out about ⅓ cup of the sauerkraut and spread half of it on top of one of the cheese-covered slices. Cover with 2 ounces of the corned beef, then spread the remaining half (⅙ cup) of sauerkraut on top. To finish, top with the other cheese-covered slice of bread. Repeat with the remaining ingredients to make 3 additional sandwiches. At serving time, melt the butter with the oil in a nonstick skillet, and sauté the sandwiches, covered, over medium to low heat for about 8 minutes, 4 minutes per side, until the cheese on the sandwiches has melted and the corned beef is hot. Serve immediately.

Mrs. O’Brien’s Shepherd’s Pie Recipe Ingredients: 5 cups mashed, boiled potatoes (could be reduced to 4 cups)* 1/2 cup sour cream 2 ounces cream cheese 2 tablespoons butter, softened, divided 1 egg yolk 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 1-1/2 teaspoon olive oil 1 pound ground lamb (We substituted ground chicken. You could also use ground beef or turkey.) 1 pinch salt and ground black pepper to taste 1 (16 ounce) can stewed tomatoes with juice, chopped 1 small yellow onion, chopped 1 small carrot, peeled and chopped 1/2 cup peas (frozen or fresh) 1 cup Irish stout beer (such as Guinness(R)) 1 cube beef bouillon (we used chicken bouillon) 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour 1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce 1 cup shredded sharp cheddar cheese 2 teaspoons smoked paprika (optional) * 1 tsp. liquid smoke (optional) * Directions: -Stir cooked potatoes, sour cream, cream cheese, 1 tablespoon butter, egg yolk, 1/2 teaspoon salt, and 1/2 teaspoon black pepper together in a bowl until smooth. -Heat olive oil in a cast iron skillet or nonstick pan over medium-high heat. Add ground lamb (or meat). Reduce heat to medium, and cook, stirring frequently, until browned, 4 to 5 minutes. Pour off excess grease and season meat with salt and black pepper to taste. -Add stewed tomatoes with juice, onion, and carrot into meat mixture; Stir and simmer until vegetables are tender, 5 to 10 minutes. Add peas; reduce heat to low and continue cooking, stirring frequently, 2 to 3 minutes. -Add one teaspoon of liquid smoke to meat mixture. Mix thoroughly. -Heat beer in a saucepan over medium heat; add (beef) bouillon cube. Cook and stir beer mixture until bouillon dissolves, about 5 minutes. - Melt 1 tablespoon butter in a separate pan over medium-low heat. Whisk flour into butter until it thickens, about 1 minute. -Stir beer mixture and Worcestershire sauce into flour mixture until gravy is smooth and thickened, 2 to 3 minutes. Stir gravy into meat mixture and simmer until mixture thickens, at least 5 minutes. -Set top oven rack roughly 6 inches from the oven broiler and preheat the broiler. Grease a 9x12-inch baking dish. - Pour (meat) mixture into the prepared baking dish. -Spoon mashed potatoes over (meat) mixture, covering like a crust. Sprinkle cheddar cheese and paprika evenly over mashed potatoes. -Broil in the preheated oven until the crust browns and the cheese is melted, 4 to 5 minutes. -Cool for about 5 minutes before serving. NOTES: We thought the smoked paprika added little flavor to the original recipe.  We added liquid smoke to the meat and it gave it a nice smoky flavor. Next time, we’ll reduce the amount of mashed potatoes to four cups.  We thought the layer of potatoes was a little too thick. (But if you love mashed potatoes, five cups would work ☺  )

they might debark and, with the pleasantest sense of stepping down from the zone of the possible to the zone of the realized, stroll to a service station or fishing camp or grocery store, where they’d have a beer or fill the tank with spring water or lay in eggs and country butter and grits and slab bacon; then back to the camper, which they’d show off to the storekeeper, he ruminating a minute and: all I got to say is, don’t walk off and leave the keys in it—and so on in the complex Southern tactic of assaying a sort of running start, a joke before the joke, ten assumptions shared and a common stance of rhetoric and a whole shared set of special ironies and opposites. He was home. Even though he was hundreds of miles from home and had never been here and it was not even the same here—it was older and more decorous, more tended to and a dream with the past—he was home.

Of course not, I tell him. (How trippingly off the tongue that lie goes. It weighs less than a mustard seed.) I just bought that beer last weekend, he says. Well, maybe you’re drinking more than you know, I say. Which is laughable, as Warren is a fount of discipline, a completer of sit-ups, a runner of many miles. We have a rowing machine set up in his study, and at night he pulls against oars for an hour at a pop. He barely uses a whole pat of butter on a potato. He slices turkey thin enough to read through.

Harvest Bread Bread is the quintessential harvest food. Its civilizing influence trails beer. It is almost a cultural universal. Europeans have bread loaves, Mexicans and some Central and South American countries have tortillas, the southern United States has corn bread, India and Pakistan have naan—the varieties, shapes, and forms bread comes in is infinite, as is the artistry in creating it. Ingredients: ¾ cup warm water 1 package active dry yeast 1 teaspoon salt 1½ tablespoons sugar 1 tablespoon vegetable shortening ½ cup milk 3 heaping cups all-purpose flour 1 stick softened butter Preheat oven to 375°F. In a large bowl, add the warm water. Slowly stir in the dry yeast. Continue to stir until the yeast dissolves. Add salt, sugar, shortening, and milk to the bowl. Stir well. Mix in the first 2 cups of flour. If needed, begin adding more flour, one tablespoon at a time, until the dough chases the spoon around the bowl. You do not need to use up all the flour called for in this recipe, or you may need more flour than is called for. The amounts vary depending on many factors, including weather, which is why most bread recipes only give an approximate amount of flour needed. Turn the dough out onto a floured board and knead it, adding small spoonfuls of flour as needed, until the dough is soft and smooth, not sticky to the touch. Use the softened butter to butter a bowl and a bread pan. Put the dough in the buttered bowl, and turn the dough over to grease all sides evenly. Cover and let rise in a warm spot for 1 hour. Punch down dough. Turn out onto floured board and knead again. Form dough into a loaf and set it in the buttered bread pan. Cover and let rise for about 30 minutes. Before baking, score the dough by cutting three slashes across the top with a sharp knife. Then, put it in oven and bake for about 45 minutes or until golden brown. Turn the bread out of the pan, and let it cool on a rack or a clean dishtowel.

As Karen returned from the restroom, the gate agent explained the order of boarding: People with disabilities or in wheelchairs, people over the age of 100, people who act like they’re over the age of 100, families with children (children are two-year olds and younger, not fifteen-year olds), in-uniform military personnel, first class, business class, platinum frequent flyer members, gold members, silver members, bronze members, associate members, people who just applied for the airline’s credit card five minutes ago, group 1, groups 2 through 10 in that order, and finally, anyone too clueless to figure out how to get into one of the groups already called. We had “group 8” boarding passes. We felt smug as we pushed our way past the five remaining passengers who were lower on the boarding list than us. I don’t like being trapped in a small place, such as an airplane, with a large cross-section of humanity. I think airlines should announce before every flight, “Listen up people. We’re all sealed in here together for the next four hours, so try not to be annoying until the flight is over. Once you exit the plane, then you can whistle, hum, fart, snore, talk baby talk, take your shoes off and put on as much bad perfume as you want.” I think this would make air travel more bearable. We arrived in El Paso with enough time to pick up the rental car, have dinner (at Carlos and Mickey’s) and buy groceries for the week: peanut butter, jelly, bread, water, blue corn chips, peppermint patties, animal crackers and beer.

All you do is put four ounces of grated Cheddar cheese and three tablespoons of beer in a small heavy pan and stir over a low heat till it melts to a thick cream. Then add an ounce of butter, a teaspoon of made mustard and seasonings. I then heated it till it was nearly boiling. Then you spoon it over toast and place in the oven until brown. Some recipes recommend including an egg, but Mother always said with so much cheese there was no need to waste a precious

The health reform, I was shown, is a part of the third angel’s message and is just as closely connected [81] with it as are the arm and hand with the human body.—Testimonies For The Church 1:486 (1867). Tea, coffee, tobacco, and alcohol we must present as sinful indulgences. We cannot place on the same ground, meat, eggs, butter, cheese, and such articles placed upon the table. These are not to be borne in front, as the burden of our work. The former—tea, coffee, tobacco, beer, wine, and all spirituous liquors—are not to be taken moderately, but discarded.—Selected Messages

He then ordered bread and cheese and butter and beer for every man at the guns.

A witch is a causal theory of explanation. And it’s fair to say that if your causal theory to explain why bad things happen is that your neighbor flies around on a broom and cavorts with the devil at night, inflicting people, crops, and cattle with disease, preventing cows from giving milk, beer from fermenting, and butter from churning—and that the proper way to cure the problem is to burn her at the stake—then either you are insane or you lived in Europe six centuries ago, and you even had biblical support, specifically Exodus 22:18: “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

Choucroute This dish is pronounced “shoe-croote,” and is French for “sauerkraut.” As the sauerkraut cooks the taste becomes very mild. Because of the acidic nature of sauerkraut, it’s better to use an enameled skillet for this dish. Ingredients | Serves 6–8 4 slices bacon 1 large yellow onion, chopped 3 garlic cloves, sliced 2 apples, cored and sliced 1 quart sauerkraut, fresh, jarred, or bagged 1 bottle non-bitter beer, or ½ bottle Riesling 7 juniper berries, or ½ cup gin 8 peppercorns 2 bay leaves 1 tablespoon brown sugar ¼ pound ham, cubed 1½ pounds German sausages (knackwurst, bratwurst, garlic sausage, kielbasa) 1. Place a skillet over medium heat. Once it is heated, add the bacon to the skillet and fry until is cooked through but not crispy. Add the onion and cook for 5–7 minutes or until the onion starts to brown. Add the garlic and cook for 1 minute, stirring continually. 2. Add the apples, sauerkraut, and beer. Stir to combine. Add the juniper berries, peppercorns, bay leaves, and the sugar. Reduce the heat to low, cover, and simmer for 1 hour. 3. Stir the ham into the skillet and add the sausages. Cook for 1½ hours, covered. Add water to the pan if it seems like it is getting too dry. When the sausages are cooked through, serve while warm with boiled and buttered potatoes.

While I struggled with the menu, a handsome middle-aged guy from a nearby table came over to help. "You like sashimi? Cooked fish? Sushi?" he asked. His English was excellent. He was originally from Okinawa, he said, and a member of Rotary International. I know nothing about the Rotarians except that it's a service organization; helping befuddled foreigners order food in bars must fall within its definition of charitable service. Our service-oriented neighbor helped us order pressed sweetfish sushi, kisu fish tempura, and butter-sauteed scallops. Dredging up a vague Oishinbo memory, I also ordered broiled sweetfish, a seasonal delicacy said to taste vaguely of melon. While we started in on our sushi, our waitress- the kind of harried diner waitress who would call customers "hon" in an American restaurant- delivered a huge, beautiful steamed flounder with soy sauce, mirin, and chunks of creamy tofu. "From that guy," she said, indicating the Rotarian samaritan. We retaliated with a large bottle of beer for him and his friend (the friend came over to thank us, with much bowing). What would happen at your neighborhood bar if a couple of confused foreigners came in with a child and didn't even know how to order a drink? Would someone send them a free fish? I should add that it's not exactly common to bring children to an izakaya, but it's not frowned upon, either; also, not every izakaya is equally welcoming. Some, I have heard, are more clubby and are skeptical of nonregulars, whatever their nationality. But I didn't encounter any places like that. Oh, how was the food? So much of the seafood we eat in the U.S., even in Seattle, is previously frozen, slightly past its prime, or both. All of the seafood at our local izakaya was jump-up-and-bite-you fresh. This was most obvious in the flounder and the scallops. A mild fish, steamed, lightly seasoned, and served with tofu does not sound like a recipe for memorable eating, but it was. The butter-sauteed scallops, meanwhile, would have been at home at a New England seaside shack. They were served with a lettuce and tomato salad and a dollop of mayo. The shellfish were cooked and seasoned perfectly. I've never had a better scallop.

is significant that the first attempt to build a refrigerator in the United States was undertaken for keeping butter (as opposed to what happened in Australia, where in 1853 James Harrison, a Scot who had moved there, developed the first really fully functional refrigerator and used it for chilling beer).

When Ursa put away the butter, she surveyed the beer cooling in the refrigerator. “Are the ornithologists alcoholics?

OBATZDA—BAVARIAN CHEESE SPREAD Mix room temperature Camembert with cream cheese, soft butter, amber beer, finely diced onions, paprika, cumin, salt, and pepper until smooth. Serve with red onion or chives on dark bread or with pretzels.

They each contribute at least one dish to their new menu. It's not an extensive list, just a handful of favorites that are not only delicious and filling, but affordable as well. Peter makes the most mouthwatering shucos on heavenly soft long bread buns, buttered and toasted to perfection before being topped with halved hotdogs, guacamole, cabbage, mayonnaise, tomato sauce, chili sauce, and mustard. It's both crispy and soft at the same time, a perfect combination of textures in one's mouth. It's honestly the perfect dish for anyone looking for a quick but hearty meal for lunch. Freddie brings fish and chips to the table. Simple, delectable, but hardly anything to scoff at. He makes sure to use a beer batter to bring out the subtle flavors of the fresh halibut he uses. It's then fried to golden perfection. The fries are lovingly cut and seasoned by hand, optional Cajun spice in a small serving bowl to the side. He never skimps on the portion sizes, either. The fish is massive, and he makes sure to pile fries so high, a few always fall off the expo line. Rina contemplated making a classic pho from scratch, but eventually decided on her and her sister's personal favorite gỏi cuõn--- savory braised pork, massive prawns, soft vermicelli, cucumbers, lettuce, and diced carrots all wrapped up in a pretty rice paper blanket. The way she plates everything makes the dish look like a masterpiece that's too good to eat. Most people do, however, eat it eventually, because it'd be a right shame to waste such an amazing meal. Eden makes her mother's macaroni and cheese. The cheap, boxed shit from grocery stores doesn't even begin to compare. She comes in early to make the macaroni from scratch, rolling and kneading pasta dough with deft hands. The cheese sauce she uses is also made from scratch, generous helpings of butter and cream and sharp cheddar--- a sprinkle of salt and pepper and oregano, too--- melting into one cohesive concoction she then pours over her recently boiled pasta. She makes every bowl to order, placing everything in cute little ramekins they found on sale, popping it into the oven beneath the broiler so that the butter-coated bread crumb topping can turn a beautiful golden brown. With a bit of chopped bacon and fresh green onions sprinkled on top, it's arguably one of the most demanded dishes at The Lunchbox.

Back home a momentous change was coming over the United States. There was a new President, William Howard Taft, and he took office weighing three hundred and thirty-two pounds. All over the country men began to look at themselves. They were used to drinking great quantities of beer. They customarily devoured loaves of bread and ate prodigiously of the sausage meats of poured offal that lay on the lunch counters of the saloons. The august Pierpont Morgan would routinely consume seven- and eight-course dinners. He ate breakfasts of steaks and chops, eggs, pancakes, broiled fish, rolls and butter, fresh fruit and cream. The consumption of food was a sacrament of success. A man who carried a great stomach before him was thought to be in his prime. Women went into hospitals to die of burst bladders, collapsed lungs, overtaxed hearts and meningitis of the spine. There was a heavy traffic to the spas and sulphur springs, where the purgative was valued as an inducement to appetite. America was a great farting country. All this began to change when Taft moved into the White House. His accession to the one mythic office in the American imagination weighed everyone down. His great figure immediately expressed the apotheosis of that style of man. Thereafter fashion would go the other way and only poor people would be stout.