Butter Novel Quotes

Romance novels are birthday cake and life is often peanut butter and jelly. I think everyone should have lots of delicious romance novels lying around for those times when the peanut butter of life gets stuck to the roof of your mouth.

They enjoyed ham and butter sandwiches for lunch and washed them down with carbonated iced tea.

In principle, all women should give themselves permission to demand good treatment, but the world made doing so profoundly difficult

She was tired of living her life thinking constantly about how she appeared to others, checking her answers against everyone else’s.

Talk about delusional. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree. His mother’s doctor reported she’d recently been plagued by wild imaginings, too. Make believe ran in his family. He was nuttier than a jar of peanut butter.

What you need above all is strength . . . A fighting spirit that can withstand the tedium of everyday life without getting blunted by it.

We will never fight again, our lovely, quick, template-ready arguments. Our delicate cross-stitch of bickers. The house becomes a physical encyclopedia of no-longer hers, which shocks and shocks and is the principal difference between our house and a house where illness has worked away. Ill people, in their last day on Earth, do not leave notes stuck to bottles of red wine saying ‘OH NO YOU DON’T COCK-CHEEK’. She was not busy dying, and there is no detritus of care, she was simply busy living, and then she was gone. She won’t ever use (make-up, turmeric, hairbrush, thesaurus). She will never finish (Patricia Highsmith novel, peanut butter, lip balm). And I will never shop for green Virago Classics for her birthday. I will stop finding her hairs. I will stop hearing her breathing.

By treating himself badly, he had accused the people around him.

Why is it that with nobody to watch over them, men can’t stop themselves from falling into disrepair? And that disrepair is then looked upon kindly and excused by the world, seen not as a failure of personal responsibility but something poignant and tragic.

I feel that all women would like to learn to love themselves the way you do, to act with confidence, but it’s actually the hardest thing of all.

...writing a novel is buttering warm toast, while writing a history is herding porcupines with your elbows.

Don’t talk dirty. Did you say ‘thoat’?” “Yes. This is Barsoom.” “I thoat that was what you said.” “If that’s a pun, you can eat it for supper. With peanut butter.

At the end of the day, men were not looking for a real-life woman, but a professional entertainer.

The quickest way for a modern Japanese woman to gain the love of a man is to become corpse-like. The kind of men who want those women are dead themselves. Indeed, it’s because they’re dead that they’re so terrified of anyone with a sense of life about them.

The more times you followed a recipe, the more it became a part of your own body.

Commercial fiction writing – where my bread is buttered – is fairly straightforward. The writing is simply efficiency and story. The more you have of one the less you need of the other.

A writer sets out to write science fiction but isn’t familiar with the genre, hasn’t read what’s been written. This is a fairly common situation, because science fiction is known to sell well but, as a subliterary genre, is not supposed to be worth study—what’s to learn? It doesn’t occur to the novice that a genre is a genre because it has a field and focus of its own; its appropriate and particular tools, rules, and techniques for handling the material; its traditions; and its experienced, appreciative readers—that it is, in fact, a literature. Ignoring all this, our novice is just about to reinvent the wheel, the space ship, the space alien, and the mad scientist, with cries of innocent wonder. The cries will not be echoed by the readers. Readers familiar with that genre have met the space ship, the alien, and the mad scientist before. They know more about them than the writer does. In the same way, critics who set out to talk about a fantasy novel without having read any fantasy since they were eight, and in ignorance of the history and extensive theory of fantasy literature, will make fools of themselves because they don’t know how to read the book. They have no contextual information to tell them what its tradition is, where it’s coming from, what it’s trying to do, what it does. This was liberally proved when the first Harry Potter book came out and a lot of literary reviewers ran around shrieking about the incredible originality of the book. This originality was an artifact of the reviewers’ blank ignorance of its genres (children’s fantasy and the British boarding-school story), plus the fact that they hadn’t read a fantasy since they were eight. It was pitiful. It was like watching some TV gourmet chef eat a piece of buttered toast and squeal, “But this is delicious! Unheard of! Where has it been all my life?

Grandma Judy has beautiful old-lady handwriting, the letters all connected and slanting in the same direction. To Grace it is a marvel, a lovely but useless talent like churning butter or riding sidesaddle—

Her loved ones’ issues were their own domains, as individuals, and not places that she could go stomping into. Quite possibly, the only thing she could do was to create a place of escape where the people close to her could come when they needed to.

They strap toast onto a cat’s back and toss it in the air.” And he waited. I knew there had to be a gag, and if I didn’t guess what it was, he would win the exchange I had begun by essaying a pun. Well, it served me right. “But how do dat make de ship go, Mr. Interlocutor,” I asked ritually, conceding defeat. “They butter the toast, you see.” Light belatedly dawned. “Ah. Of course. The toast must fall butter side down—” “—but the cat must land on its feet.” He spread his hands: QED. “Hence the array spins forever, generating power.

Dreams don’t butter the parsnips,

You will remember, Watson, how the dreadful business of the Abernetty family was first brought to my notice by the depth which the [585] parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot day.

Things I Used to Get Hit For: Talking back. Being smart. Acting stupid. Not listening. Not answering the first time. Not doing what I’m told. Not doing it the second time I’m told. Running, jumping, yelling, laughing, falling down, skipping stairs, lying in the snow, rolling in the grass, playing in the dirt, walking in mud, not wiping my feet, not taking my shoes off. Sliding down the banister, acting like a wild Indian in the hallway. Making a mess and leaving it. Pissing my pants, just a little. Peeing the bed, hardly at all. Sleeping with a butter knife under my pillow. Shitting the bed because I was sick and it just ran out of me, but still my fault because I’m old enough to know better. Saying shit instead of crap or poop or number two. Not knowing better. Knowing something and doing it wrong anyway. Lying. Not confessing the truth even when I don’t know it. Telling white lies, even little ones, because fibbing isn’t fooling and not the least bit funny. Laughing at anything that’s not funny, especially cripples and retards. Covering up my white lies with more lies, black lies. Not coming the exact second I’m called. Getting out of bed too early, sometimes before the birds, and turning on the TV, which is one reason the picture tube died. Wearing out the cheap plastic hole on the channel selector by turning it so fast it sounds like a machine gun. Playing flip-and-catch with the TV’s volume button then losing it down the hole next to the radiator pipe. Vomiting. Gagging like I’m going to vomit. Saying puke instead of vomit. Throwing up anyplace but in the toilet or in a designated throw-up bucket. Using scissors on my hair. Cutting Kelly’s doll’s hair really short. Pinching Kelly. Punching Kelly even though she kicked me first. Tickling her too hard. Taking food without asking. Eating sugar from the sugar bowl. Not sharing. Not remembering to say please and thank you. Mumbling like an idiot. Using the emergency flashlight to read a comic book in bed because batteries don’t grow on trees. Splashing in puddles, even the puddles I don’t see until it’s too late. Giving my mother’s good rhinestone earrings to the teacher for Valentine’s Day. Splashing in the bathtub and getting the floor wet. Using the good towels. Leaving the good towels on the floor, though sometimes they fall all by themselves. Eating crackers in bed. Staining my shirt, tearing the knee in my pants, ruining my good clothes. Not changing into old clothes that don’t fit the minute I get home. Wasting food. Not eating everything on my plate. Hiding lumpy mashed potatoes and butternut squash and rubbery string beans or any food I don’t like under the vinyl seat cushions Mom bought for the wooden kitchen chairs. Leaving the butter dish out in summer and ruining the tablecloth. Making bubbles in my milk. Using a straw like a pee shooter. Throwing tooth picks at my sister. Wasting toothpicks and glue making junky little things that no one wants. School papers. Notes from the teacher. Report cards. Whispering in church. Sleeping in church. Notes from the assistant principal. Being late for anything. Walking out of Woolworth’s eating a candy bar I didn’t pay for. Riding my bike in the street. Leaving my bike out in the rain. Getting my bike stolen while visiting Grandpa Rudy at the hospital because I didn’t put a lock on it. Not washing my feet. Spitting. Getting a nosebleed in church. Embarrassing my mother in any way, anywhere, anytime, especially in public. Being a jerk. Acting shy. Being impolite. Forgetting what good manners are for. Being alive in all the wrong places with all the wrong people at all the wrong times.

You’ll sense the individual grains of rice coated in butter, and an aromatic fragrance as if the rice were being fried will ascend to your nose. A rich, milky sweetness will spread itself across your tongue . . .

I mean, have you ever imagined the ocean is alive, and needs to tell us something important, and the only way it can talk is by making waves crash, and we just lounge there, drenched in cocoa butter, on towels with crappy novels and volleyballs, sipping spritzers, as the ocean uses all its strength to repeat the same warning over and over?

I mean, have you ever imagined the ocean is alive, and needs to tell us something important, and the only way it can talk is by making waves crash, and we just lounge there, drenched in cocoa butter, on towels with crappy novels and volleyballs, sipping spritzers, as the ocean uses all its strength to repeat the same warning over and over? (from the poem "The Berlin Mall")

Well, the maple syrup is fantastic." Breakfast. She was glad Margo had brought the biscuits and gravy, she was definitely in the mood for that. "And the sous vide eggs that you put in the microwave for a minute and then top it with hot sauce and..." She rolled her eyes. "Bliss. Pancake mix, a hundred pounds of Dubliner cultured butter, fresh orange juice, I mean, the place is just amazing.

The dinner is delicious- the poivre sauce is perfect with the medium-rare duck, which cuts like butter. The potatoes are creamy, well seasoned, and cheesy, the rabe bright green, croquant and garlicky. Gustav has brought along a bottle of Cru Bourgeois, and I'm drinking it like grape juice. Dessert is an assortment of small tarts- vanilla crème brûlée with a chocolate crust, key lime, and pear.

Margo Brinker always thought summer would never end. It always felt like an annual celebration that thankfully stayed alive long day after long day, and warm night after warm night. And DC was the best place for it. Every year, spring would vanish with an explosion of cherry blossoms that let forth the confetti of silky little pink petals, giving way to the joys of summer. Farmer's markets popped up on every roadside. Vendors sold fresh, shining fruits, vegetables and herbs, wine from family vineyards, and handed over warm loaves of bread. Anyone with enough money and enough to do on a Sunday morning would peruse the tents, trying slices of crisp peaches and bites of juicy smoked sausage, and fill their fisherman net bags with weekly wares. Of all the summer months, Margo liked June the best. The sun-drunk beginning, when the days were long, long, long with the promise that summer would last forever. Sleeping late, waking only to catch the best tanning hours. It was the time when the last school year felt like a lifetime ago, and there were ages to go until the next one. Weekend cookouts smelled like the backyard- basil, tomatoes on the vine, and freshly cut grass. That familiar backyard scent was then smoked by the rich addition of burgers, hot dogs, and buttered buns sizzling over charcoal.

I've been studying every aspect of every dish on sauté for the past two months. How the orzo-filled roasted onions accompany the red snapper in a tart broth dotted with hot chili and cilantro oil. How the pheasant, seared skin-side down and flipped, then finished off in the oven, is served with pumpkin risotto, cranberry coulis, and a side of garlic greens. How the grouper, sautéed in olive oil, then butter, and finished in the oven, lies on a mountain of mashed potatoes surrounded by baby turnips and roasted bits of corn, lightly drizzled with a balsamic reduction.

The agricultural and pastoral character of the people upon whom the town depended for its existence was shown by the class of objects displayed in the shop windows. Scythes, reap-hooks, sheep-shears, bill-hooks, spades, mattocks, and hoes at the iron-monger’s; bee-hives, butter-firkins, churns, milking stools and pails, hay-rakes, field-flagons, and seed-lips at the cooper’s; cart-ropes and plough-harness at the saddler’s; carts, wheel-barrows, and mill-gear at the wheelwright’s and machinist’s, horse-embrocations at the chemist’s; at the glover’s and leather-cutter’s, hedging-gloves, thatchers’ knee-caps, ploughmen’s leggings, villagers’ pattens and clogs.

After all, as a toddler was not a dandelion bloom the first object of nature you deemed beautiful and valuable enough to present as a gift to the person you loved most in the world, your mother? And did your mother not put the blossom in a glass of water and set it where she could admire it while she washed dishes? I fear that suburban children whose yards are subject to Four-Step chemical programs will never hold a dandelion flower -- let alone a buttercup -- under each other's chins to see the intense yellow election which signifies that one loves butter. (Who doesn't love butter?) Nor will then puff on the ethereal seed head, startline the cat and sending the little tufts of silk off on their mission.

Pru and I had tried to make the Honey Surprise a hundred times at home, until we'd perfected the art of French toast and the perfect golden-crisp pancake, but nothing prepared me for the fluffiness, the buttery sweetness, the crispy crunch of my first bite. It was so good, I moaned. Anders choked on a fry, and chased it with the rest of his tea. By the wrinkle of disgust on his face, the combination tasted terrible. "Can you not?" he whispered to me, coughing. "Have you tasted this? It's delicious. You should have what I'm having." "I don't eat sweet things." "You're missing out. What do they put in this stuff? It's so good." "Butter, flour, and love, or so the sign says," he replied, motioning to the slogan painted on the back wall of the restaurant.

Django handed her a heap of parsley and she stood next to him, allowing his rhythm to become her own until they were moving together. In the air, the tang of lemons. The aroma of chicken stock. Beeswax mingling with butter. Chocolate melting into oranges. Her spirits rose with the scents swirling through the kitchen. They spoke little; they had no need. They were a team, their minds melded more effortlessly than Stella had imagined possible. They massaged butter into chickens, boned fish, opened oysters. Django set a flat of speckled eggs on the counter. Next to it, a ceramic bowl. He opened his hands and Stella broke the eggs, dozens of them, across his outstretched fingers, watching yolks separate from whites. It occurred to her that she had tortured herself for no reason. She was happy.

Of books, though, very little. And of the books which to most literary persons are bread and butter, novels, history, poetry, plays, almost nothing at all. It isn’t that they’re not interested in the psychological or moral or social life. In the social life, they certainly are, more than most of us. In the moral, they are by and large the soundest group of intellectuals we have; there is a moral component right in the grain of science itself, and almost all scientists form their own judgments of the moral life. In the psychological they have as much interest as most of us, though occasionally I fancy they come to it rather late. It isn’t that they lack the interests. It is much more that the whole literature of the traditional culture doesn’t seem to them relevant to those interests. They are, of course, dead wrong. As a result, their imaginative understanding is less than it could be. They are self-impoverished.

Normally, Bentner would have beamed approvingly at the pretty portrait the girls made, but this morning, as he put out butter and jam, he had grim news to impart and a confession to make. As he swept the cover off the scones he gave his news and made his confession. “We had a guest last night,” he told Elizabeth. “I slammed the door on him.” “Who was it?” “A Mr. Ian Thornton.” Elizabeth stifled a horrified chuckle at the image that called to mind, but before she could comment Bentner said fiercely, “I regretted my actions afterward! I should have invited him inside, offered him refreshment, and slipped some of that purgative powder into his drink. He’d have had a bellyache that lasted a month!” “Bentner,” Alex sputtered, “you are a treasure!” “Do not encourage him in these fantasies,” Elizabeth warned wryly. “Bentner is so addicted to mystery novels that he occasionally forgets that what one does in a novel cannot always be done in real life. He actually did a similar thing to my uncle last year.” “Yes, and he didn’t return for six months,” Bentner told Alex proudly. “And when he does come,” Elizabeth reminded him with a frown to sound severe, “he refuses to eat or drink anything.” “Which is why he never stays long,” Bentner countered, undaunted. As was his habit whenever his mistress’s future was being discussed, as it was now, Bentner hung about to make suggestions as they occurred to him. Since Elizabeth had always seemed to appreciate his advice and assistance, he found nothing odd about a butler sitting down at the table and contributing to the conversation when the only guest was someone he’d known since she was a girl. “It’s that odious Belhaven we have to rid you of first,” Alexandra said, returning to their earlier conversation. “He hung about last night, glowering at anyone who might have approached you.” She shuddered. “And the way he ogles you. It’s revolting. It’s worse than that; he’s almost frightening.” Bentner heard that, and his elderly eyes grew thoughtful as he recalled something he’d read about in one of his novels. “As a solution it is a trifle extreme,” he said, “but as a last resort it could work.” Two pairs of eyes turned to him with interest, and he continued, “I read it in The Nefarious Gentleman. We would have Aaron abduct this Belhaven in our carriage and bring him straightaway to the docks, where we’ll sell him to the press gangs.” Shaking her head in amused affection, Elizabeth said, “I daresay he wouldn’t just meekly go along with Aaron.” “And I don’t think,” Alex added, her smiling gaze meeting Elizabeth’s, “a press gang would take him. They’re not that desperate.” “There’s always black magic,” Bentner continued. “In Deathly Endeavors there was a perpetrator of ancient rites who cast an evil spell. We would require some rats’ tails, as I recall, and tongues of-“ “No,” Elizabeth said with finality. “-lizards,” Bentner finished determinedly. “Absolutely not,” his mistress returned. “And fresh toad old, but procuring that might be tricky. The novel didn’t say how to tell fresh from-“ “Bentner!” Elizabeth exclaimed, laughing. “You’ll cast us all into a swoon if you don’t desist at once.” When Bentner had padded away to seek privacy for further contemplation of solutions, Elizabeth looked at Alex. “Rats’ tails and lizards’ tongues,” she said, chuckling. “No wonder Bentner insists on having a lighted candle in his room all night.” “He must be afraid to close his eyes after reading such things,” Alex agreed.

We had a second date that night, then a third, and then a fourth. And after each date, my new romance novel protagonist called me, just to seal the date with a sweet word. For date five, he invited me to his house on the ranch. We were clearly on some kind of a roll, and now he wanted me to see where he lived. I was in no position to say no. Since I knew his ranch was somewhat remote and likely didn’t have many restaurants nearby, I offered to bring groceries and cook him dinner. I agonized for hours over what I could possibly cook for this strapping new man in my life; clearly, no mediocre cuisine would do. I reviewed all the dishes in my sophisticated, city-girl arsenal, many of which I’d picked up during my years in Los Angeles. I finally settled on a non-vegetarian winner: Linguine with Clam Sauce--a favorite from our family vacations in Hilton Head. I made the delicious, aromatic masterpiece of butter, garlic, clams, lemon, wine, and cream in Marlboro Man’s kitchen in the country, which was lined with old pine cabinetry. And as I stood there, sipping some of the leftover white wine and admiring the fruits of my culinary labor, I was utterly confident it would be a hit. I had no idea who I was dealing with. I had no idea that this fourth-generation cattle rancher doesn’t eat minced-up little clams, let alone minced-up little clams bathed in wine and cream and tossed with long, unwieldy noodles that are difficult to negotiate. Still, he ate it. And lucky for him, his phone rang when he was more than halfway through our meal together. He’d been expecting an important call, he said, and excused himself for a good ten minutes. I didn’t want him to go away hungry--big, strong rancher and all--so when I sensed he was close to getting off the phone, I took his plate to the stove and heaped another steaming pile of fishy noodles onto his plate. And when Marlboro Man returned to the table he smiled politely, sat down, and polished off over half of his second helping before finally pushing away from the table and announcing, “Boy, am I stuffed!” I didn’t realize at the time just how romantic a gesture that had been.

The Enchanted Broccoli Forest. Oh, what a pleasure that was! Mollie Katzen's handwritten and illustrated recipes that recalled some glorious time in upstate New York when a girl with an appetite could work at a funky vegetarian restaurant and jot down some tasty favorites between shifts. That one had the Pumpkin Tureen soup that Margo had made so many times when she first got the book. She loved the cheesy onion soup served from a pumpkin with a hot dash of horseradish and rye croutons. And the Cardamom Coffee Cake, full of butter, real vanilla, and rich brown sugar, said to be a favorite at the restaurant, where Margo loved to imagine the patrons picking up extras to take back to their green, grassy, shady farmhouses dotted along winding country roads. Linda's Kitchen by Linda McCartney, Paul's first wife, the vegetarian cookbook that had initially spurred her yearlong attempt at vegetarianism (with cheese and eggs, thank you very much) right after college. Margo used to have to drag Calvin into such phases and had finally lured him in by saying that surely anything Paul would eat was good enough for them. Because of Linda's Kitchen, Margo had dived into the world of textured vegetable protein instead of meat, and tons of soups, including a very good watercress, which she never would have tried without Linda's inspiration. It had also inspired her to get a gorgeous, long marble-topped island for prep work. Sometimes she only cooked for the aesthetic pleasure of the gleaming marble topped with rustic pottery containing bright fresh veggies, chopped to perfection. Then Bistro Cooking by Patricia Wells caught her eye, and she took it down. Some pages were stuck together from previous cooking nights, but the one she turned to, the most splattered of all, was the one for Onion Soup au Gratin, the recipe that had taught her the importance of cheese quality. No mozzarella or broken string cheeses with- maybe- a little lacy Swiss thrown on. And definitely none of the "fat-free" cheese that she'd tried in order to give Calvin a rich dish without the cholesterol. No, for this to be great, you needed a good, aged, nutty Gruyère from what you couldn't help but imagine as the green grassy Alps of Switzerland, where the cows grazed lazily under a cheerful children's-book blue sky with puffy white clouds. Good Gruyère was blocked into rind-covered rounds and aged in caves before being shipped fresh to the USA with a whisper of fairy-tale clouds still lingering over it. There was a cheese shop downtown that sold the best she'd ever had. She'd tried it one afternoon when she was avoiding returning home. A spunky girl in a visor and an apron had perked up as she walked by the counter, saying, "Cheese can change your life!" The charm of her youthful innocence would have been enough to be cheered by, but the sample she handed out really did it. The taste was beyond delicious. It was good alone, but it cried out for ham or turkey or a rich beefy broth with deep caramelized onions for soup.

These days I know what brings me joy like I know the back of my (mother's) hands. There's the sun shining through the freshly cleaned smudge-free window, the sound of a new bag of potato chips being ripped open, the moment of cracking the binding for the first time on an unread novel. There's the special way a child throws his arms around his mother's neck. There's new sweatpants and old sweatpants and all the sweatpants in between. There are big-bottomed goblets of wine and dark chocolate truffles and all-things bacon and realizing I can still do a cartwheel. There's stepping into an almost-too-hot bath and payday and the smell of garlic and onions sauteing in butter. There are the days the bathroom scale is kind to me and the days my pants look hot on my ass and the moments I pause to catch my breath after a long run and the sweat runs right down my nose and I catch it with my tongue.

When Ellen announced that supper was ready Douglas Starr told Emily to go out to it. “I don’t want anything tonight. I’ll just lie here and rest. And when you come in again we’ll have a real talk, Elfkin.” He smiled up at her his old, beautiful smile, with the love behind it, that Emily always found so sweet. She ate her supper quite happily—though it wasn’t a good supper. The bread was soggy and her egg was underdone, but for a wonder she was allowed to have both Saucy Sal and Mike sitting, one on each side of her, and Ellen only grunted when Emily fed them wee bits of bread and butter. Mike had such a cute way of sitting up on his haunches and catching the bits in his paws, and Saucy Sal had her trick of touching Emily’s ankle with an almost human touch when her turn was too long in coming. Emily loved them both, but Mike was her favourite. He was a handsome, dark-grey cat with huge owl-like eyes, and he was so soft and fat and fluffy. Sal was always thin; no amount of feeding put any flesh on her bones. Emily liked her, but never cared to cuddle or stroke her because of her thinness. Yet there was a sort of weird beauty about her that appealed to Emily. She was grey-and-white—very white and very sleek, with a long, pointed face, very long ears and very green eyes. She was a redoubtable fighter, and strange cats were vanquished in one round. The fearless little spitfire would even attack dogs and rout them utterly. Emily loved her pussies. She had brought them up herself, as she proudly said. They had been given to her when they were kittens by her Sunday School teacher. “A living present is so nice,” she told Ellen, “because it keeps on getting nicer all the time.

His mode of speaking was largely incomprehensible, his tone was portentous, which is perhaps why he inevitably spoke in capital letters. Words existed in his speech as currants in a badly made bread-and-butter pudding - clusters of stodgy darkness

Diana, meanwhile, reads every novel she can find that's set on the Cape, and describes for her father the pristine, golden beaches, sand dunes with cranberry bogs and poets' shacks hidden in their declivities. She conjures the taste of briny oysters and butter-drenched lobsters, fried clams eaten with salt water-pruned fingers, ice-cream cones devoured after a day in the sun.

Some nights,” I said, “I picture myself naked, covered in napalm, running down the street. But then it’s not napalm. It’s apple butter. And it’s not a street. It’s my mother.

Chocolate Peppermint Cupcakes Yield: 12 cupcakes From the cozy mystery novel Peppermint Peril by Molly Maple “I love the look of the crushed candy canes sprinkled on the top of the peppermint frosting. The hot cocoa cupcakes add a dash of happiness to the kitchen as every surface is taken over by baked goods.” -Peppermint Peril Ingredients for the Cupcake: ¾ cups all-purpose flour ½ cup unsweetened cocoa powder 1 tsp baking powder ½ tsp baking soda ½ tsp salt 1/3 cup vegetable oil ½ cup granulated sugar 2 large eggs, room temperature 2 tsp pure vanilla extract ½ cup plain yogurt or vanilla yogurt, room temperature Instructions for the Cupcake: Preheat the oven to 350°F and line a cupcake pan with cupcake liners. In a medium bowl, sift together ¾ cups flour, 1 tsp baking powder, ½ tsp baking soda, and ½ tsp salt. Set flour mix aside. In a large bowl, use a mixer to beat the vegetable oil and sugar on medium speed for three minutes. Beat until shiny, scraping down the sides of the bowl as needed. Add eggs one at a time while the mixer runs on low speed. Add 2 tsp pure vanilla extract. Mix until smooth. With the mixer on low speed, add the flour mixture in thirds, alternating with the yogurt. Mix to incorporate with each addition, scraping down the sides of the bowl as needed. Beat until just combined. Batter should look a bit thin. Divide the batter into your 12-count lined cupcake pan, filling each one 2/3 the way full. Bake for 20-24 minutes at 350°F, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. Let them cool in the pan for 10 minutes, then transfer to a cooling rack. Cool to room temperature before frosting. Ingredients for the Frosting: 2 sticks unsalted butter, softened 4 cups powdered sugar 2 tsp peppermint extract ¾ cup crushed candy cane pieces Instructions for the Frosting: Place 2 sticks unsalted butter into a stand mixer and beat until well combined. Slowly add powdered sugar one cup at a time, alternating with peppermint extract until combined but not overmixed. Mix in ¼ cup candy cane pieces. Beat until fluffy. After frosting the cooled cupcakes, top with the remaining crushed candy cane pieces.

As he bit into the oily green flesh, Fairchild couldn't have known he was holding in his hands the future crop of the American Southwest. But he had a hunch. It was a black-skinned fruit, a variety of alligator pear, or as the Aztecs called it, "avocado," a derivative of their word for testicle. It grew in pairs, and had an oblong, bulbous shape. The fruit had the consistency of butter and was a little stringy. But unlike the other avocados he had tasted farther north, in Jamaica and Venezuela, this one had remarkable consistency. Every fruit on the tree was the same size and ripened at the same pace, rare qualities for anything that grew in the consistent warmth of the subtropics. In Santiago, where a boat had deposited Fairchild and Lathrop, the avocado had an even greater quality. Fairchild listened intently as someone explained that the fruit could withstand a mild frost as low as twenty-three degrees Fahrenheit. Such a climatic range suggested a perfect crop for America. From central Mexico, the worldwide home of the first avocados, centuries of settlers had carried the fruit south to Chile. David Fairchild mused about taking it the other way, back north. "A valuable find for California," he wrote. "This is a black-fruited, hardy variety." Lathrop tagged along on the daytime expedition when Fairchild tasted that avocado. He agreed that a fruit so hardy, so versatile, would perfectly answer farmers' pleas for novel but undemanding crops, ones that almost grew themselves, provided the right conditions. Fairchild didn't know the chemical properties of the avocado's fatty flesh, or that a hundred years in the future it would, like quinoa, find esteem, owing to its combination of fat and vitamins. But he could tell that such a curious fruit, unlike any other, must have an equally curious evolutionary history. No earthly mammal could digest a seed as big as the avocado's, and certainly not anything that roamed wild through South America.

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 ☺  )

Tuscan Chicken Macaroni and Cheese Recipe Ingredients: 2 large skinless boneless chicken breasts pounded to 1-inch thickness (or 4 boneless and skinless chicken thigh fillets) Salt and pepper, to season 1/2 teaspoon paprika 3 teaspoons olive or canola oil, divided per directions 2 tablespoons butter 1 small yellow onion chopped 6 cloves garlic, finely diced 1/3 cup chicken broth 4 oz (250g) sun dried tomato strips in oil (reserve 1 tablespoon of oil) 4 level tablespoons flour 2 cups chicken broth 3 cups milk OR light cream 2 teaspoons dried Italian herbs 10 ounces (3 cups) elbow macaroni uncooked (3 cups) 3/4 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese 1 cup mozzarella cheese shredded (or use six cheese Italian) 2 tablespoons fresh basil, chopped Directions: -Season chicken with salt, pepper, paprika and 2 teaspoons of the oil. Heat the remaining oil in a large pot or pan over medium-high heat. Add the chicken and sear on both sides until golden brown, cooked through and no longer pink in the middle. Transfer chicken to a warm plate, tent with foil and set aside. -Using the same pan, add the butter and fry the onion and garlic until the onion becomes transparent, stirring occasionally (about 2 minutes). Pour in the 1/3 cup chicken broth and allow to simmer for 5 minutes, or until beginning to reduce down.  -Add the sun dried tomatoes, along with 1 tablespoons of the sun dried tomato oil from the jar. Cook for 2-3 minutes.  -Stir the flour into the pot. Blend well. -Add the broth, 2-1/2 cups of milk (cream or half and half), herbs, salt and pepper, and bring to a low simmer.  -Add the uncooked macaroni and stir occasionally as it comes to a simmer. Reduce to medium low heat and stir regularly while it cooks (roughly 10 minutes), or until the sauce thickens and the macaroni is just cooked (al dente: tender but still firm).  -Remove pot from stove and immediately stir in all of the cheeses. Add salt and pepper to taste. If the sauce it too thick, add the remaining 1/2 cup milk (or cream) in 1/4 cup increments, until reaching desired thickness. -Slice the chicken into strips and stir through the pasta (pour in any juices left from the chicken). -Sprinkle with basil, stir thoroughly and serve.

She tested the peppermint cocoa. The rich, dark liquid warmed her tongue and put a shine in her green eyes as she swallowed. She sighed. "I would live inside this if I could." "You and Willy Wonka." Anna set her mug in the sink and gathered ingredients for the truffles. Today she thought she'd make a variety filled with dark chocolate, raspberry, peanut butter, or almond cream. "I wish he was real." "I bet you wish you had a golden ticket too," Eli said. Anna looked over her shoulder, and they shared a smile that made her insides feel hot and gooey like the center of a fresh cinnamon bun.

But Chona’s years of stirring butter, sorting vegetables, and reading in the back room of the Heaven & Earth Grocery Store had given her time to consider. She read everything as a child: comics, detective books, dime novels; and by the time she became a young wife, she’d evolved into reading about socialism and unions. She subscribed to Jewish newspapers, publications in Hebrew, and books on Jewish life, some from Europe. The readings gave her wild ideas about art, music, and worldly matters.

When you are about to die, Lark thinks, you might as well eat peanut butter and ice cream—like John, cashing in his insurance and going to Bermuda, where he went to a local soccer field every day and just sat there, with five T cells and a Visa card, admiring the calves and thick windblown hair of the players running after the ball, a living example of the philosophy of the advertising campaign Just Do It. (Some people can’t till they are dying.)

For the cake: 2¾ cup flour 2½ tsp baking powder 2 cups granulated sugar 1 three-ounce package of strawberry Jell-O 1 cup butter, softened 4 eggs 1 cup milk 2 tsp vanilla ½ cup strawberries, pureed Preheat oven to 350º. In a medium bowl, mix flour and baking powder together. In a large bowl, mix sugar, Jell-O, and butter with a handheld mixer. Add eggs one at a time, mixing as you do. Add the flour and baking powder into the sugar mixture and beat as you add in the milk. Finally, stir in vanilla and pureed strawberries. Pour into 9x13 greased pan and bake for 40–50 minutes, until toothpick inserted into the middle comes out clean. For the frosting: ½ cup butter, softened 1 eight-ounce pack of cream cheese 4 cups powdered sugar 2 tsp vanilla Mix all the ingredients together with handheld mixer. For the cake pops: Follow the instructions for making basic Pops from a Box, but use your crumbled strawberry cake and 1½ cups of your cream cheese frosting instead. Chill your cake balls. Choose a fun color or flavor for your candy melt coating (white chocolate candy melts are yummy with this!). Prepare your coating using about ¼ pound of candy melts at a time. Then dip cake pops and decorate.

When my high school boyfriend dumped me for my best friend two weeks before the prom, my great aunt Maureen said: Dorothy dear, life is messy but love is messier. As usual she’d nailed it. Tonight I had to be content with the mystery novel and the hot-buttered rum. I’d leave the mess for tomorrow.

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.

But she stopped at the third picture, a gorgeous baking tray of golden buttery-topped tiropetes, with a bowl on the side of bright-colored Greek salad with what appeared to be fresh oregano. It had popped up because she was following #bethesdafood scene. The caption, written by BoozyCrocker, said: BoozyCrocker MUST EAT BUTTER. #TheCookbookClub is now open to new members. Foodies, come join us! Three-drink minimum. No skipping dessert. Meet in Bethesda. DM me. No psychos, no diets. #foodporn #saycheese #cheese #feta #musteatbutter #delicious #whenindoubtaddbutter #bethesdafoodscene

She remembered a restaurant she'd gone to in San Francisco, years before. Delfina? That was it. She'd had delicious sourdough bread there, painted with butter. Fragrant, crisp-on-the-outside Saffron Arancini. Bright fresh salad with real oil and good vinegar and fresh cracked pepper.

After lunch, Pindar would go in to the university and meet with his students. When his colleagues asked him how his book was going, he tried to seem jolly. "Oh, you know. It's just dreams of eating. Like any other cookbook, only older," he would laugh. "Dabbling in Babylonian stewpots." But he loved his old recipes. In fact, he loved all cookbooks, old or new, perhaps because so few other things in life were such unabashed invitations to delight. When, as a young man, he had invented a sandwich made of peanut butter, bacon, and mango chutney, he thought he might die of pleasure.

Carlos opened his mouth for Jay to look at the chewed-up peanut butter cup on his tongue. Some fell out.

He orders an expensive bottle of Rioja and we begin our tapas extravaganza with plates of dates wrapped in bacon, langoustines in garlic and butter, chorizo in a tomatoey sauce, and a miniature Spanish tortilla (potato, egg, and onion). Our medium-rare steaks are set before us along with a basket of thinly sliced, golden crisped fries. I'm happy to see that Frank enjoys food- with no mention of any weird hang-ups or allergies. "I was hoping they'd have sweetbreads on the menu," Frank says. "You like sweetbreads?" I ask, my heart expanding at the mention of calf thymus. "I'm an organ man," Frank says, taking a sip of wine. "I know a place where they make great sautéed sweetbreads," I say. "You?" he asks, a look of pleased astonishment spreading across his face. "Love 'em," I say. This mutual infatuation with organs bodes well. Cutting into the steaks with sharp knives, we put morsels in our mouths, close our eyes as if we've died and gone to heaven, chew, and groan, the salty, bloody juices trickling down the backs of our throats.

What about buttering its paws?’ asked Paul, anxious to show his knowledge. ‘Fiddlesticks!’ snapped Dotty. ‘You do as I say, and he’ll soon settle down.

Without the giants mankind would be alone with the rats and the cockroaches. Worse, perhaps, he would be alone with himself. This fuzzy issue had not occupied the futurologists. They cluckclucked over butter mountains here versus starvation there, and supplied their own recipes. They loved their theories more than the world.

For you, Manya, scrambled eggs with cream cheese and lox, our number-one seller. For the young lady a waffle with hot syrup and whipped butter and for Abe a steak sandwich with sautéed onions. Sounds good?" He left us for a moment before seating himself on the fourth chair at our table. He brought a basket with assorted breads, rolls, bagels and bialys that he lathered with butter and shoveled into his mouth. "Taste, taste." True to the sign that read In and Out in 20 Minutes, the food appeared not only quickly but on hot plates. "I learned from you, Manya. Always hot plates." The waffle was a novel experience: crisp, sweet, the butter served in a fluted paper cup, the syrup in a miniature pitcher.

Today's offerings include grilled tuna in a soy wasabi marinade, and a pan-roasted squab with curried apricot chutney, neither typical bistro fare. It makes me think wistfully of compound butters and pestos of fresh herbs and toasted nuts, of mushrooms and lardons, eggs and roast chicken, none of which appear anywhere on the menu. I order myself an appetizer portion of mussels and a side of frites to start and a green salad. After an extended cross examination of the waiter, Enid orders a beet and goat cheese salad and the veal chop with Roquefort butter.

As soon as we open the apartment door, we can smell the turkey roasting. I've cooked it in a paper bag (a neat trick that ensures an incredibly moist bird without basting). The smell is a heady combination of roasting turkey, and apple brandy, butter, and wild mushrooms that I've combined and rubbed on the inside of the bird and under the skin of the breast and legs. It will be delicious.

In principle, all women should give themselves permission to demand good treatment, but the world made doing so profoundly difficult.

There are some occasions when a cat shows immediate repulsion to food on account of it being unfit for the consumption of any self-respecting beast. On these occasions, the assembled mass of so-called nutrition is so abhorrent that the cat in question will immediately reel back and retch, often producing a “furball of disapproval” in the process. What Grimalkin saw along the table on that June Coronation Day of 1953 was nothing more than a smorgasbord of pure alimentary horror. Carrots and parsnips lay slopped over each other, blanched of their color, and overcooked to the point of seeming somehow out of focus. Cakes and jellies had been dyed in the colors of the Union Jack; but the once solid red, white and blue colorings had run into each other, turning the jellies into a liver-colored slop, resembling a sea anemone caught up in an oil slick. It was a sight that made Grimalkin feel nauseous, despite having built a stomach that could happily withstand 2-week-old squirrel offal in the 1890s. And here, next to his paws, sat a little pyramid of sandwiches cut into triangles on a plastic plate. He sniffed the bread only to lurch back with a noseful of an odd, synthetic smell that appeared to be emanating from some canary-yellow replacement for butter between the slices. Cans stood like sentinels between the party hats and dishes, with equally dubious names like Crest Top Collard Greens and Crest Top Pork & Beans.

There, alongside the pat of butter with cicatrice of strawberry

In the same way, critics who set out to talk about a fantasy novel in ignorance of the history and extensive theory of fantasy literature will make fools of themselves, because they don’t know how to read the book. They have no contextual information to tell them what its tradition is, where it’s coming from, what it’s trying to do, what it does. This was liberally proved when the first Harry Potter book came out and literary reviewers ran around shrieking about its incredible originality. This originality was an artifact of the reviewers’ blank ignorance of its genres, children’s fantasy and the British boarding-school story, plus the fact that they hadn’t read a fantasy since they were eight. It was pitiful. It was like watching a TV gourmet chef eat a piece of buttered toast and squeal, “But this is delicious! Unheard of! What genius invented it?

For what purpose, exactly, do you want to lose weight? Are you worried about not being attractive to men? Because in that case, you have nothing to fear. Men are naturally attracted to shapely, full-figured women. When I say men, I’m of course referring to real men, who are emotionally mature, affluent, and capable of generosity. Men who favour women with bodies like skinny children are the ones with no confidence in themselves. They’re without exception servile, sexually and emotionally immature, with no capacity for financial generosity, either.

The molasses flood was such a sad story. But I wanted to end this book with some sweetness — a recipe for gingerbread cake. This is a delicious treat made with molasses. Kids like Carmen would have eaten gingerbread back in 1919. My four kids love it — and I think you might, too. Ingredients Butter or oil and flour for dusting the cake pan ½ cup unsalted butter ½ cup light brown sugar 1 cup molasses 1 large egg 2½ cups all-purpose flour 1½ teaspoons baking soda 2 teaspoons ground ginger 1 teaspoon cinnamon ½ teaspoon ground cloves 1 cup boiling water* Directions Ask an adult to help you preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Prepare a 9x9-inch cake pan: Grease the inside with butter or oil. Sprinkle on some flour. Tilt the pan so the flour sticks to the grease. Shake out any extra flour. In a large bowl, beat the butter and sugar together with an electric mixer until light and creamy. Add the molasses and egg and mix until smooth. Add the flour, baking soda, ginger, cinnamon, and cloves and mix until smooth. Ask an adult to help you carefully add the boiling water and mix until smooth. Pour the batter into your prepared pan. Ask an adult to help you put the pan in the oven. Bake 40-45 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out without any crumbs on it. Ask an adult to help you take the cake out of the oven. Allow the cake to cool before cutting it into squares.

criticism from the people around her, she would be fine with the way she looked.

that way, both your mind and your body will commence their transformation.

It gives me pleasure to give men pleasure. It’s not ‘work’, at least as you conceive of it. Caring for, supporting and warming the hearts of men is women’s god-given role, and, without fail, performing it makes women beautiful. They become goddesses.

Nobody has to be fully satisfied by just one thing, and nor do they have to aim to be like everyone else. It’s plenty if people can enjoy things a good amount, and be satisfied with their life overall.

When I’m eating good butter I feel somehow as though I were falling.

Your mum didn’t have the time, and that’s okay. Doing this takes time. It’s not about affection, I’ve realised – it’s just about time. You don’t realise that until you do it.

It didn’t matter who she had for company. She was beginning to understand that the more delicious the time she spent with others, the more alone she felt.

Why is it that with nobody to watch over them, men can’t stop themselves from falling into disrepair

Some of the most viral foods in London in the last couple of years include a foot-long croissant, a brick of honey butter toast and cookies thicker than the average burger. A more-is-more principle is in effect. It has led to mash-ups like birria ramen, cheeseburger tacos, cruffins, crookies, brookies and cereal milk ice cream. When something goes viral on here, it reveals something about the things they really want. And what people want, it turns out, are easily digestible food ideas-- things they already know, like the burger, hybrids that they double know but that are also novel

The owner comes back, makes tea for them and says, 'I'm sorry I only have bread, butter, and cucumbers,' but Anne and Diana are so starving that the bread, butter, and cucumbers taste delicious. And it really does sound delicious. I don't know that much about Anne of Green Gables, or about novels in general, but that scene really stands out for me, the way it describes how wonderful the food tasted... Especially the way it describes the joy of eating." "You may well be right." "I thought about this a lot and I believe that the cucumbers mentioned may have been pickled. Though other translations of the book only say it's bread, butter, and cucumbers. But I can't picture them crunching on fresh cucumbers... So anyway, that's how I came up with my own version, which is this. Bread, butter, and cucumber sandwiches. That seemed a bit inadequate, though, so I also made roast chicken sandwiches. I think they must have eaten those as well.

Women appeared to find this aspect of the case profoundly disturbing, while in men it elicited an extraordinary display of hatred and vitriol. From early childhood, everyone had had it drummed into them that if a woman wasn’t slim, she wasn’t worth bothering with. The decision not to lose weight and remain plus-sized was one that demanded considerable resolve.

Your problem is you’ve decided that butter is bad without even understanding what it tastes like. Margarine is far worse for your body than any butter.

The meal that Reiko had cooked her was so delicious that Rika could still now recall every part of the sensation of eating it. Its fragrance

She felt like the kind of meals she made – putting butter on hot rice or toast

Thank you. That was really good. But it took me by surprise. Isn’t this the first time you’ve cooked for me?’ ‘Is it?’ she said

Lying in the darkness

him as the very picture of arrogance.

deadline. This week-long circuit

Kitamura’s lack of professional ambition concerning anything other than shaving as many seconds as he could off the time he spent at work was so brazen that by this stage everybody practically respected him for it.

In principle

Now you mention it I can see you’ve filled out a little. But how tall are you again – five feet three? At that height

Where Makoto’s suggestion had caused a visceral reaction in her

Instilling desire in someone was a lot of fun

Even now

Compared to Rika herself

Trying to remember the woman who’d stood beside her at the sinks in the public toilet

If the food here wasn’t offensively bad

Her whole body was heavy

Your digestive system’s just upset after all that heavy food. It’s nothing to worry about. I made you some soup that’s great for indigestion. Fingers crossed you’ll like it.’ Saying this

Never eat anything you don’t want to. When you take the decision to live that way

That scent unique to supermarkets of cool apples and wet cardboard enveloped her gently.