Cheese Tray Quotes

become a widow, men line up to tell you what to do now that your husband is gone. But you must not listen to a single one. Trust your own counsel.” The matagot rubs against my arm, purring softly. His fur is softer than it looks. “His name is Felix.” Veuve Clicquot eyes the tray, looking for her next victim. “Whose name?” My wrists start to itch, and I scratch them discreetly. “The matagot.” She pops a madeleine in her mouth and giggles. “Oh my, that’s good.” By the time Veuve Clicquot leaves, my wrists have swollen with hives. I lure the matagot with a piece of cheese. Snatching him up, I march him to the back door and shoo him into the alleyway. “Bon chance, Felix!” Good luck. Waking before dawn, I reach for Louis, but the hollow in the feather

Ronan and his friend Gansey stood on the back porch, leaning on the railing, watching the psychics giggling as they placed the flowers for the ceremony. Every so often, Ronan threw a cheese cube stolen from a snack tray at Chainsaw, whose claw marks scarred the railing. “You want one of these?” Gansey asked. He gestured with his chin to indicate it. The all of it. The wedding. “Yeah,” said Ronan. “I think so.” “Well that’s a relief,” Gansey said. “How do you figure?” “I asked Adam and he said the same thing.

Creamy-looking custards were followed by beautifully decorated slices of cake. Crisp-shelled pastries were set down next to gooey-centered pies. Dainty little goblets featuring ice cream and sorbet came out on a silver tray, and a pungent aroma rose off a long wooden board that was dotted with more kinds of cheese than Gladys had ever seen,

trays of pastries from his castle kitchens, cream swans and spun-sugar unicorns, lemon cakes in the shape of roses, spiced honey biscuits and blackberry tarts, apple crisps and wheels of buttery cheese.

Aunt Rachel removes the knaffea from the oven and places it on its sumptuous tray; the shredded phyllo dough is crisp and brown, crackling with hot, rose-scented syrup. Nestled within, like a naughty secret, is the melting layer of sweet cheese. The pastry is freshly hot, the only way to eat it, really, with its miraculous study in contrasts— the running cheese hidden within crisp, crackling layers of baked phyllo and the distinctive, brocaded complexities of flavors. It’s so hot that it steams in your mouth, and at first you eat it with just the tips of your teeth. Then the layers of crisp and sweet and soft intermingle, a series of surprises. It is so rich and dense that you can eat only a little bit, and then it is over and the knaffea is just a pleasant memory—like a lovely dream that you forget a few seconds after you wake. But for a few seconds, you knew you were eating knaffea.

It was strange to read about the people he knew in New York, Ed and Lorraine, the newt-brained girl who had tried to stow herself away in his cabin the day he sailed from New York. It was strange and not at all attractive. What a dismal life they led, creeping around New York, in and out of subways, standing in some dingy bar on Third Avenue for their entertainment,watching television, or even if they had enough money for a Madison Avenue bar or a good restaurant now and then, how dull it all was compared to the worst little trattoria in Venice with its tables of green salads, trays of wonderful cheeses, and its friendly waiters bringing you the best wine in the world! ‘I certainly do envy you sitting there in Venice in an old palazzo!’ Bob wrote. ‘Do you take a lot of gondola rides? How are the girls? Are you getting so cultured you won’t speak to any of us when you come back? How long are you staying, anyway ?

The chalkboard menu really seemed to emphasize that everything was local and that everything had maple syrup in it. The BBQ beef was in maple syrup BBQ sauce. The mac and cheese was made with smoked maple cheese. There was maple tofu and maple-syrup dressing for the salads. "Did you forget you were in Vermont for a second?" Stevie said to Janelle as they took their trays. "Look down. You are standing in maple syrup." "Yeah," Janelle replied, a bit dispiritedly, as she took some tofu and vegetables. "It's not my favorite." Nate stared down the sneeze guard at the mapleized meats. "I'll drink the living blood of trees," he said. "Hit me.

The food is presented on the finest compilation of their silver trays and bowls. It's as delicate as the floral arrangements and includes Kitty B.'s petits fours and lemon squares as well as Sis's shrimp salad and cucumber sandwiches and Ray's cheese straws, praline pecans, and fruit kebobs dipped in white and dark chocolate.

Do you really think my feet smell?” I don’t. I love the way he smells after a lacrosse game--like sweat and grass and him. But I love to tease, to see that unsure look cross his face for just half a beat. “Well, I mean, on game days…” I say. Then Peter attacks me again, and we’re wrestling around, laughing, when Kitty walks in, balancing a tray with a cheese sandwich and a glass of orange juice. “Take it upstairs,” she says, sitting down on the floor. “This is a public area.” Disentangling myself, I give her a glare. “We aren’t doing anything private, Katherine.” “Your sister says my feet stink,” Peter says, pointing his foot in her direction. “She’s lying, isn’t she?” She deflects it with a pop of her elbow. “I’m not smelling your foot.” She shudders. “You guys are kinky.” I yelp and throw a pillow at her. She gasps. “You’re lucky you didn’t knock over my juice! Daddy will kill you if you mess up the rug again.” Pointedly she says, “Remember the nail-polish-remover incident?” Peter ruffles my hair. “Clumsy Lara Jean.” I shove him away from me. “I’m not clumsy. You’re the one who tripped over his own feet trying to get to the pizza the other night at Gabe’s.” Kitty bursts into giggles and Peter throws a pillow at her. “You guys need to stop ganging up on me!” he yells.

Why was it, she wondered, that men always seemed to want so much advice? They never took it unless it was a confirmation of their own desires, but they liked to have it. They liked to march fortified by feminine approval as well as by masculine initiative. Would women, she mused while in the kitchen, opening paper bags, laying out plates and knives and spoons on trays, cutting tomatoes, grating cheese, and scraping the remnants of ham from a knuckle bone, would women have done better through life if they had more consistently demanded from men the toll of daily council? If, instead of merely doing things, they had waylaid friends, lovers, husbands, and brothers, and set before them this plan and the other, crying dramatically, “This step will make or mar me!” Or, “If I go wrong here, I’m done!” Or, “But in spite of God and the devil, I’ll do it yet,” Women, reflected Jean, too often knew that, as likely as not, they would never be done till dead.

I was thrown together with Florence, or 'Florawns' as she was called, a pert girl of nineteen who worked in our kitchen and was sent out to help me. First, I followed her to a butcher where fat sausages hung from the ceiling like aldermen's chains, and I could choose the best of plump ducks, sides of beef, and chops standing guard like sentries on parade. Once the deal was done Florence paid him, gave me a wink and cast a trickle of coins into her apron pocket. So it seemed that serving girls will pay themselves the whole world over. The size of the Paris market made Covent Garden look like a tinker's tray. And I never before saw such neatness; the cakes arranged in pinks and yellows and greens like an embroidery, and the cheeses even prettier, some as tiny as thimbles and others great solid cartwheels. As for the King Cakes the French made for Twelfth Night, the scents of almond and caramelled sugar were to me far sweeter than any perfumed waters.

After school, Peter and I are lying on the couch; his feet are hanging off the end. He’s still in his costume, but I’ve changed into my regular clothes. “You always have the cutest socks,” he says, lifting up my right foot. These ones are gray with white polka dots and yellow bear faces. Proudly I say, “My great-aunt sends them from Korea. Korea has the cutest stuff, you know.” “Can you ask her to send me some too? Not bears, but maybe, like, tigers. Tigers are cool.” “Your feet are too big for socks as cute as these. Your toes would pop right out. You know what, I bet I could find you some socks that fit at…um, the zoo.” Peter sits up and starts tickling me. I gasp out, “I bet the--pandas or gorillas have to--keep their feet warm somehow…in the winter. Maybe they have some kind of deodorized sock technology as well.” I burst into giggles. “Stop…stop tickling me!” “Then stop being mean about my feet!” I’ve got my hand burrowed under his arm, and I am tickling him ferociously. But by doing so, I have opened myself up to more attacks. I yell, “Okay, okay, truce!” He stops, and I pretend to stop, but sneak a tickle under his arm, and he lets out a high-pitched un-Peter-like shriek. “You said truce!” he accuses. We both nod and lie back down, out of breath. “Do you really think my feet smell?” I don’t. I love the way he smells after a lacrosse game--like sweat and grass and him. But I love to tease, to see that unsure look cross his face for just half a beat. “Well, I mean, on game days…” I say. Then Peter attacks me again, and we’re wrestling around, laughing, when Kitty walks in, balancing a tray with a cheese sandwich and a glass of orange juice. “Take it upstairs,” she says, sitting down on the floor. “This is a public area.

Grandfather, is it all right if we join you for a bit?" "Of course. Particularly since you've brought sustenance." He eyed the tray of food. It looked like a food magazine layout, featuring a variety of cheeses with fresh berries on brightly painted Italian pottery, and a tiny glass container of honey with the smallest spoon he'd ever seen. Isabel laced a thread of honey across the cheeses. "These are my favorite honey and cheese pairings. Comte, Appenzeller and ricotta. I had my first honey harvest last summer- a small one. That's when I realized I needed extra help with my beekeeping." "Sorry I wasn't your guy," said Mac.

Sis rolls her eyes and leads the elderly lady over to the S-shaped tables crammed with silver trays of ham biscuits, pickled shrimp, stuffed mushrooms, venison pate, fruit and cheese in ornately carved-out watermelons, smoked salmon with all the trimmings, sausage balls, and pimento cheese garnished with little cocktail pickles. Sis's mama gets a nibble of shrimp and a ham biscuit and points to another corner of the tent where Richadene's brother, Melvin, is carving a beef tenderloin and serving it on rolls with horseradish and mayonnaise. Next to Melvin, R.L.'s chef friend from Savannah is serving up shrimp and grits in large martini glasses.

Down every aisle a single thought follows me like a shadow: Brand Italy is strong. When it comes to cultural currency, there is no brand more valuable than this one. From lipstick-red sports cars to svelte runway figures to enigmatic opera singers, Italian culture means something to everyone in the world. But nowhere does the name Italy mean more than in and around the kitchen. Peruse a pantry in London, Osaka, or Kalamazoo, and you're likely to find it spilling over with the fruits of this country: dried pasta, San Marzano tomatoes, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, jars of pesto, Nutella. Tucked into the northwest corner of Italy, sharing a border with France and Switzerland, Piedmont may be as far from the country's political and geographical center as possible, but it is ground zero for Brand Italy. This is the land of Slow Food. Of white truffles. Barolo. Vermouth. Campari. Breadsticks. Nutella. Fittingly, it's also the home of Eataly, the supermarket juggernaut delivering a taste of the entire country to domestic and international shoppers alike. This is the Eataly mother ship, the first and most symbolically important store for a company with plans for covering the globe in peppery Umbrian oil, and shavings of Parmigiano-Reggiano Vacche Rosse. We start with the essentials: bottle opener, mini wooden cutting board, hard-plastic wineglasses. From there, we move on to more exciting terrain: a wild-boar sausage from Tuscany. A semiaged goat's-milk cheese from Molise. A tray of lacy, pistachio-pocked mortadella. Some soft, spicy spreadable 'nduja from Calabria. A jar of gianduja, the hazelnut-chocolate spread that inspired Nutella- just in case we have any sudden blood sugar crashes on the trail.

I wish my genius ran to making automatons,” he said. “I would invent one that would follow you around with a tray. It would wait patiently for you to look up from whatever you were doing, and as soon as you did, it would say, ‘Lady Cambury, you must have something to eat.’” She swallowed her bite of apple. “That would be extremely annoying.” “I do not consider that a detriment.” “I consider it a waste of a good automaton. I would modify your invention,” she said, reaching for some cheese. “I’d dress my version up in my best silk and send it out to pay morning calls. Oh, how I hate making morning calls. It wouldn’t need much of a vocabulary. ‘Yes,’ my automaton would say, ‘this weather is dreadful, isn’t it?’ In fact, I think that’s how I would do it. Whatever the other person says, it would answer, ‘Yes, it most certainly is, isn’t it?’ My automaton would have perfect manners.

Apricot and chocolate muffins Muffins are a great way to introduce new fruits to your child’s diet. Once they have enjoyed apricots in a muffin, you can serve the ‘real thing’, saying it’s what they have for breakfast. Or you can put some fresh versions of the fruit on the same plate. Other fruits to try in muffins include blueberries and raspberries. A word of warning: the muffins don’t taste massively sweet so may seem a bit underwhelming to the adult palette. We tend to have them with a glass of milk-based, homemade fruit smoothie, spreading them with ricotta cheese to make them more substantial. 250g plain wholemeal flour 2 tsp baking powder 30g granulated fruit sugar 1 egg 30ml vegetable oil 150ml whole milk 180g ripe apricots, de-stoned and chopped 20g milk chocolate, cut into chips Put muffin cases into a muffin tray (this makes about 8–10 small muffins). Heat the oven to 180°C/gas 4. Put the flour and baking powder in a bowl and mix well. Next add the sugar and mix again. Make a ‘well’ in the middle of the mixture. Crack the egg into another bowl and add the oil and milk. Whisk well, then pour into the ‘well’ in the mixture in the other bowl. Stir it briskly and, once well mixed, stir in the apricot and the chocolate chips. Spoon equal amounts into the muffin cases and bake. Check after 25 minutes. If ready, a sharp knife will go in and out with no mixture attached. If you need another 5 minutes, return to the oven until done. Cool and serve. Makes 10 mini- or 4 regular-sized muffins. Great because:  The chocolate is only present in a tiny amount but is enough to make the muffins feel a bit special while the apricots provide a little fruit. If you have them with a milk-based smoothie and ricotta it means that you boost the protein content of the meal to make it more filling.

By then we lived in a small town an hour outside of Minneapolis in a series of apartment complexes with deceptively upscale names: Mill Pond and Barbary Knoll, Tree Loft and Lake Grace Manor. She had one job, then another. She waited tables at a place called the Norseman and then a place called Infinity, where her uniform was a black T-shirt that said GO FOR IT in rainbow glitter across her chest. She worked the day shift at a factory that manufactured plastic containers capable of holding highly corrosive chemicals and brought the rejects home. Trays and boxes that had been cracked or clipped or misaligned in the machine. We made them into toys—beds for our dolls, ramps for our cars. She worked and worked and worked, and still we were poor. We received government cheese and powdered milk, food stamps and medical assistance cards, and free presents from do-gooders at Christmastime. We played tag and red light green light and charades by the apartment mailboxes that you could open only with a key, waiting for checks to arrive. “We aren’t poor,” my mother said, again and again. “Because we’re rich in love.

Servers moved among the guests with trays of hors d'oeuvres and the signature cocktail, champagne with a honey infused liqueur and a delicate spiral twist of lemon. The banquet was bursting with color and flavor- flower-sprinkled salads, savory chili roasted salmon, honey glazed ribs, just-harvested sweet corn, lush tomatoes and berries, artisan cheeses. Everything had been harvested within a fifty-mile radius of Bella Vista. The cake was exactly what Tess had requested, a gorgeous tower of sweetness. Tess offered a gracious speech as she and Dominic cut the first slices. "I've come a long way from the city girl who subsisted on Red Bull and microwave burritos," she said. "There's quite a list of people to thank for that- my wonderful mother, my grandfather and my beautiful sister who created this place of celebration. Most of all, I'm grateful to Dominic." She turned to him, offering the first piece on a yellow china plate. "You're my heart, and there is no sweeter feeling than the love we share. Not even this cake. Wait, that might be overstating it. Everyone, be sure you taste this cake. It's one of Isabel's best recipes.

Kendra rubbed her eyes. She had slept in her clothes. “Come in, then.” The door opened and Cody entered with a tray. “Scrambled eggs, sausage, bacon, toast, yogurt, and juice,” he announced, setting the tray on the desk. “You barge down the stairs, infuriate Torina, and end up with a first-rate breakfast. Maybe I should start acting a little less compliant!” “Don’t get too jealous. This may be my last meal.” Cody shrugged. “They’re expecting visitors. They told me to deliver this. I’m supposed to suggest that you be on your best behavior. So I’ve suggested it.” “You want some bacon or something?” He hesitated. “I couldn’t take your food.” “Have a strip. And some sausage, too. How am I supposed to eat all that?” “Personally, I’d use the toast to make a breakfast sandwich. If you’re willing to part with a strip and a link, I’ll call it my tip.” Cody placed some bacon and sausage on a napkin and exited the room. She heard the lock reengage. Kendra sat at the desk. Molten cheese glued chunks of ham to the fluffy eggs. The sausages glistened with grease but tasted good, and the bacon had a pleasant crunch. As she was sipping some juice, the door unlocked and Torina entered, wearing a flirtatious sundress and sandals. “He’s here,” she announced, girlishly flustered. “Did

Everyone jumps to their stations and I meet Richard and Amanda at ours. We're in charge of assembling spoonfuls of sweet-potato casserole but with a Spanish twist. That was my idea, a Southern holiday meal meets a twist of southern Spain. Most of the hors d'oeuvres were prepared beforehand so we just need to get them in the oven and put on the finishing garnishes. I begin scooping sweet-potato casserole onto ceramic serving spoons while Richard garnishes them with sugared walnuts and Spanish sausage. Three months ago, most of us had never even tried Spanish cuisine, and today we're hosting a semi-Spanish-themed banquet. We work like machines. I spoon and pass the bite to my left. Richard adds walnuts and sausage, and passes the plate. Amanda adds parsley and cleans the plate. Chili aioli would make this bomb. A sweet and savory bite. I almost walk to the spice cabinet, then stop myself. That's not the recipe. We make trays and trays of food; some are set forward for the students who will begin serving. These are the skewers of winter veggies and single-serve portions of herbed stuffing with jamón ibérico- the less hearty bites. While the first course is being distributed the rest of us begin wiping down our stations. Our mini bites of sweet potato and mac and cheese will be going out next.

Mark won't let me fret. He points out people driving next to us. He tells me that most of them - most everybody - is screaming almost all of the time. "They're just screaming real quiet," he says. "It's true, you know. Look around at the faces on the bus. Look at the guy taking your order and pushing the plastic tray, the plastic-wrapped burger with plastic cheese, look at the face he's wearing under the smile. You listen and tell me he's not screaming.

Dexter, of course, is made of sterner stuff than any mere mortal, and imploring looks from a beautiful woman have never had any power over Our Wicked Warrior. And it was an absurd idea, something far too strange even to contemplate—me, a bodyguard? It was out of the question. And yet somehow, when the workday ended that evening and all good wage slaves trotted dutifully away to hearth and home, I found myself on the balcony of a suite at the Grove Isle Hotel, sipping a mojito and watching as a spectacular sunset blew up the sky behind us, reflecting orange and red and pink onto the water of Biscayne Bay. There was a tray of cheese and fresh fruit on the table beside me, and the Glock was an uncomfortable lump in my side, and I was filled with wonder at the unavoidable notion that Life makes no sense at all, especially when things have taken a sudden and extravagant turn into surreal and unearned luxury. Terror, pain, and nausea I can understand, but this? I could only assume I was being set up for something even worse. Still, the mojito was very good, and one of the cheeses had a very nice bite to it. I wondered if anyone ever really got used to living like this. It didn’t seem possible; weren’t we all made to sweat and suffer and endure painful hardship as we toiled endlessly in the vile cesspit of life on earth? How did sharp cheese, fresh strawberries, and utter luxury fit in with that?

Sesame Crackers We love crackers in my house, where they serve as both a tasty snack and a baby weaning tool! They are so easy to make, I just take a portion off my pizza dough when I’m getting ready to make pizza and roll out the cracker shapes. The boys love cutting the crackers into fun shapes and munching on them when they’re still warm. serves 4 for lunch ¼ quantity of pizza dough • 100g sesame seeds flour for sprinkling to serve cheese and sliced tomato or hummus or tabbouleh Method Preheat a fan oven to 210°C and line a baking tray with greaseproof paper. Sprinkle a clean, flat surface with flour. Roll out the dough as flat as you can get it. Sprinkle the sesame seeds on top and roll again so that they are embedded into the dough. Cut the dough into shapes and place on the lined baking tray. Bake in the oven until golden brown. The time it takes will depend on how thinly you roll your dough. Make sure your oven light is on and watch the baking tray closely. Mine take about 7 minutes to bake. Cool on a wire rack and then serve with your chosen topping. The crackers will keep in a dry airtight container for up to three days.

The law gave me an entirely new vocabulary, a language that non-lawyers derisively referred to as "legalese." Unlike the basic building blocks- the day-to-day words- that got me from the subway to the office and back, the words of my legal vocabulary, more often than not, triggered flavors that I had experienced after leaving Boiling Springs, flavors that I had chosen for myself, derived from foods that were never contained within the boxes and the cans of DeAnne's kitchen. Subpoenakiwifruit. InjunctionCamembert. Infringementlobster. Jurisdictionfreshgreenbeans. Appellantsourdoughbread. ArbitrationGuinness. Unconstitutionalasparagus. ExculpatoryNutella. I could go on and on, and I did. Every day I was paid an astonishing amount of money to shuffle these words around on paper and, better yet, to say them aloud. At my yearly reviews, the partners I worked for commented that they had never seen a young lawyer so visibly invigorated by her work. One of the many reasons I was on track to make partner, I thought. There were, of course, the rare and disconnecting exceptions. Some legal words reached back to the Dark Ages of my childhood and to the stunted diet that informed my earlier words. "Mitigating," for example, brought with it the unmistakable taste of elementary school cafeteria pizzas: rectangles of frozen dough topped with a ketchup-like sauce, the hard crumbled meat of some unidentifiable animal, and grated "cheese" that didn't melt when heated but instead retained the pattern of a badly crocheted coverlet. I had actually looked forward to the days when these rectangles were on the lunch menu, slapped onto my tray by the lunch ladies in hairnets and comfortable shoes. Those pizzas (even the word itself was pure exuberance with the two z's and the sound of satisfaction at the end... ah!) were evocative of some greater, more interesting locale, though how and where none of us at Boiling Springs Elementary circa 1975 were quite sure. We all knew what hamburgers and hot dogs were supposed to look and taste like, and we knew that the school cafeteria served us a second-rate version of these foods. Few of us students knew what a pizza was supposed to be. Kelly claimed that it was usually very big and round in shape, but both of these characteristics seemed highly improbable to me. By the time we were in middle school, a Pizza Inn had opened up along the feeder road to I-85. The Pizza Inn may or may not have been the first national chain of pizzerias to offer a weekly all-you-can-eat buffet. To the folks of the greater Boiling Springs-Shelby area, this was an idea that would expand their waistlines, if not their horizons. A Sizzler would later open next to the Pizza Inn (feeder road took on a new connotation), and it would offer the Holy Grail of all-you-can-eat buffets: steaks, baked potatoes, and, for the ladies, a salad bar complete with exotic fixings such as canned chickpeas and a tangle of slightly bruised alfalfa sprouts. Along with "mitigating," these were some of the other legal words that also transported me back in time: Egressredvelvetcake. PerpetuityFrenchsaladdressing. Compensatoryboiledpeanuts. ProbateReese'speanutbuttercup. FiduciaryCheerwine. AmortizationOreocookie.

Onion Soup Gratinée YIELD: 4 SERVINGS ONE OF MY greatest treats when working in Paris was to go with my fellow chefs and commis to les Halles, the big market of Paris that spreads through many streets of the Châtelet neighborhood. The excitement in the streets and cafés started a little before 3:00 A.M. and ended around 7:00 or 8:00 A.M. Our nocturnal forays would, more often than not, finish at Le Pied de Cochon (The Pig’s Foot), the quintessential night brasserie of les Halles. There, large, vociferous butchers in bloody aprons would rub shoulders with tuxedoed and elegantly evening-gowned Parisians stopping by for late-night Champagne and a meal after the opera or the theater. The restaurant was famous for its onion-cheese gratinée; it was one of the best in Paris, and hundreds of bowls of it were served every night. For this recipe, you will need four onion soup bowls, each with a capacity of about 12 ounces and, preferably, with a lip or rim around the edge that the cheese topping will stick to as it melts to form a beautiful crust on top of the soup. 2 tablespoons unsalted butter 3 onions (about 12 ounces), cut into thin slices About 7 cups good-quality chicken stock, or a mixture of chicken and beef stock About ½ teaspoon salt, more or less, depending on the saltiness of the stock ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 16 slices of baguette, each cut about ⅜ inch thick About 3 cups grated Swiss cheese, preferably Gruyère, Comté, or Emmenthaler (about 10 ounces) Melt the butter in a saucepan, and sauté the sliced onions in the butter over medium to high heat for about 8 minutes, or until lightly browned. Add the stock, salt, and pepper, and boil gently for 15 minutes. Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Arrange the bread slices in a single layer on a tray, and bake them for 8 to 10 minutes, or until they are nicely browned. Divide the toast among the bowls, and sprinkle ¼ cup of cheese into each bowl. When the stock and onions have cooked for 15 minutes, pour the soup into the bowls, filling each to the top. Sprinkle on the remainder of the cheese, dividing it among the bowls and taking care not to push it down into the liquid. Press the cheese around the rim or lip of the bowls, so it adheres there as it cooks and the crust does not fall into the liquid. Arrange the soup bowls on a baking sheet, and bake for 35 to 45 minutes, or until a glorious brown, rich crust has developed on top. Serve hot right out of the oven.

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

There is the standing prime rib roast, which I salted three days ago and have left uncovered in the extra fridge to dry out. I place the roast in a large Ziploc bag and put it in the bottom of the first rolling cooler, and then the tray of twice-baked potatoes enriched with cream, butter, sour cream, cheddar cheese, bacon bits, and chives, and topped with a combination of more shredded cheese and crispy fried shallots. My coolers have been retrofitted with dowels in the corners so that I can put thin sheets of melamine on them to create a second level of storage; that way items on the bottom don't get crushed. On the top layer of this cooler I placed the tray of stuffed tomatoes, bursting with a filling of tomato pudding, a sweet-and-sour bread pudding made with tomato paste and orange juice and lots of butter and brown sugar, mixed with toasted bread cubes. I add a couple of frozen packs, and close the top. "That is all looking amazing," Shawn says. "Why, thank you. Can you grab me that second cooler over there, please?" He salutes and rolls it over. I pull the creamed spinach out of the fridge, already stored in the slow cooker container, and put it in the bottom of the cooler, and then add three large heads of iceberg lettuce, the tub of homemade ranch dressing and another tub of crispy bacon bits, and a larger tub of popover batter. I made the pie at Lawrence's house yesterday morning before heading to the airport- it was just easier than trying to transport it- and I'll make the whipped cream topping and shower it with shards of shaved chocolate just before serving. I also dropped off three large bags of homemade salt-and-pepper potato chips, figuring that Lawrence can't eat all of them in one day and that there will hopefully be at least two bags still there when we arrive. Lawrence insisted that he would pick up the oysters himself.

I look away when the Russian nurse comes in, holding a tray with Mom’s dinner on it. “Good evening, Mrs. Messing,” she says, her accent thick. Mom eyes her suspiciously. “I hope there’s plenty of sauce this time.” The nurse is polite and patient, even goes back to the kitchen to see if they have cracked pepper instead of the little packets. While Mom eats she talks about the parties she and Dad used to throw at the house. Those were the days, she says, sighing. Composers and producers; actresses like her and screenwriters like Dad, all of them vibrating with youth and beauty. The world was going to be ours. I readjust the napkin so that it covers a larger section of her blouse. How cute the two of you were in your matching outfits, she says about Emily and me. I refill her water cup, ask the nurse for more Parmesan cheese. Everyone said I was crazy to have daughters so close in age, but I thought one could watch out for the other. And you were always so mature, so it worked out. I dress her salad, tossing it with the flimsy plastic fork. Do you remember demanding white wine spritzers at your twelfth birthday party? Yes. I nod.

Mess tray in hand, he walked the line. Baked beans, mac and cheese, chicken strips, pickled beets, mushy peas. Comfort food from the freezer or a can. Three weeks since they’d seen any fresh produce. Two weeks since they’d brought in relief staff.

21. Bacon and Cheddar "Pot-Potatoes" Preparation time: 20 minutes cooking time: 40 minutes servings: 4 Ingredients: 1 pound bacon (diced) 2 medium onions (thinly sliced) 5 medium Idaho potatoes (thinly sliced) ½ pound cheddar cheese (grated) 4 tablespoons of butter with cannabis 1 teaspoon of salt ½ teaspoon of black pepper ½ teaspoon of chili powder aluminum foil potato pot baking tray / frying pan Optional garnishes: spring onions (thinly sliced), a dollop of sour cream, etc. Directions: Enough to make the top - starting clothed your crockpot or slow cooker with some aluminum foil potatoes to cover if you're ready. Then heat a large skillet or stovetop on the stovetop (most ideally because of the large surface area) over medium heat. Add 1 tablespoon of butter with cannabis and grease your pan.

The Mess went vilely tonight. Sister adds up on her fingers, and that's fatal, so all the numbers were out, and the chef sent in forty-five meats instead of fifty-one. I blushed with horror and responsibility, standing there watching six hungry men pretending to be philosophers. The sergeant wolfed the cheese too. He got it out from under my very eyes while I was clearing the tables and ate it, standing up to it in the pantry with his back to me when I went in to fetch a tray.

Opening the freezer, Easy smiled. God bless the Rixeys’ ice-cream addiction. There were so many containers, it seemed entirely plausible that they’d robbed an ice-cream delivery truck. He sorted through the tubs until he found a container of chocolate. Bingo. Next, he grabbed the milk from the fridge. And then he opened a bunch of cabinets until he found a blender at the back of one of them. The layer of dust on its surfaces told of how long it had gone unused. He rinsed and wiped it off, then brought the detachable pitcher to the other counter, where the ice cream lay waiting. Shane’s expression was two seconds away from amused. “Not a word, McCallan.” He held up his hands and shook his head, but he couldn’t hold back the smile. Fucker. Scoop, scoop, scoop, milk. Lid on, Easy placed the container on the blender and hit mix. Two minutes later, he had something approximating a very thick milk shake. He spooned it into a glass, then gathered the bagel and soup. Next he built his sandwich, sneaking pieces of beef and cheese as he worked. “Damn, that looks good,” Shane said, pushing off the stool and grabbing a plate for himself. “Think I’ll make some food for me and Sara, too.” Easy suddenly felt less self-conscious with Shane making food for his woman, too. Whoa. He froze with a piece of rye bread in his hand. Jenna was not his woman. But maybe she could be. Slapping the bread on top of the lettuce, Easy’s thoughts spun—he came up with lots of reasons why it probably wasn’t a good idea, but that didn’t make him want it any less. Mid-sandwich-making, Shane spoke in low, even tones. “We don’t have to do that thing where I tell you to handle Jenna with care if you’re thinking of starting something with her, do we?” For. Fuck. Sake. Not that Easy was particularly surprised by the question. Hadn’t he been half expecting it? And, his brain noted with interest, it wasn’t a warning off. “Nope.” “I didn’t think so,” Shane said in that same casual, even tone. “I see how protective you are of her, Easy, and I’m glad for that. I know you’ll treat her right, so I’m not saying a thing about it, except handle with care.” Nodding, Easy concentrated on making the floor stand still under his feet. “I like her, Shane,” he finally said, echoing the conversation he and Shane had had a few nights ago about Shane’s growing feelings for Sara. And, well, hi, how ya doin’, Mr. Hypocrite, Easy had told Shane he had to come clean with the team. Despite the fact that Easy hadn’t done so himself. Still. “Yeah,” Shane said, clapping him on the back of the neck and squeezing. “I know.” Wow. From the thin cabinet next to the oven Easy retrieved a baking sheet to use as a tray. Improvisation he could do. He loaded it down with everything he thought they’d need, lifted it into his arms and then he was all about getting back to Jenna.

Next, 'baccala marechiara,' codfish with a sauce of tomatoes, capers, olives, garlic, and parsley, a lighter version of her puttanesca. She laid out fresh cod in a baking dish, ladled the marechiara sauce over it, and set it in the oven until the cod was cooked through and flaky. She would serve it on a platter over linguine dressed with the good olive oil and cracked black pepper. As the sun came up, she set out the fresh-baked bread, and its aroma enveloped the room. She'd made platters of salads, melon balls wrapped with prosciutto, a huge antipasto with cuts of cured meats, cheeses, and olives, and a fresh-fruit tray that exploded with color. She pulled the chicken out to rest, sampled the bourguignonne, set the lasagna to bubble and cool on the big table, stirred her soup and turned down the heat on it.

Downstairs, Angelina rummaged through Mrs. Capuccio's refrigerator and found some pumpernickel bread, the end of a smoked pork roast, and a half a pound of Swiss cheese. She started thinking of the kinds of food she'd miss making most if she were stuck in bed most of the day, and she immediately thought deli. She cruised the refrigerator shelves and found some India relish, which she mixed together with a bit of ketchup and mayonnaise to make an improvised Thousand Island dressing. When she found a little can of sauerkraut in the cupboard, she knew she had a winner. She cooked up a Reuben sandwich in a cast-iron skillet, brewed a strong cup of tea with two sugars and a drop of milk, and brought it up to the room on a tray with some dill pickle slices on the side.

A hundred and forty-four, twelve trays of twelve. Were 144 cupcakes enough for one day? There was no way of knowing. What if she'd made too many chocolate-orange and not enough lemon-lime? What if everyone wanted vanilla-coconut and nobody looked at the mocha? What if people hated the cream-cheese icing and only went for the ones topped with buttercream? Was Clongarvin ready for mascarpone frosting?

With my wet hair wrapped in a towel, I retrieved the tray of food, placed it on the coffee table, and breathed in the aromas of dark espresso and apple butter. Piled onto the tray was a basket of warm croissants, prosciutto sliced so thin it looked like pink tissue paper, slices of honeydew melon, and little white tubs with butter and jam and soft cheese. As I cut open a croissant, its breath warmed my face, and I slathered it with the butter and then the strawberry jam. While in France, I would not count a single calorie. It was Austin himself who had told me to enjoy the food. Immerse myself in the past.

Staff meal." The words are sweet relief, and I untie the apron Roberto gave me, hanging it up on the hook by the entrance. Sure, I ate here last night. But there were so many things on the menu I didn't order. The open-faced duck confit sandwich with red wine aioli, the almond-crusted salmon with zucchini puree, tempura vegetables, chipotle oil. I wonder how this works, if we get to choose whatever we want. Or maybe it's some new creation, some experimental dish that Chef tries out on the staff before adding it to the menu. To think that I might try one of her dishes before anyone else is all the reward I need for today's scrubbing, for the hot water that has splashed all over me throughout the day. What I find instead is a sheet tray of charred burger patties, most of them covered in toxic-yellow American cheese. There's another sheet tray with toasted buns and matchstick fries. Morris and Boris are leaning against the coffee station, taking huge bites in sync. I try to hide my disappointment, follow Elias's lead and grab a plate. I'm shocked that some people are eating it just like that, munching down as quickly as possible without bothering with the condiments. I'm starving too, but it's crazy to me that Chef Elise's food is at their fingertips and everyone's just letting it sit there. There's a whole line of deli containers right in front of us, and I can't even tell what's in them, but the mere thought is making my mouth water. Whispering so that no one can laugh and/or yell at me, I ask Elias if it's cool to use some of the mise to spruce up the burger. He shrugs. "Do your thing." It mellows the disappointment a little: pickled red jalapeños, cilantro aioli, Thai slaw.

Time to savor a predinner cocktail or three while noshing on the relish tray, an assortment of raw vegetables, pickles, olives, cheese spread, and crackers, all against the din of clinking silverware and guest conversation. Then came a leisurely meal of grilled steaks with herbed butter served on sizzling metal plates, buttered shrimp sprinkled with parsley, and crispy tender potatoes, probably topped with melting cheese. Then to the bar for an after-dinner drink to end the evening on a sweet note.

Nina breathed in deep and then picked up the entire tray of cheese, ready to carry it with her. She set out to alert her siblings that their father was there, like she was a surfer girl Paul Revere. Mick is coming.

I can’t imagine why you’d think that.” He took out a charcuterie tray with four types of cheese, prosciutto and four other types of meat, dried apricots, assorted berries, cherry tomatoes, baguette slices, artisan crackers, nuts, black olives, pickles, and three different dips.

I finally came up with a cake base that seemed right and debated whether the coconut should go in the cake or be sprinkled on top. Hmm, probably better to test both and see. Cupcake trays filled and in the oven, it was now time to come up with the right frosting. I decided to go with cream cheese, both to mimic the cheese slices that usually top the bibingka and because cream cheese frosting was the best frosting. Don't @ me. It was delicious but tasted like a regular cream cheese frosting. It needed some oomph, something that let people know it was a bibingka cupcake. As I analyzed my grandmother's bibingka, layer by layer, I realized what was missing: the salted duck eggs. I was a huge fan of the sweet and salty combination and knew if I used the salted duck eggs sparingly, I'd have a winning combination on my hands.

The spirit of the place is not not friendly. Meals begin in silence; once everyone is seated, someone slaps the wooden clackers and leads a little chant. The food is often amazingly good, and despite the growing number of vegans in the ranks, heaps of delicious cheese are often melted and sprinkled and layered into the hot things that come out of the kitchen. At breakfast, watch the very senior people deal with rice gruel, and you'll know enough to spike yours with brown sugar and stir in some whole milk or cream, and you could do much worse on a morning in March. ("You can't change your karma, but you can sweeten your cereal," whispered an elderly priest when I nobly and foolishly added nothing to that blob in my bowl during my first stay at the farm.) Once eating is under way, the common dining room looks rather like a high school cafeteria; there are insider and outsider tables, and it is often easy to spot the new students and short-term guests—they're a few minutes late because they haven't memorized the schedule; they're smiling bravely, wielding their dinner trays like steering wheels, weaving around, desperately looking for a public parking space, hoping someone will wave or smile or otherwise signal them to safety I asked a practice leader about this, and she said she knew it was hard but people have to get over their self consciousness; for some newcomers, she said, that's zazen, that's their meditative practice. I think that's what I mean by not not friendly

When I plan a menu I consider color, texture, taste, and balance: Color: A red vegetable next to a yellow one looks unappetizing. Two white ones, like celery and cauliflower, look awful. Texture: Creamed chicken with mashed potatoes makes too much mush. Always serve something crisp with something soft. Taste: Never team two sours, two sweets, or two bitters. Candied yams and cranberry sauce are both delectable, but served together they break two of these rules, color and taste contrast. Balance: Courses shouldn't be uniformly rich nor light. A too rich menu might consist of a heavy cream soup, a roast with thickened gravy and potatoes, and a heavy cream soup, a roast with thickened gravy and potatoes, and a heavy whippedcreamtopped dessert. If the main course is substantial, the first should be light, crisp and appetizing, and the dessert an airy sherbet or a compote of fresh fruit. I decide first on the main course. For a buffet for twelve there should be two warm dishes. If you're going to be a relaxed hostess choose two that can be made the day before. Most of them improve with reheating. Some of the possibilities are beef bourguignon, boned and skinned breasts of chicken in a delicate cream sauce, a shrimp-lobster-and-scallop Newburg, lamb curry with all its interesting accompaniments. With any of these, serve a large, icy bowl of crisp salad with a choice of two or three dressings in little bowls alongside. Hot dishes must be kept hot in chafing dishes or on a hot tray so that they’re just as good for the second helping. Plates should be brought warm to the buffet table just before the guests serve themselves. I like to have a complete service at each end of the table so that people won’t have to stand in line forever, and there should be an attractive centerpiece, though it can be very simple. A bowl of flowers, carefully arranged by the hostess in the afternoon, and candles—always candlelight. The first course for a buffet supper should be an eye-catching array of canapés served in the living room with the drinks. I think there should be one interesting hot thing, one at room temperature, and a bouquet of crisp raw vegetables. The raw vegetables might include slim carrot sticks, green pepper slices, scallions, little love tomatoes, zucchini wedges, radishes, cauliflowerettes, olives, and young turnips. Arrange them colorfully in a large bowl over crushed ice and offer a couple of dips for non-dieters. [...] It’s best to serve hot hors d’oevres in two batches, the second ones heating under the broiler while the first round of drinks is served. [...] After people have had their second helpings the maid clears the buffet and puts out the dessert. Some people like an elaborate ice-cream concoction — so many men like gooey, sweet things. Pander to them, and let them worry about their waistlines. Some people like to end dinner with cheese and fruit. Other two kinds — one bland and one forthright, and just ripe. French bread and crackers on the side. For diet watchers gave a pretty bowl of fresh fruits, dewy and very cold. Serve good, strong coffee in pretty demitasses and let the relaxed conversation take over.

First in line was the Hanukkah table, all a-glitter with blue and silver tinsel and featuring a huge antique Art Deco menorah in sterling silver. There were platters of smoked salmon, trays of rugelach, babkas, and sufganiyot, and on small nearby steam tables, dishes of brisket and of latkes. The main table also held a large collection of side dishes or trimmings - cream cheese, applesauce, onions, pickles, horseradish, tomatoes, capers, and such - and was strewn with Hanukkah gelt and chocolate-marshmallow dreidels on pretzel sticks.

Micah leaned back in his seat, wings rustling. “I’ve long suspected that the remains of Parthos were housed here—a record of two thousand years of human knowledge before the Asteri arrived. I took one look at some of the titles on the shelves and knew it to be true.” No one so much as blinked as the truth settled. But Jesiba pointed to the screens and said to Tristan Flynn, to Sabine, her voice shaking, “Tell the Aux to move their fucking asses. Save those books. I beg you.” Hunt ground his teeth. Of course the books were more important to her than Bryce. “The Aux shall do no such thing,” Sandriel said coldly. She smiled at Jesiba as the female went rigid. “And whatever Micah has in mind for your little assistant is going to look mild compared to what the Asteri do to you for harboring that lying rubbish—” But Bryce picked up the cheese tray and glass of wine. “Look, I only work here, Governor.

Buster's daughters certainly hadn't spared any expense, and, surprisingly, had chosen the perfect dishes--- ham biscuits, maple ham slices with artichoke relish, golden pimento mac and cheese, and a tray of salad. Not a morsel of frozen seafood in sight! Of course, I gave all the credit to the caterer, one of the best in Charleston. I was impressed by the beautiful blend of lettuces, Bibb, frisée, and red oak.

There were mini Vienna hot dogs with all the classic Chicago toppings. A macaroni 'n' cheese bar with all kinds of fun add-ins. Cold sesame noodles in tiny white cardboard Chinese take-out containers, sliders served with small cones of skinny fries. Fried chicken legs, barbecued ribs, mini gyros in tiny three-inch pitas. All of it the most delicious and perfectly prepared elevated junk food, complete heaven, and just what I love. She gave us each a bamboo tray with a piece of parchment paper on it to use as plates, and large kitchen tea towels instead of napkins. There were cold beers in a tub, endless bottles of rosé, and a massive birthday cake, chocolate with fluffy vanilla frosting, and rainbow sprinkles. And then, after coffee, mini ice-cream sandwiches on chocolate chip cookies.

Shepherd sat next to him close to the front of the plane. As it taxied for take-off, Muller took a pair of reading glasses out of his jacket pocket, a sheaf of papers from a leather briefcase and began to read, occasionally making marks in the margin with a gold fountain pen. After an hour a stewardess in a tight-fitting green uniform handed out plastic trays with finger sandwiches, followed by a colleague offering coffee or tea. Shepherd passed on the food and the drink. Muller took a cheese sandwich and put away his paperwork. ‘This is your first time in Baghdad, right?’ he asked. ‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. The lie came easily. He doubted that Yokely would want too many people knowing that he had been a passenger on a rendition flight. ‘Although I was in Afghanistan when I was with the Regiment. Another life.’ ‘Iraq’s not dissimilar,’ said Muller. ‘The difference is that before Saddam Iraq was a decent enough country. He ran it into the ground.’ ‘The Major said you were special forces. Delta Force,

To her further surprise, she found a breakfast tray waiting for her on the table with bagels, cheese and an assortment of fruit. But what caught her eye was the tiny pair of yellow baby booties. She picked up the soft, fuzzy little booties, her throat knotting as she read the accompanying card. Because you said you didn’t have a pair yet. Love, Ryan. She sank into the seat, her eyes stinging with tears. She held the booties to her cheek and then touched the card, tracing the scrawl of his signature. “I shouldn’t love you this much,” she whispered. God, but she couldn’t help herself. She craved him. He was her other half. She didn’t feel whole without him. And so began a courting ritual that tugged on her heartstrings. Every morning when she crawled out of bed, there was a new present waiting for her from Ryan. There was a baby book that outlined everything she could expect from birth through the first year of life. One morning he left her two outfits. One for a boy and one for a girl. Just in case, he had written. On the fifth morning, he simply left her a note that told her a gift was waiting in the extra bedroom. Excited, she hurried toward the bedroom she’d once occupied and threw open the door to see not one present but a room full of baby things. A stroller. A crib that was already put together. A little bouncy thing. An assortment of toys. A changing table. She couldn’t take in all the stuff that was there. She didn’t even know what all of it was for. How on earth had he managed to sneak this in without her hearing? And there by the window was a rocking chair with a yellow afghan lying over the arm. She walked over and reverently touched the wood, giving the chair an experimental push. It creaked once and then swayed gently back and forth.

Then I had a continental breakfast with freshly squeezed orange juice, half a bagel with goat cheese, and a green smoothie, all served on a silver tray by my maid, Olga, right in my bedroom.

My mouth waters at the thought of the food we had at my party—the trays of lasagna, hayacas, towers and towers of pastelitos and ham and cheese croquettes, fried sweet plantain with melted cheese, crackling pork belly over salty beans and yellow rice. “We’re

He produced a wide silver tray with wrought handles that was piled with sliced bread, grapes, apricots, oranges, apples, cheeses, and a goblet of red wine, and put it on the bed. "Wine?" I asked. I wanted a cup of tea. "Your blood needs its elements. Drink at least some of it." He sat on the bed next to me. "You must eat now. You will need your strength." At that moment, the pungent aroma of the cheeses, the sharp citrus of sliced oranges, and the yeasty smell of the bread overrode both my fear and my curiosity. I wanted to dive into the food like a hungry dockworker. With great discipline, I picked up a silver knife and spread soft butter across a slice of the warm bread and then daintily cut a piece of dark cheddar cheese. The food tasted exquisite, and I tried to chew slowly, as he was taking in my every move. We sat in silence for a while as I ate my fill and let the wine relax me.

I don't know where to begin on my plate. Everything looks so unfamiliar, yet appetizing. I decide to aim for the starch first, and settle my fork into a generous portion of what turns out to be risotto with bite-sized pieces of suckling pig. I'll take creamy risotto over that vile poi any day. The pork, so tender and juicy, has me humming Mele Kalikimaka, cause it feels like a Hawaiian Merry Christmas gift. I next try the entrée, a tender, flaky and surprisingly un-oily mackerel sprinkled with feta cheese and olives and cloaked in taro leaves. I have to give Telly some credit, I didn't know how this place could pull off merging three such divergent flavors, but somehow it works despite itself. "I can't believe how fantastic this food is," Jess mumbles through a bite of her pineapple-balsamic glazed wild boar spare ribs with tzatziki sauce. "Who'd have thought you could actually assemble a menu with Italian, Hawaiian and Greek food? I honestly thought it was a joke." "Joke's on us, cause this stuff is amazing." After dinner ends, Telly returns with a selection of desserts (including a baklava made with mascarpone cheese, coconut and pine nuts), a tray with sample shots of grappa, ouzo and okolehao, and a somewhat excessive appreciation for his customers.

I take out Chloe's dinner: veal mousse with shiitake puree, creamed spinach, and, in order to balance the colors and textures, souffléd butternut squash. All homemade, frozen in the tiny compartments of blue plastic ice cube trays. Before Chloe was born, Jake and I agreed our child would have a sophisticated palate. No Happy Meals, no macaroni and cheese, and- God forbid- chicken fingers.

Remember when we took that trip to Puglia?" He knows that I do. We'd gone for our anniversary a few years ago. We had stayed on the top floor of a small hotel impossibly cantilevered over an expanse of rocky shore. We'd eaten burrata, a Pugliese specialty, every morning for breakfast, with a slab of bread- arguably the best in Italy, still warm from baking overnight in the dying embers of the ancient oven. The cheese would arrive each morning on a tray outside our room, still warm, and wrapped in the customary thick blade of grass, swollen like a ripe piece of fruit.

Zucchini Noodles with Pesto and Tilapia 2 medium zucchini Grated Parmesan cheese Tilapia or other fish of your choice FOR THE PESTO: 1 bunch fresh basil leaves ½ cup toasted pine nuts ½ cup grated Parmesan cheese 2 garlic cloves (or 2 tablespoons minced garlic) ¾ cup extra virgin olive oil Blend all of the pesto ingredients in a food processor. Use a spiralizer to cut the zucchini into spaghetti-like strips. Place the zucchini noodles in a skillet and warm up over medium heat for a couple of minutes. Top with grated Parmesan and 2 tablespoons of the pesto. Mix well. Serve topped with grilled fish. Note: Pour any remaining pesto into ice cube trays and freeze. Warm up the amount you need whenever you want it for another recipe. You can also save time by using oven-ready fish from the grocery store and/ or low-sodium store-bought pesto sauce.

To her surprise, Ashley, Roo, and Parker dropped by together, bringing a perfectly arranged tray of gourmet hors d’oeuvres from Mrs. Wilmington’s favorite deli, a fresh pot of jambalaya from the girls’ mother--Miss Voncile--and a homemade pie from Roo. “We don’t know what kind of pie exactly,” Parker said his face perfectly composed. “But I’ve heard it’s the thought that counts.” A slight frown settled between Roo’s brows. She’d changed the streaks in her hair from dark purple to bright orange. “It’s something I haven’t tried before,” she said solemnly. “It’s made with cottage cheese.” Ashley instantly looked alarmed. “You didn’t use the cottage cheese in the fridge, did you?” “What other cottage cheese would I use?” “For God’s sake, Roo, that’s been in there for weeks. It’s nasty by now.” “Well, I’m sure the cooking part must have killed the bacteria, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Despite Parker’s vivid portrayal of death by poisoning, Miranda made a special point of exclaiming over the pie. Then she dumped it in the trash can as soon as they left.

This sultry summer afternoon, we’re prepared for a funeral party of about two hundred. Two tables hold platters of veggies and dip, sandwiches, grapes, and cheese. Another table holds desserts, and yet another the coffee and tea. I set up a fifth table, just for iced lemon water, to avoid a bottleneck at the beverage service. To save time before the capacity crowd arrives, I pour the water to have a dozen filled glasses sitting on a tray, so no one has to wait.

Serena slid her tray along the metal counter, choosing a lemon yogurt and skipping all the hot lunch selections until she came to the hot-water dispenser, where she filled up a cup with hot water and placed a Lipton tea bag, a slice of lemon, and a packet of sugar on the saucer. Then she carried her tray over to the salad bar, where she filled up a plate with a pile of romaine lettuce and poured a small puddle of bleu cheese dressing beside it. She would have preferred a toasted ham-and-cheese sandwich in the Gare du Nord in Paris, eaten in a hurry before leaping onto her London train, but this was almost as good.

Serena slid her tray along the metal counter, choosing a lemon yogurt and skipping all the hot lunch selections until she came to the hot-water dispenser, where she filled up a cup with hot water and placed a Lipton tea bag, a slice of lemon, and a packet of sugar on the saucer. Then she carried her tray over to the salad bar, where she filled up a plate with a pile of romaine lettuce and poured a small puddle of bleu cheese dressing beside it. She would have preferred a toasted ham-and-cheese sandwich in the Gare du Nord in Paris, eaten in a hurry before leaping onto her London train, but this was almost as good. It was the same lunch she’d eaten at Constance every day since sixth grade.