Chewie Quotes

A gumble bee is half gum ball, half bumble bee, and it’s so chewy it stings. Makes me want to be a better lover and tractor salesman.

Whatever you do," Seth said around a chewy mouthful, "try not to leave me down here too long. You can only play a certain amount of Yahtzee games in a row before you become a lunatic." "I'll keep that in mind.

Maybe this is kind of cliche, but animals, well, dogs, are what I do for a living. One reason I like spending time with them so much is they seem to think people are really good. They live with us, and obey our rules, most of which make no sense to them. And the main reason they do it is because they like us. When I watch them, sometimes I'm so blow away by how enthusiastic they are about everything we do that I have to go out and buy them something squeaky or chewy. Just because I love proving to them that it's not a mistake to see the world as a great benevolent place. I hope one day to react to something with as much pure ecstasy as I see in Chuck's face every time I throw the ball. Sometimes he looks so happy, it reminds me of the way blind people smile way too big because they can't see themselves. And if none of this links to anything in you, well... I think you don't know who I am.

I was in love with her. I could feel it, deep in the soft, chewy caramel center of my being. And

I am influenced by words and the chewiness of language

Hard as nails Stacy Killian was one like one of those Tootsie Roll Pops - hard shell, soft, chewy center. Once a guy knew the center could be chewed, that's what they did. Chewed you up and spit you out. Or swallowed you, bite by bite. Goodbye respect. Goodbye self-esteem.

You're like a box of chocolates with the menu missing - the card that tells you what they are. I never know what I'm going to get with you: a soft, creamy centre, something chewy, or an explosion of alcohol.

Asshole cunt peepee fuck.” “Ah,” grinned Old Sludge, showing his one tooth, “going to the company store to get some algae chewies, huh?” “Goddamn poopoo,” I would grin back at him.

We're meals on wheels," Jenni said with a bitter laugh. "Chewy center is what it's all about," Katie said gloomily.

Chewie, we’re home,

I had built this bubble around us. Around all of us-you, me, Chewie, the kids, Luke, Mara, even Lando. Heck, even the stupid droids. We were all in it, you know. In it and safe, a cozy family. Nothing could hurt us—could really hurt us.” -Han Solo

Our friend Chewy doesn’t speak much, but he chews a lot of tobacco so we call him Chewbacco.

I always thought we only had two choices in our lives when it came to pizza crust—thin and crispy, or thick and doughy. How was I to have known there could be a crust in this world that was thin and doughy? Holy of holies! Thin, doughy, strong, gummy, yummy, chewy, salty pizza paradise.

The boat was vacuum-packed with Albanians, four generations to a family: great-grandmother, air-dried like a chilli pepper, deep red skin and a hot temper; grandmother, all sun-dried tomato, tough, chewy, skin split with the heat; getting the kids to rub olive oil into her arms; mother, moist as a purple fig, open everywhere - blouse, skirt, mouth, eyes, a wide-open woman, lips licking the salt spray flying from the open boat. Then there were the kids, aged four and six, a couple of squirs, zesty as lemons.

Sometimes I thought about my future, because Lynn said I should. She said it was hard to tell at this point, but someday, if I didn't go to Africa to study animals, I might be a beautiful genius tennis player. I didn't worry about it one way or another. I didn't care if I was a genius or if I was pretty or if I was good in sports. I just liked to listen to Lynn and to talk to Bera-Bera and to eat rice candies. The lady who used to live down the street could take all of her top teeth out of her mouth. She wasn't allowed to eat chewy candy. I could eat any kind of candy I wanted because I still had my baby teeth. If they rotted, I would simply grow more teeth. That was pretty great.

Where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire,” Solo says before adding quietly, “Usually an electrical fire near the hyperspace drive, which Chewie always warns me about…

Seeing Chewie’s look, Han added, “Hey, you’re the married one. Find

Ah,” grinned Old Sludge, showing his one tooth, “going to the company store to get some algae chewies, huh?” “Goddamn poopoo,” I would grin back at him.

I looked back down at the pitiful play-oven. It looked like revenge, if any was to be had, would at best be served half cooked and chewy.

The perfect chocolate chip cookie should have three rings. The center should be soft and a little gooey. The middle ring should be chewy. And the outer ring should be crispy" -Lara Jean

This was not a question but a command. I took a bite. It was good. Chewy, nutty, sweet. My mouth was full, so I covered it with my hand as I spoke. “I think this will definitely put your patients in a good mood.

Now I happened to be there, in the chewy maelstrom of his life, by his side. He taught me how to live in this fucked up environment. East Oakland. How to deal with the people. Which ones to avoid. The new currency was trading out what you have for what you need. And then maybe trading up for what you want. The new time was not told by the sun. Light or no light, we lived as things happened. I would soon realize there was no other way.

I'm going to need chocolate. Lots and lots of chocolate. Since tomorrow is my free night, I figure I will swing by Teresa's and visit, and as I recall, she always loved chocolate too. So tonight? I'm going to do a final test of my triple-chocolate chewies, dark chocolate cookies with white and milk chocolate chips, one of the recipes I'm thinking of including in the proposal, and I just want to make them one more time to be sure they are perfect.

I took a big bite out of the slime ball. The texture was very soft and chewy-like, but as I chewed it in my mouth, it exploded with a flavor of unspeakable nastiness.  “YUCK! OH! GAH! GAG! It tasted like rotten eggs combined with some arm pit sweat.” Bob busted out laughing. “Ewww! That’s so gross,

I enjoy a torture session on the rowing machine and I also enjoy my mom’s homemade peach cobbler. I enjoy flopping like that dead fish with hips that can’t lie in dance class, and I also enjoy ordering pizza with my kid, renting a movie, and downing popcorn while we share some special time together. I enjoy seeing how much I can lift at the gym and I also enjoy stuffing a fresh chewy chocolate chip cookie into my face when I’m having a hard day.

I’m allergic to latex and it makes me break out in a rash so most condoms are out for me because the last thing any of us wants is a vagina rash. The alternative is the ones made of sheepskin, but it always creeps me out because does that mean Victor and I are having sex with a sheep? A dead sheep, actually. So it’s bestiality and necrophilia. And a three-way, I think. I actually mentioned that to Victor and he immediately booked a vasectomy, which is sweet because it’s nice that he cares about me. He claimed it was less his caring and more “I’d rather have my nuts cut off than have to listen to you talk about having three-ways with dead sheep.” But now I have all these leftover condoms. They make great water balloons though and I bet they’d be really good for championship bubblegum-blowing competitions. Really chewy sheep bubblegum. That might be cheating. I don’t know the rules about bubblegum contests.

I had always believed that the very best food contains something elementally repugnant. That its innate grotesquerie is what makes it so perversely alluring. My own favorite foods tended toward a certain sludgy, muddy texture. And from the most expensive and genteel through to the indulgently crass, the appeal of slop abides: caviar, escargots, foie gras or hamburgers, kebabs, macaroni and cheese. Even vegetable soup forms a membrane. Apples begin rotting from the very first bite. No matter which end of the spectrum, there lies fundamentally and yet delectably disgusting, some squirmy, sinewy, oozing, greasy, sticky, glutinous, mushy, fatty, chewy, viscous thing that compels. The line between pleasure and revulsion can seem so very thin, if it even exists at all.

When I’m asked why I decided to write the sort of thing I do write, I always think the question is more revealing than any answer I could possibly give. Wrapped within it, like the chewy stuff in the center of a Tootsie Pop, is the assumption that the writer controls the material instead of the other way around.3

Chewie gave a bone-scented sigh and rubbed his jowl affectionately against her leg. "I can't tell you what to do, Beka. I can just tell you that I would be very sorry if you weren't my Baba. I've kind of gotten used to having you around." Beka blinked back unexpected emotion. "Thanks, Chewie. That's really sweet." He was quiet for a moment, and then said. "You know what's really sweet? S'mores, that's what." He gazed up at her with an innocent expression. "Just sayin'.

Siena’s claim to caloric fame is its panforte, a rich, chewy concoction of nuts, honey, and candied fruits that impresses even fruitcake haters. There are a few varieties: Margherita, dusted in powdered sugar, is more fruity, while panpepato has a spicy, peppery crust. Locals prefer a chewy, white macaroon-and-almond cookie called ricciarelli.

Han grins and laughs and tries not to get crushed. “C’mon, Chewie. Set new coordinates. It’s time to get you home.

The chewy meat tasted like burnt ass, but

The chewy meat center of their big ol’ spacesicle.

His popcorn exploded with truffle oil and shaved Parmesan, or chopped pretzels and chewy flecks of caramel. Today’s batch smelled like curry and toasted almonds.

His minute steak was tough and chewy, the chips were too greasy, and the ketchup wasn’t Heinz.

It’s furry and sleeps upside down and has a really chewy tail,” said

I think of Mom. I don’t want to become her. I don’t want to live off Chewy granola bars and steamed vegetables. I don’t want to spend my life restricting and dog-earing Woman’s World fad diet pages. Mom didn’t get better. But I will.

There one could also find a special kind of pierogi, large chewy kreplach: fist-sized dumplings filled with seasoned stew meat and onions before being boiled, baked, then fried, the last step glazing and toughening them like bagels. The

Atoms have substantial, chewy centers made of protons and neutrons stuck together by the most powerful force in the universe, which, in the great poetic tradition of physics, is officially called the strong force. from The Sun's Heartbeat

When I wake up, just like the day before there are texts from Peter. I’m sorry. I’m a dick. Don’t be mad. I read his texts over and over. They’re spaced minutes apart, so I know he must be fretting over whether I’m still mad or not. I don’t want to be mad. I just want things to go back to how they were before. Do you want to come over for a surprise? He immediately replies: ON MY WAY. “The perfect chocolate chip cookie,” I intone, “should have three rings. The center should be soft and a little gooey. The middle ring should be chewy. And the outer ring should be crispy.” “I can’t hear her give this speech again,” Kitty says to Peter. “I just can’t.” “Be patient,” he says, squeezing her shoulder. “It’s almost over, and then we get cookies.

Maybe I'm starting to think like Han. I don't feel quite right about this situation. I'm more nervous than usual.' Han eyed Chewie, who whuffled softly. Yeah, maybe she was picking up a sense of self-preservation. Skywalkers seemed to be born without it.

You don’t have to apologize,” Treston said. “I know where I work, I know what I do to make a living, and I know it’s not the most respectable place in Vegas. But frankly, Chad, if you don’t mind my saying so, I think you have a lot to learn about good manners.” Chad blinked. “What do you mean?” Treston reached for his wine glass, finished off what was left to wash down the last forkful of chewy escargot, and said, “All I’m saying is you haven’t stopped harping about that blond, and I have to tell you it’s getting a little tired now. Seriously, man. It’s a little insulting, too.” He leaned forward, looked into Chad’s eyes, and held his hand. “Look, I know how hard it is for selfish men like you to understand empathy. Lord knows I’ve been with enough of them.

what's really annoying is that you don't read any Chewie fanfic. If you did you'd know that Wookiee was not a language, it was a species. There were at least three Wookiee languages. Rey learned Shriiwook from Wookiees who came to Jakku, but she didn't usually speak it because Wookiees mostly understood Basic." I was laughing. "And why are you using the past tense?" "Because all of this happened a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, Holmesy. You always use the past tense when talking about Star Wars. Duh.

Chewie hugs him and purrs. “I’ll be back. We’re not done, you and I. We’ll see each other again. I’m gonna be a father and no way my kid won’t have you in his life.” One more bark and yip as Chewie pets his head. “Yeah, pal. I know.” He sighs. “I love you, too.

Chewbacca was thinking of the rustle of leaves as a forest gale swished through the wroshyr trees of Kashyyyk, the chirps and howls of the forest, the warmth of another Wookiee by his side. Family. “You’ll get back one day,” Han said quietly. Ever so slightly, Chewie nodded.

In Taipei we had oyster omelets and stinky tofu at Shilin Night Market and discovered what is arguably the world's greatest noodle soup, Taiwanese beef noodle, chewy flour noodles served with hefty chunks of stewed shank and a meaty broth so rich it's practically a gravy. In Beijing we trekked a mile in six inches of snow to eat spicy hot pot, dipping thin slivers of lamb, porous wheels of crunchy lotus root, and earthy stems of watercress into bubbling, nuclear broth packed with chiles and Sichuan peppercorns. In Shanghai we devoured towers of bamboo steamers full of soup dumplings, addicted to the taste of the savory broth gushing forth from soft, gelatinous skins. In Japan we slurped decadent tonkotsu ramen, bit cautiously into steaming takoyaki topped with dancing bonito flakes and got hammered on whisky highballs.

It was my favorite meal. The slivers of bread were full of vegetables and tender chicken, salty and chewy and the perfect amount of spicy. The green beans were sweet with pops of pungent flavor from black mustard seeds and complemented the lemony rice. The salad and yogurt cooled everything off.

but in Japan, the secret to success is choosing one thing and doing it really fucking well. Forever. There are people who dedicate their entire lives to grilling beef intestines, slicing blowfish, kneading buckwheat into tangles of chewy noodles—microdisciplines with infinite room for improvement

PRATTLES These chewy, peanut-butter-and-caramel-flavored candies are filled with cream and taste delicious. But everyone would buy them even if they were gross, because every box of Prattles contains an awesome collectible pin based on the protected species. Everyone collects and trades Prattles pins.

Even your breakfast burrito plays a role; Lieberman's investigations had revealed that as our diet shifted over the centuries from chewy stuff like raw roots and wild game and gave way to mushy cooked staples like spaghetti and ground beef, our faces began to shrink. Ben Franklin's face was chunkier than yours; Caesar's was bigger than his.

Out of all of the meats you can get from a cow... ... the tail meat has the most gelatin! Season the oxtail with salt and pepper, dust it with flour and sear it in a frying pan to give it a good color, and then set it to simmer until it's good and tender. That way, by the time it has thoroughly soaked up the demi-glace sauce... ... all of the sticky gelatin in it will have begun to melt out... ... giving the meat a decadently chewy and gooey texture! That, together with the demi-glace sauce, creates a much richer taste experience. He found a way to give his dish a more powerful, full-bodied flavor without getting rid of the white miso! That was Hisako's idea! Oxtail does not come close to the famously luxuriant texture of turtle meat, of course... ... but the gelatin it does contain is perfect for a beef stew!

It’s happening,” he says. “Jakku.” “I know.” “It’s gonna be one helluva battle. It might get bad.” “I know that, too.” He chews his lip. “It feels weird, doesn’t it?” “Not being there, you mean.” “Yeah. You, me, Luke. Chewie. The Falcon. Those two walking talking garbage cans. It feels weird we’re not part of it.” “We’ve got our own adventure.” She pats her belly. “End of an era,” he says. “And the start of a new one.

The perfect chocolate chip cookie,” I intone, “should have three rings. The center should be soft and a little gooey. The middle ring should be chewy. And the outer ring should be crispy.” “I can’t hear her give this speech again,” Kitty says to Peter. “I just can’t.” “Be patient,” he says, squeezing her shoulder. “It’s almost over, and then we get cookies.” “The perfect cookie is best eaten while still warm, but still delicious at room temperature.” “If you don’t quit talking, they won’t be warm anymore,” Kitty grumbles. I shoot her a glare, but truthfully, I’m glad she’s here to be a buffer between Peter and me. Her presence makes things feel normal. “In the baking world, it is a truth universally acknowledged that Jacques Torres has perfected the chocolate chip cookie. Peter, you and I tasted it for ourselves just a few months ago.” I’m really stretching it now to make them suffer. “How will my cookie measure up? Spoiler alert. It’s amazing.” Kitty slides off her stool. “That’s it. I’m out of here. A chocolate chip cookie isn’t worth all this.” I pat her on the head. “Oh, naïve little Kitten. Dear, foolish girl. This cookie is worth all this and more. Sit or you will not partake.” Rolling her eyes, she sits back down. “My friends, I have finally found it. My white whale. My golden ring. The cookie to rule them all.

Georgia closed her eyes and concentrated on the sensations of the island--- the bracing, spicy scent of evergreen needles, the briny creaminess of an oyster still in its shell, the chewy, viscous luxury of Star's honey on the comb, the light acidity of a local cider. And then she cooked what she felt, that sense of wonder, the lightness and clean sea salt air. A sprinkle of salt, the crispness of fresh vegetables, the unctuous luxury of good olive oil.

Salt can take a while to dissolve in foods that are low in water, so add it to bread dough early. Leave it out of Italian pasta dough altogether, allowing the salted water to do the work of seasoning as it cooks. Add it early to ramen and udon doughs to strengthen its gluten, as this will result in the desired chewiness. Add salt later to batters and doughs for cakes, pancakes, and delicate pastries to keep them tender, but make sure to whisk these mixes thoroughly so that the salt is evenly distributed before cooking.

Grated potato was added to the crepe batter, creating a thick and chewy Crepe Alsacienne! Yukihira realized this was meant as a wrap for the ingredients... ... and that spurred his idea to mix cheese, sliced potato and sardines together to make a crispy Galette de Pomme as a garnish to the dish! Look what that does to the dish! It gives it contrasting textures of crispy and chewy, along with the invigorating saltiness of seafood, none of which are present in the traditional recipe! *Galette de Pomme is a lightly fried cake of julienned potatoes.*

The rosé was dry and crisp and perfect. The baguette was ambrosia: crispy on the outside, chewy on the inside. What was it about bread in France? Like the French version of butter, it seemed to bear little relation to the item of the same name back home. Genevieve sliced a wedge of pâté, topped it with a cornichon, and made a little sandwich. Another glass of wine, a bit of cheese: P’tit Basque, tangy Roquefort, a stinky and delicious washed-rind Brie. Even the pear seemed better than the ones she was used to: the perfect combination of tangy and sweet, the juice running down her arm as she ate. Sated,

The cheek meat is so tender it falls apart in your mouth! Then there's the gummy, chewy tripe and tongue- new textures and flavors to enjoy with every bite! It all hits you so fast it's like a roller coaster!" "This charcoal-grilled skirt steak is particularly amazing. Usually, skirt steak is served thinly sliced. But these are thick cut, taking their juiciness to a whole new level! Not only that, he added a grid pattern of shallow cuts to the meat's surface... ... so that once it was charcoal grilled, it would have a pleasantly springy texture to it. It makes for an excellent accent when dipped in the stew.

What is this food in my head, anyway? Let’s see...it’s green and good for you and so delicious. It’s prepared by angels with love. The minute you bite into it, it’s savory, chewy, nourishing, and whole- some. You feel instantly revitalized. A small, tiny amount, just a few bites, rejuvenates every cell, deepens your breath, clears your mind, heals your wounds, and mends your heart. It’s made from joyous plants that voluntarily separate themselves from their stalks, laying themselves at the feet of the approaching gardener who gathers them. They eagerly offer their vital energies to nourish living spirits. The angels in their chef hats, singing mantras, cook it tenderly to retain all the benefits of the generous plants. It’s barely sweet, barely salty, and contains all the freshness of spring herbs, summer fruit, spreading leaves, and burgeoning seeds. It comes premade in bags or boxes...you just open it up, sit down, and enjoy. It’s a full meal, enough maybe for a whole day, maybe for a week, maybe for your family, maybe for your friends and neighbors. It multiplies like loaves and fishes, in little biodegradable containers that vaporize instantly the moment you finish them, without any greenhouse emissions. Nothing to clean up!

My passion for cooking grew as my mother taught me how to make her chewy cranberry bread, Dijon mustard vinaigrette, and Nantucket quahog chowder thickened with chopped clams, potatoes, and sweet onions. Then it reached new heights in college when I took a year off to study French cooking at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, where I learned to master a mean spinach soufflé, make a perfect sauce Bordelaise, and craft authentic shiny chocolate-topped éclairs. When I was hired as the sous-chef at Le Potiron (The Pumpkin), a Parisian restaurant near Les Halles, I used my newfound skills to transform tough cuts of beef into tender stews, improvise with sweetbreads, and bake cakes from memory.

These noodles are so supple and chewy it's difficult to believe they're 90 percent buckwheat! The sweet taste of buckwheat blooms in the mouth like a fragile flower. What a wondrously delicate flavor! That does it. I'm having soba noodles for dinner tonight! "Now for the tempura shrimp!" How light and crispy! The sakura shrimp are pleasantly crunchy, while their tempura shell is airy and crispy! I can easily distinguish the texture and deliciousness of each individual shrimp in every bite! The crispy crunch of the tempura shrimp and the sleek smoothness of the noodles make for an excellent contrast in textures. Even after I've swallowed a bite, the sweetly savory aftertaste of the sakura shrimp lingers in the mouth like a perfume.

When Hansel and Gretel stood in the forest and saw the house in the clearing before them , the little hairs at the nape of their necks must have shivered. Their knees must have felt so weak that blinding hunger alone could have propelled them forward. No one was there warn or hold them; their parents, chastened and grieving, were far away. So they ran as fast they could to the house where a woman older than death lived, and they ignore the shivering nape hair and the softness in their knees. A grown man can also be energized by hunger, and any weakness in his knees or irregularity in his heartbeat will disappear if he thinks his hunger is about to be assuaged. Especially if the object of his craving is not gingerbread or chewy gumdrops, but gold.

The mysterious kachampuli wasn't a magical elixir. There were still a few hiccups- a dash too much salt here, an overcooked and chewy chunk of pork there- and it took a few more attempts and a few more days to make it perfect. It rained the day they got it right. Anna could hear the thrum of it against the glass of the window as she speared a piece of meat on a fork and promptly burst into tears because it tasted just like every time her mother had made it. It tasted like rain on the air and frogs hopping across the grass and coffee beans in a jar and the green, green leaves of the forest rustling in the night and the sound of her mother humming a song. It tasted like a future in which the rain and the coffee beans and her mother weren't out of reach after all.

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

Cool green foods became the natural choice in restaurants and teahouses. Matcha, the powdered green tea used for the tea ceremony, flavored ice cream, jewel-like gelatin cubes, and sweet whipped cream eaten in parfaits and layered with grapes, pineapple chunks, and chewy white mochi balls. There were Japanese-style snow cones, huge hills of shaved ice drizzled with green tea syrup, along with green tea-flavored mousse and tea-tainted sponge cake. Matcha flavored savory items too, including green tea noodles served hot in dashi soup, as well as chilled and heaped on a bamboo draining mat with a cold dipping sauce of dashi, mirin, and soy. There was green tea-flavored wheat gluten and the traditional Kyoto-style dish of white rice topped with thin petals of sashimi that you "cooked" at the table by drenching it with brewed green tea from a tiny teapot.

Irie serves me three ramens, including a bowl made with a rich dashi and head-on shrimp and another studded with spicy ground pork and wilted spinach and lashed with chili oil. Both are exceptionally delicious, sophisticated creations, but it's his interpretation of tonkotsu that leaves me muttering softly to myself. The noodles are firm and chewy, the roast pork is striped with soft deposits of warm fat, and the toppings- white curls of shredded spring onion, chewy strips of bamboo, a perfect square of toasted seaweed- are skillfully applied. Here it is the combination of tare, the culmination of years of careful tinkering, and broth, made from whole pig heads and knots of ginger, that defies the laws of tonkotsu: a soup with the savory, meaty intensity of a broth made from a thousand pigs that's light enough to leave you wanting more. And more. And more.

Pigeons wrapped in the leaves of vines. Oysters in crisp pastry cases. Whole Gloucester salmon in aspic. Yarmouth lobsters cooked in wine and herbs. Glazed tarts of pippin apples. Paper-thin layers of buttery pastry spread with greengages, apricots, peaches, cherries, served with great gouts of golden cream. "Well," I say, "it's gruel for us tonight, with a smidgeon of salt and pepper." Whereupon he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a twist of greased paper, and opens it. Immediately I smell the tang of heather honey. "For you, Ann." In his grimed palm sits an oozing chunk of honeycomb as big as a plover's egg. I clap my hands in delight, my tongue waggling with greed. As we eat our gruel I make the clots of chewy wax last as long as possible, pushing them around and around my mouth, pressing them against my molars, sucking on them 'til they slip sweetly down my throat.

Always toast in a single layer, stir often, and pull bits and pieces as they are done. Toast thin slices of bread, to be smeared with chicken liver paste or fava bean purée at medium-low heat (about 350°F) so they don’t burn or dry out, which will result in mouth-damaging shards. Thicker slices of bread, to be topped with poached eggs and greens or tomatoes and ricotta, can be toasted at high heat (up to 450°F), or on a hot grill, so they brown quickly on the surface and remain chewy in the center. At 450°F and above, coconut flakes, pine nuts, and bread crumbs will go from perfect to burnt in the time it takes to sneeze. Knock 50 to 75°F off the temperature, and you’ll buy yourself the luxury of time. If a sneezing fit hits, your toasted foods will be safe. And when you deem the toastiness of these delicate foods sufficient, remove them from their hot trays (not doing so may lead to carryover and your perfectly toasted food will blacken while your back is turned).

These samurai swords were made from a special type of steel called tamahagane, which translates as “jewel steel,” made from the volcanic black sand of the Pacific (this consists mostly of an iron ore called magnetite, the original material for the needle of compasses). This steel is made in a huge clay vessel four feet tall, four feet wide, and twelve feet long called a tatara. The vessel is “fired”—hardened from molded clay into a ceramic—by lighting a fire inside it. Once fired, it is packed meticulously with layers of black sand and black charcoal, which are consumed in the ceramic furnace. The process takes about a week and requires constant attention from a team of four or five people, who make sure that the temperature of the fire is kept high enough by pumping air into the tatara using a manual bellows. At the end the tatara is broken open and the tamahagane steel is dug out of the ash and remnants of sand and charcoal. These lumps of discolored steel are very unprepossessing, but they have a whole range of carbon content, some of it very low and some of it high. The samurai innovation was to be able to distinguish high-carbon steel, which is hard but brittle, from low-carbon steel, which is tough but relatively soft. They did this purely by how it looked, how it felt in their hands, and how it sounded when struck. By separating the different types of steel, they could make sure that the low-carbon steel was used to make the center of the sword. This gave the sword an enormous toughness, almost a chewiness, meaning that the blades were unlikely to snap in combat. On the edge of the blades they welded the high-carbon steel, which was brittle but extremely hard and could therefore be made very sharp. By using the sharp high-carbon steel as a wrapper on top of the tough low-carbon steel they achieved what many thought impossible: a sword that could survive impact with other swords and armor while remaining sharp enough to slice a man’s head off. The best of both worlds.

I see bacon, green peppers, mushrooms... those are all found in Napolitan Spaghetti. I guess instead of the standard ketchup, he's used curry roux for the sauce? The noodles look similar to fettuccini." "Hm. I'm not seeing anything else that stands out about it. Given how fun and amusing the calzone a minute ago was... ... the impact of this one's a lot more bland and boring..." W-what the heck? Where did this heavy richness come from? It hits like a shockwave straight to the brain! "Chicken and beef stocks for the base... with fennel and green cardamom for fragrance! What an excellent, tongue-tingling curry sauce! It clings well to the broad fettuccini noodles too!" "For extra flavor is that... soy sauce?" "No, it's tamari soy sauce! Tamari soy sauce is richer and less salty than standard soy sauce, with a more full-bodied sweetness to it. Most tamari is made on Japan's eastern seaboard. " "That's not all either! I'm picking up the mellow hints of cheese! But I'm not seeing a single shred of any kind of cheese in here. Where's it hiding?" "Allow me to tell you, sir. First, look at the short edge of a noodle, please." ?! What on earth?! This noodle's got three layers!" "For the outer layers, I kneaded turmeric into the pasta dough. But for the inner layer, I added Parmesan cheese!" "I see! It's the combination of the tamari soy sauce and the parmesan cheese that gives this dish its incredible richness!" "Yeah, but wait a minute! If you go kneading cheese right into the noodles, wouldn't it just melt back out when you boiled them?" No... that's why they're in three layers! With the cheese in the middle, the outer layers prevented it from melting out! The deep, rich curry sauce, underscored with the flavor of tamari soy sauce... ... and the chewy noodles, which hit you with the mellow, robust taste of parmesan cheese with every bite! Many people are familiar with the idea of coating cream cheese in soy sauce... ... but who would have thought parmesan cheese would match this well with tamari soy sauce!

Our neighborhood ramen place was called Aoba. That's a joke. There were actually more than fifty ramen places with in walking distance of our apartment. But this one was our favorite. Aoba makes a wonderful and unusual ramen with a mixture of pork and fish broth. The noodles are firm and chewy, and the pork tender and almost smoky, like ham. I also liked how they gave us a small bowl for sharing with Iris without our even asking. What I really appreciated about this place, however, were two aspects of ramen that I haven't mentioned yet: the eggs and the dipping noodles. After these two, I will stop, but there's so much more to ramen. Would someone please write an English-language book about ramen? Real ramen, not how to cook with Top Ramen noodles? Thanks. (I did find a Japanese-language book called State-of-the-Art Technology of Pork Bone Ramen on Amazon. Wish-listed!) One of the most popular ramen toppings is a soft-boiled egg. Long before sous vide cookery, ramen cooks were slow-cooking eggs to a precise doneness. Eggs for ramen (ajitsuke tamago) are generally marinated in a soy sauce mixture after cooking so the whites turn a little brown and the eggs turn a little sweet and salty. I like it best when an egg is plunked whole into the broth so I can bisect it with my chopsticks and reveal the intensely orange, barely runny yolk. A cool egg moistened with rich broth is alchemy. Forget the noodles; I want a ramen egg with a little broth for breakfast. Finding hot and cold in the same mouthful is another hallmark of Japanese summer food, and many ramen restaurants, including Aoba, feature it in the form of tsukemen, dipping noodles. Tsukemen is deconstructed ramen, a bowl of cold cooked noodles and a smaller bowl of hot, ultra-rich broth and toppings. The goal is to lift a tangle of noodles with your chopsticks and dip them in the bowl of broth on the way to your mouth. This is a crazy way to eat noodles and, unless you've been inculcated with the principles of noodle-slurping physics from birth, a great way to ruin your clothes.

All of this could fall flat, feel too much like a caricature of a Sicilian trattoria, if the food itself weren't so damn good: arancini, saffron-scented rice fried into crunchy, greaseless golf balls; polpette di pesce spada, swordfish meatballs with a taste so deep and savory they might as well be made of dry-aged beef; and a superlative version of caponata di melanzane, that ubiquitous Sicilian starter of eggplant, capers, and various other vegetation, stewed into a sweet and savory jam that you will want to smear on everything. Everything around you screams Italy, but those flavors on the end of the fork? The sweet-and-sour tandem, the stain of saffron, the grains of rice: pure Africa. The pasta: even better. Chewy noodles tinted jet black with squid ink and tossed with sautéed rings and crispy legs of calamari- a sort of nose-to-tail homage to the island's cherished cephalopod. And Palermo's most famous dish, pasta con le sarde, a bulge of thick spaghetti strewn with wild fennel, capers, raisins, and, most critically, a half dozen plump sardines slow cooked until they melt into a briny ocean ragù. Sweet, salty, fatty, funky- Palermo in a single bite.

David Chang, who had become the darling of the New York restaurant world, thanks to his Momofuku noodle and ssäm bars in the East Village, opened his third outpost, Momofuku Milk Bar, just around the corner from my apartment. While everyone in the city was clamoring for the restaurants' bowls of brisket ramen and platters of pig butt, his pastry chef, Christina Tosi, was cooking up "crack pie," an insane and outrageous addictive concoction made largely of white sugar, brown sugar, and powdered sugar, with egg yolks, heavy cream, and lots of butter, all baked in an oat cookie crust. People were going nuts for the stuff, and it was time for me to give this crack pie a shot. But as soon as I walked into the industrial-style bakery, I knew crack could have nothing on the cookies. Blueberry and cream. Double chocolate. Peanut butter. Corn. (Yes, a corn cookie, and it was delicious). There was a giant compost cookie, chock-full of pretzels, chips, coffee grounds, butterscotch, oats, and chocolate chips. But the real knockout was the cornflake, marshmallow, and chocolate chip cookie. It was sticky, chewy, and crunchy at once, sweet and chocolaty, the ever-important bottom side rimmed in caramelized beauty. I love rice crisps in my chocolate, but who would have thought that cornflakes in my cookies could also cause such rapture?

This broth! How can it be this rich and mellow?! It's just creamy enough to go perfectly with the noodles too! And this savory flavor! It's so deep and expansive!" "I grated some potato and added it to the stock. That's what's giving the broth its creaminess. Believe it or not, the potato is another vegetable that contains the umami compound glutamic acid. That compound seeped out into the broth, giving it it's rich and savory flavor. Plus, I only grated the potato roughly, so there are still little beads of potato in the broth, giving the texture some interesting highlights." "But what about this topping? What is it?! Hnngh! I knew it! Imo-Mochi Potato Cakes! They're soft and chewy on the inside and crisp and crunchy on the outside!" Imo-Mochi Potato Cakes are another Hokkaido specialty. Made with potatoes and potato starch, they're a popular treat with tourists. The heavy, chewy potato cakes soaked in the creamy broth are a pleasing textural contrast... ... to the light and sleek udon noodles while also giving the dish an extra sense of fullness and satisfaction! "Unbelievable. It's almost as if this one dish... ... contains all the expressions of a potato possible in cooking!" "Exactly! Y'see, this dish---" "This dish uses all facets of the Irish Cobbler Potato, accenting its starch, its unique texture and its umami goodness. In fact, it can be considered the ultimate in potato-noodle dishes!

Pumpkin Sugar Cookies Sugar Cookies just got better with a little pumpkin! This recipe creates soft, chewy, lightly spicy glazed pumpkin sugar cookies that are perfect for Fall! Ingredients: 1/2 cup softened butter 1/2 cup vegetable oil 1/2 cup pumpkin puree {canned pumpkin} 1 cup granulated sugar 1/2 cup powdered sugar 1/2 teaspoon vanilla 2 large eggs 4 cups all purpose flour 1/4 teaspoon baking soda 1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar 1/2 teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon cinnamon 1/2 teaspoon nutmeg For the glaze topping: 3 cups powdered sugar 4 tablespoons water 1/4 teaspoon pumpkin pie spice Instructions Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or silicone baking mat and set aside. In a large bowl, stir butter, oil, pumpkin, sugars, vanilla and eggs together until incorporated and smooth. Slowly mix in all dry ingredients until completely incorporated. Scoop onto prepared baking sheet using 1 1/2 tablespoon scoop and flatten to 1/2 inch thick using the bottom of a glass. If the dough is sticking to the glass, press the bottom of the glass in granulated sugar before flattening. Bake 8-9 minutes. While cookies bake, stir all ingredients together for glaze until smooth. Once cookies are finished baking, cool 3 minutes on baking sheet before transferring to cooling rack. Spread 1 1/2 teaspoons glaze over each warm cookie. Let glaze harden 2-3 hours before serving. OR eat them warm with lots of runny glaze.

Rachael Ray was in the middle of making small lemon bars, which reminded me almost immediately of a new recipe for lemon drop cookies I'd been wanting to try and maybe serve at an upcoming children's birthday party I had scheduled. Like I say, cooking can be like therapy for me when I'm real upset, and no sooner had I grabbed a bag of lemon drop candy in the cabinet, wrapped the nuggets in a towel, and begun beating them to bits with a hammer than I calmed down and concentrated on making the batter just right. Butter, sugar, grated lemon rind, heavy cream, an egg, flour baking powder and salt, the crushed candy- the ingredients couldn't have been simpler. What I wondered about was whether the candy would melt during the baking, and I got my answer after the cookies had been in the oven about twelve minutes, and I finally bit into a cooled one, and noticed a slight crunch that was one of the most wonderful sensations I'd ever experienced. Yeah, the cookies were out of this world, and I knew the kids would love 'em, but since I personally like most of my cookies to be kinda chewy, I did decide then and there that the next time I baked a batch, I'd test the texture after only ten minutes of baking- or till just the edges of the cookies browned. I also decided these cookies could give Miss Rachael Ray's lemon bars a good run for their money, and that they should have me on that program doing something a little different. I mean, anybody can make ordinary lemon bars.

Er, hello, Chewie," he said politely. "Woof," the dog said back. "Chewie is a Newfoundland," Beka explained. "They're great water dogs. They swim better than we do, and even have webbed feet. They're often used for water rescue, and the breed started out as working dogs for fishermen." "Uh-huh... Chewie - I guess you named him for Chewbacca in Star Wars. I can see why; they're both gigantic and furry." Beka giggled. "I never thought of that. Actually, Chewie is short for Chudo-Yudo. Also, he chews on stuff a lot, so it seemed fitting." "Chudo what?" Marcus said. The dog made a snuffling sound that might have been canine laughter. "Chudo-Yudo," Beka repeated. "He's a character out of Russian fairy tales, the dragon that guards the Water of Life and Death. You never heard of him?" Marcus shook his head. "My father used to tell the occasional Irish folk tale when I was a kid, but I'm not familiar with Russian ones at all. Sorry." "Oh, don't be," she said cheerfully. "Most of them were pretty gory, and they hardly ever had happy endings." "Right." Marcus looked at the dog, who gazed alertly back with big brown eyes, as if trying to figure out if the former Marine was edible or not. "So, you named him after a mythical dragon from a depressing Russian story. Does anyone get eaten in that story, just out of curiosity?" Chewie sank down onto the floor with a put-upon sigh, and Beka shook her head at Marcus. "Don't be ridiculous. Of course people got eaten. But don't worry. Chewie hasn't taken a bite out of anyone in years. He's very mellow for a dragon.

You don’t want this butterblast, do you?” He took a huge bite of a round, golden pastry topped with giant sugar crystals. If it weren’t for her injuries, she would’ve leaped out of bed and wrestled it away from him. “Don’t worry, I’ll save you a bite. But first you need to go one solid hour without your stomach growling. So ignore me”—he took another giant bite of the butterblast—“and focus on Krakie. Or you can focus on Krakie’s new buddies.” He set three Prattles pins on her tray—a jaculus, a kelpie, and a sasquatch. “Meet Bitey, Scaley Butt, and The Stink—your new bandage buddies! We need to figure out the perfect place to put them. I think Scaley Butt should be near Krakie so it looks like they’re swimming together. And then Bitey could be close to The Stink so it looks like he’s trying to chomp him.” “You’re a very strange person, you know that?” she asked as he pinned the new creatures in place. “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘awesome.’ I’m an awesome person—who stopped you from thinking about how hungry you are for, like, five minutes.” “And then reminded me,” Sophie noted with a stomach growl. “Oops. Well . . . okay, your new hour starts now!” It was a very long afternoon. But it was worth it when Keefe gave her the last bite of butterblast, which was chewy like a doughnut but tasted like pancakes hot off the griddle and was filled with some sort of thick, maple-y cream. It was quite possibly the most amazing thing she’d ever put in her mouth—and that was saying something, considering she lived in a world with mallowmelt and custard bursts and ripplefluffs and pudding puffs. “If you want another,” Keefe told her, “you’re going to have to let Ro carry you with me into the secret cafeteria.” “Not happening,” Elwin warned. Keefe smirked. “Keep telling yourself that.

Fish at breakfast is sometimes himono (semi-dried fish, intensely flavored and chewy, the Japanese equivalent of a breakfast of kippered herring or smoked salmon) and sometimes a small fillet of rich, well-salted broiled fish. Japanese cooks are expert at cutting and preparing fish with nothing but salt and high heat to produce deep flavor and a variety of textures: a little crispy over here, melting and juicy there. Some of this is technique and some is the result of a turbo-charged supply chain that scoops small, flavorful fish out of the ocean and deposits them on breakfast tables with only the briefest pause at Tsukiji fish market and a salt cure in the kitchen. By now, I've finished my fish and am drinking miso soup. Where you find a bowl of rice, miso shiru is likely lurking somewhere nearby. It is most often just like the soup you've had at the beginning of a sushi meal in the West, with wakame seaweed and bits of tofu, but Iris and I were always excited when our soup bowls were filled with the shells of tiny shijimi clams. Clams and miso are one of those predestined culinary combos- what clams and chorizo are to Spain, clams and miso are to Japan. Shijimi clams are fingernail-sized, and they are eaten for the briny essence they release into the broth, not for what Mario Batali has called "the little bit of snot" in the shell. Miso-clam broth is among the most complex soup bases you'll ever taste, but it comes together in minutes, not the hours of simmering and skimming involved in making European stocks. As Tadashi Ono and Harris Salat explain in their book Japanese Hot Pots, this is because so many fermented Japanese ingredients are, in a sense, already "cooked" through beneficial bacterial and fungal actions. Japanese food has a reputation for crossing the line from subtlety into blandness, but a good miso-clam soup is an umami bomb that begins with dashi made from kombu (kelp) and katsuobushi (bonito flakes) or niboshi (a school of tiny dried sardines), adds rich miso pressed through a strainer for smoothness, and is then enriched with the salty clam essence.

It's basty!" "There's definitely a soup underneath the crust. I see carrots. Gingko nuts. Mushrooms. And... Shark fin! Simmered until it's falling apart!" Aah! It's all too much! I-I don't care if I burn my mouth... I want to dive in right now! Mm! Mmmm! UWAAAAH! "Incredible! The shark fin melts into a soft wave of warm umami goodness on the tongue... ...with the crispy piecrust providing a delectably crunchy contrast!" "Mmm... this piecrust shows all the signs of the swordsmanship he stole from Eishi Tsukasa too." Instead of melting warm butter to mix into the flour, he grated cold butter into granules and blended them... ... to form small lumps that then became airy layers during the baking, making the crust crispier and lighter. A light, airy crust like that soaks up the broth, making it the perfect complement to this dish! "Judge Ohizumi, what's that "basty" thing you were talking about?" "It's a dish in a certain style of cooking that's preserved for centuries in Nagasaki- Shippoku cuisine." "Shippoku cuisine?" Centuries ago, when Japan was still closed off from the rest of the world, only the island of Dejima in Nagasaki was permitted to trade with the West. There, a new style of cooking that fused Japanese, Chinese and Western foods was born- Shippoku cuisine! One of its signature dishes is Basty, which is a soup covered with a lattice piecrust. *It's widely assumed that Basty originated from the Portuguese word "Pasta."* "Shippoku cuisine is already a hybrid of many vastly different cooking styles, making it a perfect choice for this theme!" "The lattice piecrust is French. Under it is a wonderfully savory Chinese shark fin soup. And the soup's rich chicken broth and the vegetables in it have all been thoroughly infused with powerfully aromatic spices... ... using distinctively Indian spice blends and techniques!" "Hm? Wait a minute. There's more than just shark fin and vegetables in this soup. This looks just like an Italian ravioli! I wonder what's in it? ?!" "Holy crap, look at it stretch!" "What is that?! Mozzarella?! A mochi pouch?!" "Nope! Neither! That's Dondurma. Or as some people call it... ... Turkish ice cream. A major ingredient in Dondurma is salep, a flour made from the root of certain orchids. It gives the dish a thick, sticky texture. The moist chewiness of ravioli pasta melds together with the sticky gumminess of the Dondurma... ... making for an addictively thick and chewy texture!

ELEANOR OLSON’S OATMEAL COOKIES Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position. 1 cup (2 sticks, 8 ounces, ½ pound) salted butter, softened 1 cup brown sugar (pack it down in the cup when you measure it) 1 cup white (granulated) sugar 2 eggs, beaten (just whip them up in a glass with a fork) 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1 teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon baking soda 1 and ½ cups flour (pack it down in the cup when you measure it) 3 cups quick-cooking oatmeal (I used Quaker Quick 1-Minute) ½ cup chopped nuts (optional) (Eleanor used walnuts) ½ cup raisins or another small, fairly soft sweet treat (optional) Hannah’s 1st Note: The optional fruit or sweet treats are raisins, any dried fruit chopped into pieces, small bites of fruit like pineapple or apple, or small soft candies like M&M’s, Milk Duds, chocolate chips, butterscotch chips, or any other flavored chips. Lisa and I even used Sugar Babies once—they’re chocolate-covered caramel nuggets—and everyone was crazy about them. You can also use larger candies if you push one in the center of each cookie. Here, as in so many recipes, you are only limited by the selection your store has to offer and your own imagination. Hannah’s 2nd Note: These cookies are very quick and easy to make with an electric mixer. Of course you can also mix them by hand. Mix the softened butter, brown sugar, and white sugar in the bowl of an electric mixer. Beat on HIGH speed until they’re light and fluffy. Add the beaten eggs and mix them in on MEDIUM speed. Turn the mixer down to LOW speed and add the vanilla extract, the salt, and the baking soda. Mix well. Add the flour in half-cup increments, beating on MEDIUM speed after each addition. With the mixer on LOW speed, add the oatmeal. Then add the optional nuts, and/or the optional fruit or sweet treat. Scrape down the sides of the bowl, take the bowl out of the mixer, and give the cookie dough a final stir by hand. Let it sit, uncovered, on the counter while you prepare your cookie sheets. Spray your cookie sheets with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray. Alternatively, you can line them with parchment paper and spray that lightly with cooking spray. Get out a tablespoon from your silverware drawer. Wet it under the faucet so that the dough won’t stick to it, and scoop up a rounded Tablespoon of dough. Drop it in mounds on the cookie sheet, 12 mounds to a standard-size sheet. Bake Eleanor Olson’s Oatmeal Cookies at 350 degrees F. for 9 to 11 minutes, or until they’re nice and golden on top. (Mine took 10 minutes.) Yield: Approximately 3 dozen chewy, satisfying oatmeal cookies.

God damn you!” Alfred said. “You belong in jail!” The turd wheezed with laughter as it slid very slowly down the wall, its viscous pseudopods threatening to drip on the sheets below. “Seems to me,” it said, “you anal retentive type personalities want everything in jail. Like, little kids, bad news, man, they pull your tchotchkes off your shelves, they drop food on the carpet, they cry in theaters, they miss the pot. Put ’em in the slammer! And Polynesians, man, they track sand in the house, get fish juice on the furniture, and all those pubescent chickies with their honkers exposed? Jail ’em! And how about ten to twenty, while we’re at it, for every horny little teenager, I mean talk about insolence, talk about no restraint. And Negroes (sore topic, Fred?), I’m hearing rambunctious shouting and interesting grammar, I’m smelling liquor of the malt variety and sweat that’s very rich and scalpy, and all that dancing and whoopee-making and singers that coo like body parts wetted with saliva and special jellies: what’s a jail for if not to toss a Negro in it? And your Caribbeans with their spliffs and their potbelly toddlers and their like daily barbecues and ratborne hanta viruses and sugary drinks with pig blood at the bottom? Slam the cell door, eat the key. And the Chinese, man, those creepy-ass weird-name vegetables like homegrown dildos somebody forgot to wash after using, one-dollah, one-dollah, and those slimy carps and skinned-alive songbirds, and come on, like, puppy-dog soup and pooty-tat dumplings and female infants are national delicacies, and pork bung, by which we’re referring here to the anus of a swine, presumably a sort of chewy and bristly type item, pork bung’s a thing Chinks pay money for to eat? What say we just nuke all billion point two of ’em, hey? Clean that part of the world up already. And let’s not forget about women generally, nothing but a trail of Kleenexes and Tampaxes everywhere they go. And your fairies with their doctor’s-office lubricants, and your Mediterraneans with their whiskers and their garlic, and your French with their garter belts and raunchy cheeses, and your blue-collar ball-scratchers with their hot rods and beer belches, and your Jews with their circumcised putzes and gefilte fish like pickled turds, and your Wasps with their Cigarette boats and runny-assed polo horses and go-to-hell cigars? Hey, funny thing, Fred, the only people that don’t belong in your jail are upper-middle-class northern European men. And you’re on my case for wanting

I hate the chewy lard meat called pemmican; and I admit to fearing the attack of a sea bear; and my fingers hurt all the time; but I prefer immurement in these spectral wastes to a seat at the warmest hearth.

A Tootsie Roll? You do know that candy is neither chocolate nor a taffy. I do like that it also comes in a lollipop you put in your mouth and suck until you find the chewy center.

The sweetest, best kind of dates are Medjools. They’re large, so they are easy to fill, meaty, and chewy. Stuffed with goat cheese and wrapped in prosciutto, they provide a perfect sweet-salty mouthful in every bite. Serve these with a crisp white wine as the ideal before-dinner tidbit.

I had made a sort of Japanese antipasto to accompany a bottle of French Bordeaux I had bought in the food hall of Daimaru department store. So while John sat on a blue cotton cushion hunched over the low unfinished wooden table sipping red wine from a small glass tumbler, I presented him with a succession of nibbles: chili-speckled rice crackers and peanuts; boiled edamame tossed with coarse salt; chewy strands of dried calamari; and chilled steamed asparagus that I had bought fresh that morning at Nishiki market. For a taste of home, I sautéed pudgy slices of herb-flavored wheat gluten, soft as gnocchi, in garlic butter with sliced shiitake mushrooms. Dinner ended with snappy red grapes and imported coconut sables that broke into buttery splinters in our cupped palms.

One day we strolled down the Philosopher's Path, which proved as enchanting as I had hoped in the fragrant pink bloom of spring. Since ancient times, the Japanese have heralded the arrival of the cherry blossoms because they symbolize the ephemeral beauty of life. But it isn't just the three or four days of open flowers that stirs the senses. It is their arrival and departure. Looking at a bud about to burst open offers the pleasurable anticipation of rebirth, while the soft scattering of petals on the ground is often considered the most beautiful stage of all because it represents the death of the flowers. Another day I took John to one of my tea kaiseki classes to watch the making of a traditional picnic to celebrate the arrival of the cherry blossoms. While he sat on a stool near my cooking station, Stephen and I cooked rice in water flavored with kelp, sake, and light soy, then packed it into a wooden mold shaped like a chrysanthemum. After tapping out the compact white flower, we decorated it with two salted cherry blossoms. We wrapped chunks of salted Spanish mackerel in brined cherry leaves and steamed the packets until the fatty fish turned milky in parts. We also made cold seafood salad, pea custard, and chewy millet dumplings, which we grilled over a charcoal burner until brown and sticky enough to hold a coating of ivory Japanese poppy seeds.

With six thousand miles separating me from sleep, I stumbled down into the subway at dawn and emerged on the outskirts of the Tsukiji market just as the sun broke across Tokyo Bay. Inside the market, I saw the entire ocean on display: swollen-bellied salmon, dark disks of abalone, vast armies of exotic crustaceans, conger eels so shiny and new they looked to be napping in their Styrofoam boxes. I stumbled onward to a tuna auction, where a man in a trader's cap worked his way through a hundred silver carcasses scattered across the cement floor, using a system of rapid hand motions and guttural noises unintelligible to all but a select group of tuna savants. When the auction ended, I followed one of the bodies back to its buyer's stall, where a man and his son used band saw, katana blade, cleaver, and fillet knife to work the massive fish down into sellable components: sinewy tail meat for the cheap izakaya, ruby loins for hotel restaurants, blocks of marbled belly for the high-end sushi temples. By 8:00 a.m. I was starving. First, a sushi feast, a twelve-piece procession of Tsukiji's finest- fat-frizzled bluefin, chewy surf clam, a custardy slab of Hokkaido uni- washed down with frosty glasses of Kirin. Then a bowl of warm soba from the outer market, crowned at the last second with a golden nest of vegetable tempura.

For dinner, he serves dishes such as raw local fish accented with touches like fresh basil and balsamic vinegar; roasted pumpkin soup laced with ishiri; fat, chewy handmade spaghetti with tender rings of squid on a puddle of ink enhanced with another few drops of fish sauce. It's what Italian food would be if Italy were a windswept peninsula in the Far East. If dinner is Ben's personal take on Noto ingredients, breakfast still belongs to his in-laws. It's an elaborate a.m. feast, fierce in flavor, rich in history, dense with centuries of knowledge passed from one generation to the next: soft tofu dressed with homemade soy and yuzu chili paste; soup made with homemade miso and simmered fish bones; shiso leaves fermented kimchi-style, with chilies and ishiri; kaibe, rice mixed with ishiri and fresh baby squid, pressed into patties and grilled slowly over a charcoal fire; yellowtail fermented for six months, called the blue cheese of the sea for its lactic funk. The mix of plates will change from one morning to the next but will invariably include a small chunk of konka saba, mackerel fermented for up to five years, depending on the day you visit. Even when it's broken into tiny pieces and sprinkled over rice, the years of fermentation will pulse through your body like an electric current.

At its lowest and most common level the “God has a plan” folks are those who settle for the least comforting of cold comforts. Why did little Johnny get run over by the garbage truck in the alley? Because God has a plan. There. Feel better now? And at its highest and most rarified level a plateful of blood-rare metaphysics provides a chewy, fragrant, vitamin-packed repast for the mind/heart willing to dig in and feast.

The baker at the stall assured them that every unmarried maiden must eat a gingerbread husband for luck, if she wanted to catch the real thing someday. A laughing mock argument sprang up between Amelia and the baker as she flatly refused one for herself, saying she had no wish to marry. “But of course you do!” the baker declared with a sly grin. “It’s what every woman hopes for.” Amelia smiled and passed the gingerbread men to her sisters. “How much for three, sir?” “A farthing each.” He attempted to hand her a fourth. “And this for no charge. It would be a sad waste for a lovely blue-eyed lady to go without a husband.” “Oh, I couldn’t,” Amelia protested. “Thank you, but I don’t—” A new voice came from behind her. “She’ll take it.” Discomfiture and pleasure seethed low in her body, and Amelia saw a dark masculine hand reaching out, dropping a silver piece into the baker’s upturned palm. Hearing her sisters’ giggling exclamations, Amelia turned and looked up into a pair of bright hazel eyes. “You need the luck,” Cam Rohan said, pushing the gingerbread husband into her reluctant hands. “Have some.” She obeyed, deliberately biting off the head, and he laughed. Her mouth was filled with the rich flavor of molasses and the melting chewiness of gingerbread on her tongue. Glancing at Rohan, she thought he should have had at least one or two flaws, some irregularity of skin or structure … but his complexion was as smooth as dark honey, and the lines of his features were razor-perfect. As he bent his head toward her, the perishing sun struck brilliant spangles in the dark waves of his hair. Managing to swallow the gingerbread, Amelia mumbled, “I don’t believe in luck.” Rohan smiled. “Or husbands, apparently.” “Not for myself, no. But for others—” “It doesn’t matter. You’ll marry anyway.

it was always these three crops every day in the two meals they had, for the dry land bore nothing else. They tasted like . . . nothing. Just flat, soft, and chewy cud. But Max felt heavy and full after eating them, which when he thought about it was enough.

Chewy Chocolate Chip M&M Cookies.39 2 and 1/4 cups all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon baking soda 1 and 1/2 teaspoons cornstarch 3/4 teaspoon salt 3/4 cup (1.5 sticks) unsalted butter, melted 3/4 cup light brown sugar, loosely packed 1/2 cup granulated sugar40 1 large egg + 1 egg yolk (preferably at room temperature) 1 tablespoon vanilla extract 1 cup chocolate chips 1/2 cup M&Ms for tops of cookies Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line two large baking sheets with parchment paper or silicone baking mats. Set aside. Toss together flour, baking soda, cornstarch and salt in a large bowl. Set aside. In a medium size bowl, whisk the melted butter, brown sugar, and white sugar together until no brown sugar lumps remain. Whisk in the egg, then the egg yolk. Finally, whisk in the vanilla. Pour the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients and mix together with a large spoon or rubber spatula. The dough will be very soft, yet thick. Fold41 in the chocolate chips. They may not stick to the dough because of the melted butter, but do your best to have them evenly dispersed among the dough. Cover the dough and chill for 2 hours, or up to 3 days. Chilling is mandatory.42 Take the dough out of the refrigerator and allow to slightly soften at room temperature for 10 minutes. Roll the dough into balls, about 3 tablespoons of dough each and place 2 inches apart on cookie sheets, or use a cookie scooper. Bake the cookies for 11-14 minutes. They will look very soft and underbaked. They will continue to bake on the cookie sheet. Allow cooling on the cookie sheet for 10 minutes before moving to a wire rack43 to cool completely.

Bubbles enters with a plate overflowing with rugelach. The three of us fall silent as we indulge in the small snail-shaped pastries of tender cream-cheese-infused dough wrapped around various fillings: one with walnuts and cinnamon, one bursting with chocolate, one with a thick, sweet poppy seed paste, and one with apricot jam that has been bumped up with some chewy bits of diced dried apricots.

Coaching me in the Venetian pronunciation, he explained that the word itself was a local invention. In La Serenissima’s glittering heyday, correspondents signed letters, “Il Suo schiavo” (“your slave”). Meeting on the street, acquaintances would bow and repeat the same ingratiating words. However, in the Venetian dialect, which softens the hard sound of sch (pronounced sk in other regions) to a chewy sh (as in “show”), Suo schiavo came out sciao, which melted into ciao as it migrated to other parts of Italy.

David tears a chocolate chip cookie in half. “Want some?” He holds a piece out to me. The chocolate glistens, and the brown-buttery inside looks like it will be chewy, which is how I like my cookies. I can’t think of a single reason to refuse. So I reach for it. “Thanks.” We chew together for a companionable moment. “That was really good,” I say after I’ve swallowed. “I know.” He balls up the wrap it came in. “It was a pretty big sacrifice on my part to give you half. I’m already regretting it.” “I’ll make it up to you someday, somehow. This, I swear.” “How about giving me your firstborn child?” “Okay, but when climate change has destroyed life as we know it and we’re all fighting to survive, you can’t favor your natural children over my poor little loaner.” He laughs, and I notice a couple of other kids turning to look at us. I guess the sound of David Fields laughing is unfamiliar enough to draw attention. His laugh is unexpectedly warm—​I’ve heard it a few times now, but its richness still surprises me. “Someone’s been reading too much dystopian fiction,” he says. “Yeah, don’t get me started on the zombie apocalypse.” “What’s to get started on? All you need is an axe and you’re good.” “You need some chain too.” “For what?” I roll my eyes. “To chain up your loved ones when they get bitten. Duh.” “Why even bother fighting? Why not just give in and all become zombies? Nothing would change—​most of the kids here would already tear out each other’s flesh if it meant they had a better chance of getting into Stanford.” “Yeah, but their parents would never let them eat any old brains—​they’d have to be organic.

Josey shook her head, thinking, if Della Lee were a candy, she would be a SweeTart. Not the hard kind that broke your teeth, the chewy kind, the kind you had to work on and mull over, your eyes watering and your lips turning up into a smile you didn't want to give.

Lois and Eloise and Benji have been cooking from the book all week in preparation, making everything from homemade marshmallows and chewy pates de fruit, to homemade Oreos and Better than Nutter Butters. Caramels, macarons, miniparfaits filled with apple compote and vanilla custard and olive oil cake. Insane little chocolate tarts. Shortbreads and chocolates and my personal favorite, the Chocolate Bouchan, essentially a cork-shaped brownie that is one of the most delicious things I have ever tasted.

The guidebooks aren't wrong; Osaka is not a textbook beautiful city. Not a seamless stretch of civilization, but a patchwork of skyscrapers and smokestacks, Gucci and ghettos, that better approximates life as most of us know it. With all this in mind, it's not surprising that Osaka is a center of casual food culture. Its two most famous foods, okonomiyaki (a thick, savory pancake stuffed with all manners of flora and fauna) and takoyaki (a golf-ball-sized fritter with a single chewy nugget of octopus deposited at its molten core), are the kind of carb, fatty, belly-padding drinking food that can sustain a city with Osaka's voracious appetite for mischief.

Cousteau loved sports, Kumi the soap operas, Chewy the Clint Eastwood films, and Reuben the cartoons.