Cookers Quotes

For Children: You will need to know the difference between Friday and a fried egg. It's quite a simple difference, but an important one. Friday comes at the end of the week, whereas a fried egg comes out of a chicken. Like most things, of course, it isn't quite that simple. The fried egg isn't properly a fried egg until it's been put in a frying pan and fried. This is something you wouldn't do to a Friday, of course, though you might do it on a Friday. You can also fry eggs on a Thursday, if you like, or on a cooker. It's all rather complicated, but it makes a kind of sense if you think about it for a while.

Denial is the lid on our emotional pressure cooker: the longer we leave it on, the more pressure we build up. Sooner or later, that pressure is bound to pop the lid, and we have an emotional crisis.

If you see Myrnin, tell him I said I want my slow cooker back." "Your- You let him borrow something you put food in?" Hannah's smile disappeared. "Why?" "Um, never mind. I'll make sure it gets disinfected before you get it back. But don't lend anything to him again unless you can put it in some kind of sterilizer." That made even Hannah look nervous. "Thanks. Tell crazy boy I said hey." "I will" Claire promised. "Hey, if you don't mind me asking - when did he borrow it from you?" "He just showed up at my door one night about a week ago, said, 'Hi, nice to meet you. Can I borrow your Crock-Pot?' Which I understand is pretty typical Myrnin.

Discontented women are like pressure cookers. The steam rises and one day they just reach boiling point.

I need to feel strongly, to love and to admire, just as desperately as I need to breathe. A letter from a friend, a Balthus painting on a postcard, a page of Saint-Simon, give meaning to the passing hours. But to keep my mind sharp, to avoid descending into resigned indifference, I maintain a level of resentment and anger, neither too much nor too little, just as a pressure cooker has a safety valve to keep it from exploding.

What shop did this book come from? she asked. Her father was looking worried at the cooker. He always got rice wrong. I don't know, Brooksie, he said, I don't remember. That was unimaginable, not remembering where a book has come from! and where it was bought from! That was part of the whole history, the whole point, of any book that you owned! And when you picked it up later in the house at home, you knew, you just knew by looking and having it in your hand, where it came from and where you got it and when and why you'd decided to buy it.

Read it out loud, dear,” Grace ordered, as Angela opened the card tied to the yellow-ribboned box. To the bride-to-be in the kitchen stuck, An asparagus cooker and lots of luck. from Cookie Barfspringer “Thank you,” Angela said, wondering which one was the Barfspringer. The next gift was an egg poacher. The box in pink ribbons contained another asparagus cooker. “I sure hope Doctor Deere likes asparagus,” someone remarked.

...most people are almost blind and they don’t see most things and there is lots of spare capacity in their heads and it is filled with things which aren’t connected and are silly, like, “I’m worried that I might have left the gas cooker on.

There was an avocado green slow cooker, a venerable coffeemaker, two coffee grinders, and a blender. These were the tools of the modern witch, though Sarah kept a big black cauldron by the fireplace for old times’ sake.

The brain is like a pressure cooker and it can only take so much before it blows.

A growing heat, like a million blazing suns all focused on me, lit my insides. It felt like I was being cooked in the Gabriella Roast Cooker, me spinning around-and-around to heat my flesh evenly. For some reason I was having trouble comprehending the sudden change in my revolving world as I swelled with a horrible, billowing fire.

We were on the Congo’s eastern edge and, as the helicopter climbed higher, I could see nothing but an unbroken spread of vegetation. I was looking at the Congo’s rainforest, one of the natural wonders of the world. Conservationists describe it as one of the Earth’s lungs, an immense expanse of oxygen-generating green, matched in size only by the Amazonian rainforest. Explorers recorded it as one of the most impenetrable and hostile environments on the planet – as clammy as a pressure cooker, thick with disease, capped by a tree-top canopy too solid for sunlight to penetrate.

most people are almost blind and they don’t see most things and there is lots of spare capacity in their heads and it is filled with things which aren’t connected and are silly, like, “I’m worried that I might have left the gas cooker on.

Among the elite in Pyongyang, one of the most coveted signifiers of status is an electric rice cooker.

I need to feel strongly, to love and to admire, just as desperately as I need to breathe. A letter from a friend, a Balthus painting on a postcard, a page of Saint-Simon, give meaning to the passing hours. But to keep my mind sharp, to avoid descending into resigned indifference, I maintain a level of resentment and anger, neither too much nor to little, just a s a pressure cooker has a a safety valve to keep it from exploding.

With gas cookers and chip pans in every kitchen, the chip-pan fire was by far the most popular method these Proddies had for burning their houses down. The second technique was the ever popular chimney fire and number three had to be the drunken cigarette drop on the carpet. Mind you, why they'd be cooking chips at this hour was anyone's guess.

I was thinking..." "We know," Pedro said, "It was like sitting next to a pressure cooker

Shakespeare is complex, like living, not technically and crackably difficult, like crosswords or changing the time on the cooker

There was no stopping us now. We had running water, a heater, a cooker and a road. We were fast becoming slaves again to all the things we had come to this benighted spot to flee.

Something that once had importance might be forgotten by most people but because millions of people once knew it, a force is present that can be harnessed. There might be so much significance attached to a song, for example, or a fact, that it can’t die but only lies dormant, like a vampire in his coffin, waiting to be called forth from the grave once again. There is more magic in the fact that the first mass worldwide photo of the Church of Satan was taken by Joe Rosenthal – the same man who took the most famous news photo in history – the flag-raising at Iwo Jima. There’s real occult significance to that – much more than in memorizing grimoires and witches’ alphabets. People ask me about what music to use in rituals – what is the best occult music. I’ve instructed people to go to the most uncrowded section of the music store and it’s a guarantee what you’ll find there will be occult music. That’s the power of long-lost trivia. I get irritated by people who turn up their noses and whine ‘Why would anyone want to know that?’ Because once upon a time, everyone in America knew it. Suppose there’s a repository of neglected energy, that’s been generated and forgotten. Maybe it’s like a pressure cooker all this time, just waiting for someone to trigger its release. ‘Here I am,’ it beckons, ‘I have all this energy stored up just waiting for you – all you have to do is unlock the door. Because of man’s stupidity, he’s neglected me to this state of somnambulism – dreaming the ancient dreams – even though I was once so important to him.’ Think about that. A song that was once on millions of lips now is only on your lips. Now what does that contain? Those vibrations of that particular tune, what do they evoke, call up? What do they unlock? The old gods lie dormant, waiting.

Because being a PK can be very much like living in a pressure cooker. Even though we look just like the other kids and the ingredients are the same, our atmosphere is subtly but massively different. The ministry creates a pressure of expectation that is unlike any other. If all the other kids are cooking at 212 degrees (rather a challenge all its own), we are cooking at a scalding 250 pressurized degrees, and we are reaching our “done” point that much faster.

Stress is also the painful internal pressure of accumulated emotional energy. Grieving, explored at length herein, is the most effective stress-release mechanism that human beings have. Grieving is a safe, healthy release valve for our internal pressure cookers of emotion.

Perhaps the deepest indication of our slavery is the monetization of time. It is a phenomenon with roots deeper than our money system, for it depends on the prior quantification of time. An animal or a child has “all the time in the world.” The same was apparently true for Stone Age peoples, who usually had very loose concepts of time and rarely were in a hurry. Primitive languages often lacked tenses, and sometimes lacked even words for “yesterday” or “tomorrow.” The comparative nonchalance primitive people had toward time is still apparent today in rural, more traditional parts of the world. Life moves faster in the big city, where we are always in a hurry because time is scarce. But in the past, we experienced time as abundant. The more monetized society is, the more anxious and hurried its citizens. In parts of the world that are still somewhat outside the money economy, where subsistence farming still exists and where neighbors help each other, the pace of life is slower, less hurried. In rural Mexico, everything is done mañana. A Ladakhi peasant woman interviewed in Helena Norberg-Hodge’s film Ancient Futures sums it all up in describing her city-dwelling sister: “She has a rice cooker, a car, a telephone—all kinds of time-saving devices. Yet when I visit her, she is always so busy we barely have time to talk.” For the animal, child, or hunter-gatherer, time is essentially infinite. Today its monetization has subjected it, like the rest, to scarcity. Time is life. When we experience time as scarce, we experience life as short and poor. If you were born before adult schedules invaded childhood and children were rushed around from activity to activity, then perhaps you still remember the subjective eternity of childhood, the afternoons that stretched on forever, the timeless freedom of life before the tyranny of calendar and clocks. “Clocks,” writes John Zerzan, “make time scarce and life short.” Once quantified, time too could be bought and sold, and the scarcity of all money-linked commodities afflicted time as well. “Time is money,” the saying goes, an identity confirmed by the metaphor “I can’t afford the time.” If the material world

It wasn’t the best place to go for a walk, really. There were all these things that people had thrown away back there—old cookers and broken dishes and dolls with no arms and no legs and empty cans and broken bottles. Mum and Dad made me promise not to go exploring back there, because there were too many sharp things, and tetanus and such.

TV guy and sometimes cooker Gordon Ramsay can get pretty macho with baby animals when doing publicity for something he’s selling, but you’ll never see a puppy peeking out of one of his pots. And though he once said he’d electrocute his children if they became vegetarian, I wonder what his response would be if they poached the family pooch.

An institution theoretically devoted to providing comfort to those in need (the church) is in trouble because it has embraced the same pressure cooker we find everywhere else.

Look what pressure(cooker) does to Rice. It makes the hard and tough rice go soft.

Sweet braised black soybeans, crisp yellow sprouts with scallion and sesame oil, and tart, juicy cucumber kimchi were shoveled into our mouths behind spoonfuls of warm, lavender kong bap straight from the open rice cooker. We'd giggle and shush each other as we ate ganjang gejang with our fingers, sucking salty, rich, custardy raw crab from its shell, prodding the meat from its crevices with our tongues, licking our soy sauce-stained fingers. Between chews of a wilted perilla leaf, my mother would say, "This is how I know you're a true Korean.

Fuck hope and all the tiny little towns, one-horse towns, the one-stoplight towns, three-bars country-music jukebox-magic parquet-towns, pressure-cooker pot-roast frozen-peas bad-coffee married-heterosexual towns, crying-kids-in-the-Oldsmobile-beat-your-kid-in the-Thriftway-aisles towns, one-bank one-service-station Greyhound-Bus-stop-at-the-Pepsi-Cafe towns, two-television towns, Miracle Mile towns, Viv's Double Wide Beauty Salon towns, schizophrenic-mother towns, buy-yourself-a-handgun towns, sister-suicide towns, only-Injun's-a-dead-Injun towns, Catholic-Protestant-Mormon-Baptist religious-right five-churches Republican-trickle-down-to-poverty family-values sexual-abuse pro-life creation-theory NRA towns, nervous-mother rodeo-clown-father those little-town-blues towns.

Logan glanced at the clock on the cooker: nearly five minutes fast. The room was bathed in the pale orange glow of the overcast sky, the back garden a jungle of silhouettes and shadows through the window. He filled the kettle, then poured half of it out, before sticking it on to boil. The growing rumble drowned out the babble on his Airwave handset as DI Bell got his firearms team into place.

Rufus walked to where Jason stood next to the book and placed a hand on it. “The book will give you the techniques,” he said. “We will show you how, when and why to use them.” “By beating it into me,” Jason said. “That’s right,” Gary said from behind the cooker. “We’re going to beat you like a drum.” “Suddenly I’m a lot less excited,” Jason said. “Couldn’t you just let me have my moment of happiness?” “I just don’t want you to think learning martial arts from a book will magically make you good at fighting.” “That’s a disappointment,” Jason said, “given its literal purpose is to magically make me good at fighting.

There are moments in our lives - eras in our lives - when self-care demands more. When you're actually suffering an enormous loss or reeling, the best thing you can do is step outside of the pressure cookers of your life. One of the things I did in my own life when I found myself at that kind of bottom moment is I said, "I have got to do something that's going to remind me of my strength. I've got to do something that's going to bring me back to clarity, simplicity, humility, and strength." And so I went and hiked the Pacific Crest Trail. Remember that the only thing that's important is your well-being, your sense of "okay-ness" in the world. So go and get that.

even though you know that your manuscript is not perfect and you’d hoped for so much more, but if you also know that there is simply no more steam in the pressure cooker and that it’s the very best you can do for now—well? I think this means that you are done.

Cooking Rice If you have a rice cooker it is simply two parts water to one part rice (white or brown). If you have no rice cooker then add to a pot and cover, simmer on low for around 20 minutes for white rice and 40 minutes for brown. I like to add chicken bouillon to flavor my rice. Large

The rays of the setting sun stretched far into the room. Root traced the circles around the twin primes as the steam from the rice cooker floated in from the kitchen. The Professor stared through the window as if he were looking out at the desert, though all he could really see was his tiny, neglected garden.

Mungo bent forward and lifted his sister off her feet. He wore her like a backpack and carried her, giggling, through to the narrow kitchenette. He dropped her in front of the electric cooker. “Feed me, woman.” Jodie extended two fingers and jabbed upwards into his ribs. “That shite doesn’t suit you. So don’t try it. Haaah-ha.

Where did you learn to use a gas cooker?” Sam asked.... “And couldn’t you just, you know, use magic or something?” He wriggled his fingers dramatically. Gabriel smiled ... “I’ve been around for a long, long time. Thousands of years, in fact. Don’t you think I would’ve spent at least some of that time here on earth amongst you humans?

The cooker’s so old you’ve got to lean all the way inside and light it with an actual flame, risking certain death in the process. I know better than to bring up replacing it, because it’s a discussion we’ve had too many times over the years. Mum thinks it’s retro and cool. I, on the other hand, work hard not to think of Sylvia Plath every time I look at it.

I get awkwardly sturdy with a frigid liquid backbone. I get swept in the pressure cooker, tryin' to paddle back home...i'm gonna be a big bang, gotta be, never bottle me up in a probably...i huddle in a tunnel of big dreams, i think big things. I'm gonna burn w/ this little light of mine & a prime concern to earn thanks, I'm gonna be a Big Bang...' --Big Bang

Jadi kalau pas rasa lapar itu tiba tiba menyerang usus dan lambungnya, maka ia dengan santai dan seenaknya nyelonong begitu saja ke dalam rumah. Lalu berjalan berlenggang ke dapur dan membuka tudung saji di meja makan. Bila ia tak menemukan sesuatu di dalam tudung saji itu, maka ia tak akan segan untuk membuka lemari es. Dan tentu saja, seperti yang kita duga, maka apa saja yang ada di dalam lemari es itu akan disikatnya. Ia tak butuh ijin untuk mencaplok apa saja yang ia temukan; persediaan susu buat seminggu dan botol botol minuman ringan, puding di atas talam, kue kue kecil dalam toples, roti dan selai, buah entah itu pisang, anggur, mangga atau pepaya. Semua akan disikatnya tanpa ba, bi, atau bu. Jangan kata kalau ditemukannya potongan daging, keratan ikan, gundukan ayam atau kantongan sosis. Barangkali yang membedakan dia sama anjing atau babi adalah, dia masih merasa perlu untuk memasaknya terlebih dahulu. Dan tak kira kira, tanpa segan dia akan menggunakan semua bumbu, sayur mayur dan persediaan sambal yang ada di kulkas untuk pelengkap santapannya itu. Dan tentu saja, nasi di dalam rice cooker tak terkecuali.

Summer is like a slow-cooker bringing everything in the world to a boil 1 degree at a time. It promises a million happy adjectives only to pour stench and sewage into your nose for dinner. I hate the heat and the sticky, sweaty mess left behind. I hate the lackadaisical ennui of a sun too preoccupied with itself to notice the infinite hours we spend in its presence. The sun is an arrogant thing, always leaving the world behind when it tires of us. The moon is a loyal companion. It never leaves. It's always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do. Every day it's a different version of itself. Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The mood understands what it means to be human. Uncertain. Alone. Cratered by imperfections.

The more monetized society is, the more anxious and hurried its citizens. In parts of the world that are still somewhat outside the money economy, where subsistence farming still exists and where neighbors help each other, the pace of life is slower, less hurried. In rural Mexico, everything is done mañana. A Ladakhi peasant woman interviewed in Helena Norberg-Hodge's film Ancient Futures sums it all up in describing her city-dwelling sister: "She has a rice cooker, a car, a telephone — all kinds of time-saving devices. Yet when I visit her, she is always so busy we rarely have time to talk." For the animal, child, or hunter-gatherer, time is essentially infinite. Today its monetization has subjected it, like the rest, to scarcity. Time is life. When we experience time as scarce, we experience life as short and poor. If you were born before adult schedules invaded childhood and children were rushed around from activity to activity, then perhaps you still remember the subjective eternity of childhood, the afternoons that stretched on forever, the timeless freedom of life before the tyranny of calendar and clocks. "Clocks," writes John Zerzan, "make time scarce and life short." Once quantified, time too could be bought and sold, and the scarcity of all money-linked commodities afflicted time as well. "Time is money," the saying goes, an identity confirmed by the metaphor "I can't afford the time.

I spent a great deal of my youth fantasizing about entertaining. In my early twenties I would spend hours poring over cookbooks at the Seventh Avenue Barnes & Noble in Park Slope, planning elaborate parties that I would throw when I was older and had money. Now I am older and have money, but I almost never entertain. I have yet to throw my Great Gatsby–themed Super Bowl viewing party, but when I do, it will be a big hit, as will be my Daisy Buchanan slow-cooker chicken enchiladas.

Poor families in the United States spend a lot less money on food than rich households: $3,767 a year, compared to $12,340 for the wealthiest households. Poor families also spend less money at restaurants,16 and they devote more time to cooking at home.17 But when you calculate how much poor households spend on food as a proportion of their income, they are spending much more than the rich—33 percent of poor households’ incomes goes to food, compared to just 9 percent for wealthy households.18

Roasted Tomato Soup Serves 4-6 This soup is perfect for those cold winter nights when you want to relax with a comforting grilled cheese and tomato soup combo. The slow roasting of the tomatoes gives it tons of flavor. If you have a garden full of fresh tomatoes, feel free to use those instead of the canned variety. Stay away from fresh grocery store tomatoes in the winter, as they are usually flavorless and mealy and won’t give you the best results. This creamy soup also makes a luxurious starter for a dinner party or other occasion. 1 28 ounce can peeled whole tomatoes, drained 1/4 cup olive oil 1 teaspoon dried Italian seasoning 1/2 small red onion, chopped 2 cloves garlic, rough chopped 1/4 cup chicken broth 1/2 cup ricotta cheese 1/2 cup heavy cream Add the tomatoes, olive oil, herbs, and broth to your slow cooker pot. Cover and cook on low for about 6 hours, until the vegetables are soft. Use either a blender or immersion blender to puree the soup and transfer back to slow cooker. Add the ricotta and heavy cream and turn the cooker to warm if you can. Serve warm.

Around a million protester hermits are living in Japan right now. They’re called hikikomori—“pulling inward”—and the majority are males, aged late teens and up, who have rejected Japan’s competitive, conformist, pressure-cooker culture. They have retreated into their childhood bedrooms and almost never emerge, in many cases for more than a decade. They pass the day reading or surfing the web. Their parents deliver meals to their doors, and psychologists offer them counseling online. The media has called them “the lost generation” and “the missing million.

2 chicken breasts ½ cup chunky peanut butter ½ cup fish sauce ¼ cup freshly squeezed lime juice 2 tablespoons palm sugar 2 tablespoons Sriracha 2 cups water 1 package pad thai noodles ½ pound medium shrimp, peeled and deveined ¼ cup bean sprouts ¼ cup sliced scallions Crushed peanuts, for garnish

The six-hundred-page Encyclopedia of Jihad is also widely available online and includes chapters such as “How to Kill,” “Explosive Devices,” “Manufacturing Detonators,” and “Assassination with Mines.” In a striking example of how dangerous such online education can be, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, the terrorist suspect arrested for his role in the April 2013 Boston Marathon bombings, admitted to authorities he and his brother learned how to make the pressure-cooker bomb used in the attack after reading step-by-step instructions published in al-Qaeda’s online magazine, Inspire, in an article titled “Make a Bomb in the Kitchen of Your Mom.

I wonder if she’s ever encountered a Denver outreach worker with a bleach kit. Did she ever open a baggie from a clean-handed social worker and see a note under the tourniquet and sterile cooker that said, “You are loved as you are,” and did it ever break her heart? Well-meaning notes from church folks aren’t miracles and perhaps they all go unnoticed, but even if that’s the case, the truth remains: God loves Candy now. With dirty feet. Not just after she manages to start making better decisions, not after she washes them herself. God loves us now. Me, Anna, Candy, all of us, as we are. Sometimes just the simple experience of  knowing this, of  knowing that our sin is not what defines us, can finally set us free.

Chickpea Stew Canned chickpeas, potatoes, tomatoes, and onion flavored with rosemary cook into a chunky vegetarian main-dish stew. This also makes a great side dish for pork or lamb. SERVES 6 3 16-ounce cans chickpeas, rinsed and drained 5 medium carrots, sliced 2 medium potatoes, peeled and chopped 1 cup peeled, seeded, and chopped fresh or canned tomatoes with their juice 1 medium onion, chopped 2 teaspoons chopped fresh rosemary ½ cup Chicken Broth ([>]), canned chicken or vegetable broth, or water 2 tablespoons olive oil Salt and freshly ground pepper Combine all the ingredients in a large slow cooker. Cover and cook on low for 6 to 8 hours, or until the vegetables are tender. Serve hot or at room temperature.

A kitten is almost too easy, I think, as I quickly pull out its fur and separate and de-bone it, and put the pieces in the blast cooker for three of the remaining four minutes, then add them to my gumbo, just as Chef Reamsy calls time. “Ladies first,” he says, as I present him with a plate. “What have we here?” “Chef, this is a Slim Jim, Chee-Tos, and kitten gumbo in a spicy Pepsi sauce,” I say. “Bon appetite.” He picks through it. “It certainly looks visually stunning,” he says. “What’d you use in the sauce?” “Pepsi, and a little K-C Masterpiece barbecue sauce. I put that in a pan and let it reduce down.” He takes a bite. “Flavorful. The meat is moist and tender, the sauce has just the right amount of spice, and I love the way you incorporated the stray kitten into the dish. Well done indeed.

Buffalo Chicken Mac & Cheese This easy meal combines the flavors of buffalo wings and mac and cheese.  To cut down on prep/cooking time, use a pre-cooked rotisserie chicken! 1 Cup milk 1 (12 oz) can evaporated milk ¼ Tsp garlic powder ½ Cup buffalo hot sauce (Frank’s Red Hot is a good bet) 3 Cups shredded cheese (just cheddar or a mix if you’d like) 1 lb pre-cooked chicken, shredded ½ lb uncooked pasta (such as elbow macaroni) Chopped onion/celery/carrots, crumbled blue cheese (optional) Mix milk, evaporated milk, garlic powder, and hot sauce in slow cooker until combined.  Add salt & pepper (to taste).  Stir in cheese, chicken, and uncooked pasta. Cook on low for approximately 1 hour, stir, then continue cooking an additional 30-60 minutes, or until pasta is tender. Garnish with chopped vegetables and/or blue cheese (if desired).  Enjoy!

The companies that hauled the oil away were called renderers. Besides restaurant oil, renderers also collected animal carcasses—pigs and sheep and cows from slaughterhouses, offal thrown out by butcher shops and restaurants, euthanized cats and dogs from the pound, dead pets from veterinary clinics, deceased zoo animals, roadkill. Mounds of animals were trucked to the rendering plant and bulldozed into large pots for grinding and shredding; then the raw meat product was dumped into pressure cookers, where fat separated from meat and bones at high heat. The meat and bones were pulverized into protein meal for canned pet food. The animal fat became yellow grease, which was recycled for lipstick, soap, chemicals, and livestock feed. So cows ate cow, pigs ate pig, dogs ate dog, cats ate cat, and human beings ate the meat fed on dead meat, or smeared it over their faces and hands. Rendering was one of the oldest industries in the country, going back to the age of tallow, lard, and candlelight, and one of the most secretive.

Summer is like a slow-cooker bringing everything in the world to a boil 1 degree at a time. It promises a million happy adjectives only to pour stench and sewage into your nose for dinner. I hate the heat and the sticky, sweaty mess left behind. I hate the lackadaisical ennui of a sun too preoccupied with itself to notice the infinite hours we spend in its presence. The sun is an arrogant thing, always leaving the world behind when it tires of us. The moon is a loyal companion. It never leaves. It’s always there, watching, steadfast, knowing us in our light and dark moments, changing forever just as we do. Every day it’s a different version of itself. Sometimes weak and wan, sometimes strong and full of light. The moon understands what it means to be human. Uncertain. Alone. Cratered by imperfections. I stare out the window for so long I forget myself. I hold out my hand to catch a snowflake and my fist closes around the icy air. Empty. I want to put this fist attached to my wrist right through the window. Just to feel something. Just to feel human.

Indeed, food and femininity were intertwined for me from very early on. Cooking was the domain not of girls, but of women. You weren’t actually allowed to cook until you mastered the basics of preparing the vegetables and dry-roasting and grinding the spices. You only assisted by preparing these mise en places for the older women until you graduated and were finally allowed to stand at the stove for more than boiling tea. Just as the French kitchens had their hierarchy of sous-chefs and commis, my grandmother’s kitchen also had its own codes. The secrets of the kitchen were revealed to you in stages, on a need-to-know basis, just like the secrets of womanhood. You started wearing bras; you started handling the pressure cooker for lentils. You went from wearing skirts and half saris to wearing full saris, and at about the same time you got to make the rice-batter crepes called dosas for everyone’s tiffin. You did not get told the secret ratio of spices for the house-made sambar curry powder until you came of marriageable age. And to truly have a womanly figure, you had to eat, to be voluptuously full of food.

Rice is sacred to the Japanese people," he says. "We eat it at every meal, yet we never get tired of it." He points out that the word for rice in Japanese, gohan, is the same as the word for meal. When he finally lifts the lid of the first rice cooker, releasing a dramatic gasp of starchy steam, the entire restaurant looks ready to wave their white napkins in exuberant applause. The rice is served with a single anchovy painstakingly smoked over a charcoal fire. Below the rice, a nest of lightly grilled matsutake mushrooms; on top, an orange slice of compressed fish roe. Together, an intense wave of umami to fortify the tender grains of rice. Next comes okoge, the crispy rice from the bottom of the pan, served with crunchy flakes of sea salt and oil made from the outside kernel of the rice, spiked with spicy sansho pepper. For the finale, an island of crisp rice with wild herbs and broth from the cooked rice, a moving rendition of chazuke, Japanese rice-and-tea soup. It's a husk-to-heart exposé on rice, striking in both its simplicity and its soul-warming deliciousness- the standard by which all rice I ever eat will be judged.

In addition to these international climbers, we were supported by a climbing team of Nepalese Sherpas, led by their Sirdar boss, Kami. Raised in the lower Himalayan foothills, these Sherpas know Everest better than anyone. Many had climbed on the mountain for years, assisting expeditions by carrying food, oxygen, extra tents, and supplies to stock the higher camps. As climbers, we would each carry substantial-sized packs every day on Everest, laden with food, water, cooker, gas canisters, sleeping bag, roll mat, head torch, batteries, mittens, gloves, hat, down jacket, crampons, multitool, rope, and ice axes. The Sherpas would then add an extra sack of rice or two oxygen tanks to that standard load. Their strength was extraordinary, and their pride was in their ability to help transport those life-giving necessities that normal climbers could not carry for themselves. It is why the Sherpas are, without doubt, the real heroes on Everest. Born and brought up at around twelve thousand feet, altitude is literally in their blood. Yet up high, above twenty-five thousand feet, even the Sherpas start to slow, the way everyone, gradually and inevitably, does. Reduced to a slow, agonizing, lung-splitting crawl. Two paces, then a rest. Two paces, then a rest. It is known as the “Everest shuffle.

The secrets of the kitchen were revealed to you in stages, on a need-to-know basis, just like the secrets of womanhood. You started wearing bras; you started handling the pressure cooker for lentils. You went from wearing skirts and half saris to wearing full saris, and at about the same time you got to make the rice-batter crepes called dosas for everyone’s tiffin. You did not get told the secret ratio of spices for the house-made sambar curry powder until you came of marriageable age. And to truly have a womanly figure, you had to eat, to be voluptuously full of food. This, of course, was in stark contrast to what was considered womanly or desirable in the West, especially when I started modeling. To look good in Western clothes you had to be extremely thin. Prior to this, I never thought about my weight except to think it wasn’t ever enough. Then, with modeling, I started depending on my looks to feed myself (though my profession didn’t allow me to actually eat very much). When I started hosting food shows, my career went from fashion to food, from not eating to really eating a lot, to put it mildly. Only this time the opposing demands of having to eat all this food and still look good by Western standards of beauty were off the charts. This tug-of-war was something I would struggle with for most of a decade.

There are several reasons for this. For one thing, it’s not just that lobsters get boiled alive, it’s that you do it yourself—or at least it’s done specifically for you, on-site. 14 As mentioned, the World’s Largest Lobster Cooker, which is highlighted as an attraction in the festival’s program, is right out there on the MLF’s north grounds for everyone to see. Try to imagine a Nebraska Beef Festival 15 at which part of the festivities is watching trucks pull up and the live cattle get driven down the ramp and slaughtered right there on the World’s Largest Killing Floor or something—there’s no way. The intimacy of the whole thing is maximized at home, which of course is where most lobster gets prepared and eaten (although note already the semiconscious euphemism “prepared,” which in the case of lobsters really means killing them right there in our kitchens). The basic scenario is that we come in from the store and make our little preparations like getting the kettle filled and boiling, and then we lift the lobsters out of the bag or whatever retail container they came home in … whereupon some uncomfortable things start to happen. However stuporous a lobster is from the trip home, for instance, it tends to come alarmingly to life when placed in boiling water. If you’re tilting it from a container into the steaming kettle, the lobster will sometimes try to cling to the container’s sides or even to hook its claws over the kettle’s rim like a person trying to keep from going over the edge of a roof. And worse is when the lobster’s fully immersed. Even if you cover the kettle and turn away, you can usually hear the cover rattling and clanking as the lobster tries to push it off. Or the creature’s claws scraping the sides of the kettle as it thrashes around. The lobster, in other words, behaves very much as you or I would behave if we were plunged into boiling water (with the obvious exception of screaming 16 ). A blunter way to say this is that the lobster acts as if it’s in terrible pain, causing some cooks to leave the kitchen altogether and to take one of those little lightweight plastic oven-timers with them into another room and wait until the whole process is over.

This rich pork flavor, which lands on the tongue with a thump... It's Chinese Dongpo Pork! He seasoned pork belly with a blend of spices and let it marinate thoroughly... ... before finely dicing it and mixing it into the fried rice!" "What? Dongpo Pork prepared this fast?! No way! He didn't have nearly enough time to simmer the pork belly!" "Heh heh. Actually, there's a little trick to that. I simmered it in sparkling water instead of tap water. The carbon dioxide that gives sparkling water its carbonation helps break down the fibers in meat. Using this, you can tenderize a piece of meat in less than half the normal time!" "That isn't the only protein in this dish. I can taste the seafood from an Acqua Pazza too!" "And these green beans... it's the Indian dish Poriyal! Diced green beans and shredded coconut fried in oil with chilies and mustard seeds... it has a wonderfully spicy kick!" "He also used the distinctly French Mirepoix to gently accentuate the sweetness of the vegetables. So many different delicious flavors... ... all clashing and sparking in my mouth! But the biggest key to this dish, and the core of its amazing deliciousness... ... is the rice!" "Hmph. Well, of course it is. The dish is fried rice. If the rice isn't the centerpiece, it isn't a..." "I see. His dish is fried rice while simultaneously being something other than fried rice. A rice lightly fried in butter before being steamed in some variety of soup stock... In other words, it's actually closer to that famous staple from Turkish cuisine- a Pilaf! In fact, it's believed the word "pilaf" actually comes from the Turkish word pilav. To think he built the foundation of his dish on pilaf of all things!" "Heh heh heh! Yep, that's right! Man, I've learned so much since I started going to Totsuki." "Mm, I see! When you finished the dish, you didn't fry it in oil! That's why it still tastes so light, despite the large volume and variety of additional ingredients. I could easily tuck away this entire plate! Still... I'm surprised at how distinct each grain of rice is. If it was in fact steamed in stock, you'd think it'd be mushier." "Ooh, you've got a discerning tongue, sir! See, when I steamed the rice... ... I did it in a Donabe ceramic pot instead of a rice cooker!" Ah! No wonder! A Donabe warms slowly, but once it's hot, it can hold high temperatures for a long time! It heats the rice evenly, holding a steady temperature throughout the steaming process to steam off all excess water. To think he'd apply a technique for sticky rice to a pilaf instead! With Turkish pilaf as his cornerstone... ... he added super-savory Dongpo pork, a Chinese dish... ... whitefish and clams from an Italian Acqua Pazza... ... spicy Indian green bean and red chili Poriyal... ... and for the French component, Mirepoix and Oeuf Mayonnaise as a topping! *Ouef is the French word for "egg."* By combining those five dishes into one, he has created an extremely unique take on fried rice! " "Hold it! Wait one dang minute! After listening to your entire spiel... ... it sounds to me like all he did was mix a bunch of dishes together and call it a day! There's no way that mishmash of a dish could meet the lofty standards of the BLUE! It can't nearly be gourmet enough!" "Oh, but it is. For one, he steamed the pilaf in the broth from the Acqua Pazza... ... creating a solid foundation that ties together the savory elements of all the disparate ingredients! The spiciness of the Poriyal could have destabilized the entire flavor structure... ... but by balancing it out with the mellow body of butter and soy sauce, he turned the Poriyal's sharp bite into a pleasing tingle!

Cream of Cheat Mushroom Soup (This is one of Edna Ferguson’s recipes and she named it herself.)   2 cups chicken broth 8-ounce package sliced mushrooms (fresh, from the grocery store) with 12 perfect slices reserved for garnish 1 can (10 ¾ ounces) condensed Cream of Chicken Soup (undiluted) 2 cans (10 ¾ ounces each) condensed Cream of Mushroom Soup (undiluted) 1 cup heavy cream 8 oz. shredded Gruyere (or any good Swiss cheese, or even Monterey Jack) ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper   Combine the chicken broth and the package of mushrooms (remember to reserve those 12 perfect slices for the garnish) in a blender. Zoop them up. Add the can of Cream of Chicken soup to the blender. Zoop it all up. Spray the inside of a 4-quart slow cooker with Pam. Add the contents of the blender to the crock-pot. Add the cans of Cream of Mushroom soup to the crock-pot. Stir. Add the heavy cream, shredded cheese, and ground black pepper. Stir again. Cook on LOW for 4 to 5 hours. Ladle into bowls. Sprinkle with parsley and float

Slow-Cooked Rump Roast INGREDIENTS  1-2 pounds beef rump roast  3-4 cups chicken broth (no sugar added)  2 large onions, roughly chopped  5-6 garlic cloves, peeled  1 (8 ounce) container of mushrooms, sliced  salt and pepper to taste  1 teaspoon garlic powder  1 teaspoon onion powder  1/2 teaspoon paprika  1/2 cup full-fat coconut milk, canned  Mushroom gravy PREP TIME: 10 MINUTES—COOK TIME: 6-8 HOURS Serves: 4-6 1. Pull out that handy slow cooker of yours! 2. Add in the broth, coconut milk, onions, garlic, mushrooms, and spice to your slow cooker and mix together. 3. Make a little room in your slow cooker around the mushroom mix and plop that cute little rump roast in the pot. 4. Turn on low for 6-8 hours.

Bacon Brussels sprouts 1 lb. of brussel sprouts (washed and trimmed) 1 tbsp. Dijon mustard Salt to taste Pepper to taste 2 tbsp. butter 6 oz. bacon Start by heating a medium skillet over medium high heat and frying the bacon until browned on both sides. Transfer to a paper towel to drain and cool. Slice the bacon into about 1 inch ling pieces. Slice the brussel sprouts in half and add them to the crock pot along with the bacon, mustard, butter, salt and pepper. Mix well cook for 4 hours on low. Then serve. Hot Wings

Since Parmesan cheese is made with rennet, which is derived from the stomach of slaughtered cows, some vegetarians may choose not to utilize it.  You may instead substitute the Parmesan cheese for nutritional yeast.

Sauerkraut & Pork Makes 4 to 6 servings 20-oz. can sauerkraut 1/3 c. brown sugar, packed 1-1/2 lbs. pork sausage links, sliced 1 onion, sliced Combine sauerkraut and brown sugar in a slow cooker; mix well. Arrange sausage and onion on top. Cover and cook on high setting for 2 hours, adding water if necessary. Reduce heat to low setting; cover and cook for an additional 2 hours.

Slow-Cooker Beef Stroganoff Serves 6 Start this savory stew before you leave the house, and by dinnertime, the meat will be cooked to perfect tenderness. Served over egg noodles and garnished with fat-free sour cream, it’s a meat lover’s dream. 1½ pounds boneless beef round steak, trimmed of any visible fat and cut into ¼-inch slices 1 onion, peeled and thinly sliced 2 cloves garlic, crushed 1½ tablespoons Worcestershire sauce Freshly ground black pepper ½ teaspoon salt ¾ teaspoon paprika 1¼ cups canned beef broth 2½ tablespoons catsup 1½ tablespoons red wine 3 tablespoons cornstarch ¼ cup cold water ½ pound button mushrooms, stems removed, sliced ½ cup fat-free sour cream 3 cups cooked egg noodles 1. In a large (3- or 3½-quart) slow cooker, combine the steak, onion, garlic, Worcestershire sauce, pepper, salt, paprika, beef broth, catsup, and wine. Stir well. Cover and cook on low for 7 hours, or until the steak is tender. 2. In a small bowl, dissolve the cornstarch in the water. Add to the slow cooker, along with the mushrooms. Replace the cover and cook on high for 20 minutes, or until the sauce is bubbling hot. Stir in the sour cream and serve over the noodles.

Most of their appliances confused her, but the rice cooker was an endless source of fascination.

Cooking without a good digital thermometer is like driving without a speedometer, building furniture without a tape measure, or filling your tires without a pressure gauge. Invest in good thermometers. They’re inexpensive, fast, and accurate. They will pay for themselves. Nothing will improve your cooking more. You Need Three Thermometers Temperature is paramount in cooking, and you must measure it accurately in three different places: the cooker, the food, and your refrigerator. Oven/grill/smoker thermometer. Can you imagine cooking indoors if your oven did not have a thermometer? Then why try to cook outdoors without a good oven thermometer? (And

Yet, while thousands of clinics have been created to solve feeding problems, very few are set up to help with screaming babies. In fact, most doctors have little to offer families of colicky babies, other than sympathy. “I know it’s hard, but be patient; it won’t last forever.” Or, even worse, “Just put your baby in a dark room and let her cry. She just needs to blow off steam.” (Hey, babies aren’t pressure cookers.)

The classic recipes are goat, lamb, vegetable, and/or chicken biriyani. But when I was in New Orleans, at this restaurant, they served Louisiana barbecue shrimp, which was simply delicious. When I asked the waiter what was in the shrimp sauce, he rattled off a number of spices (rosemary, thyme, basil, oregano, et cetera) and so, I went with memory. I marinated the raw prawns in mashed garlic, rosemary, basil, oregano, thyme, sage, paprika, black pepper, white pepper, cayenne, and onion powder, along with a dash of Worcestershire sauce. I decided to cook the rice in the pressure cooker, added crushed cloves, cardamom, and cinnamon, and a bay leaf for a minute or so. Then I added some onions and fried until the onions became golden brown. Then went in the rice, and enough water, and I closed the pressure cooker. The rice was ready in ten minutes. In a separate pan, I sautéed the marinated prawns in butter, along with extra chopped garlic and the marinade, and added them to the cooked rice. I garnished it with chopped fresh coriander and voilà, Cajun prawn biriyani. I served it with some regular cucumber raita. Mama had been so sure that Daddy would hate prawns but I saw him clean out each one on his plate and even get a second helping. Sometimes we forget why we don't like some things and then when we try them again, we realize that we had been wrong.

busy with people getting off the boat, is it? It’s all one-way.’ Bee reached up to take the glass of whiskey Paddy was holding out to her. ‘I’ll be back,’ she said, but in her mind she was asking herself when. Captain Bob had secured a job as a captain, meeting the cargo ships and piloting them down the Mersey into the port of Liverpool, from where they had waited, out on the bar. He had already travelled to Liverpool and found them a house close to the docks. ‘It has a kitchen,’ he’d said to Bee. ‘The range is still there, but it was damaged in the war, and there’s a new gas cooker fitted next to it.’ Bee’s mouth had dropped. ‘A gas cooker? I have no idea how to use one of those. I’ll be sticking to the fire.’ Bob had just smiled at her indulgently. He understood why the traffic from Dublin was one-way. Bee would soon discover how quickly women who left the west coast of Ireland adapted from the life their ancestors had lived for hundreds of years to all the mod cons England and America had to offer. ‘Mammy!’ Ciaran shouted from the door. Bob and Bee swivelled round in their chairs as Ciaran came in, followed by Michael, who was carrying Finnbar in his arms and had Mary Kate at his side, holding his hand. ‘God love you, come here,’ said Bee to Mary Kate, who ran over to her and allowed her to pull her up onto her knee. ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’ Captain Bob and Michael exchanged

once the cooking is complete, without you actually doing anything. In terms of the Instant Pot, once the cooking is complete and your pot has shifted to the “KEEP WARM” setting, you should understand that

Delilah Isles was certain of two things—pork roast in the slow cooker was the best in cold weather, and the woman in her kitchen was dead.

As cheese ages, it loses lactose (milk sugar), so

the Wanapani rest area was a pressure cooker.

Slow Cooker Beef Enchilada Dip When we have our Fourth of July potluck celebration, someone always seems to show up with a slow cooker full of some amazing dip. And by “amazing” I mean “I follow around the owner of the slow cooker all night and pester them until they tell me how to make it.” I’m such a gracious, humble hostess! Enchilada dip is always a crowd-pleaser (and a hostess-pleaser), and unless you call browning ground beef in a skillet difficult, there ain’t nothing hard about this recipe.

During my bachelor days, I would regularly order Chinese food for delivery—usually broccoli and garlic sauce (hold the white rice). Then I’d throw brown rice or quinoa along with dried lentils into my rice cooker and steam or microwave a pound of greens. By the time the delivery arrived, everything was ready and I would just mix it all together and have more than enough for leftovers.

The only legumes I have the patience to cook from scratch are lentils. They cook quickly and don’t need to be presoaked. You can just simmer them as you would pasta, in a pot with an abundance of water, for about half an hour. In fact, if you’re making pasta and have the time, why not let some lentils boil in the water for twenty minutes before adding in the pasta? Lentils are great in spaghetti sauce. That’s what I do when I make rice or quinoa: I throw a handful of dried lentils into the rice cooker, and they’re done when the grain is cooked. Mashed and seasoned cooked lentils also make a great veggie dip. Double check marks!

Taste of…India, and adapted it for the slow cooker. If you make this dish and wonder why it doesn’t really look like the butter chicken you eat in most restaurants,

Day 8 after coming home from the hospital The classic recipes are goat, lamb, vegetable, and/or chicken biriyani. But when I was in New Orleans, at this restaurant, they served Louisiana barbecue shrimp, which was simply delicious. When I asked the waiter what was in the shrimp sauce, he rattled off a number of spices (rosemary, thyme, basil, oregano, et cetera) and so, I went with memory.  I marinated the raw prawns in mashed garlic, rosemary, basil, oregano, thyme, sage, paprika, black pepper, white pepper, cayenne, and onion powder, along with a dash of Worcestershire sauce. I decided to cook the rice in the pressure cooker, always quick and easy. I heated some ghee in the pressure cooker, added crushed cloves, cardamom, and cinnamon, and a bay leaf for a minute or so. Then I added some onions and fried until the onions became golden brown. Then went in the rice, and enough water, and I closed the pressure cooker. The rice was ready in ten minutes. In a separate pan, I sautéed the marinated prawns in butter, along with extra chopped garlic and the marinade, and added them to the cooked rice. I garnished it with chopped fresh coriander and voila, Cajun prawn biriyani. I served it with some regular cucumber raita. Mama had been so sure that Daddy would hate prawns but I saw him clean out each one on his plate and even get a second helping. Sometimes we forget why we don’t like some things and then when we try them again, we realize that we had been wrong. Giving Serious Though to Adultery Girish was a classical music buff and in the beginning of their marriage, Shobha joined him for a few musical events and lectures.

diced onion, cover it with water, and boil until the meat is done and the onions are tender. Pour in two cans of kidney beans and a can of tomato sauce. Then add about a cup of ketchup and a fourth cup of Worcestershire sauce and simmer. I make it and pour it into a slow cooker and let it simmer on low for a few hours. Daddy liked to add a little more Worcestershire sauce to it. Mama always served it with hot rolls and an assortment of sliced cheese.

There are signs, however, that a good time was had all last night. Jo might have found herself caught in the middle of a love triangle, but she clearly didn't mind staying around when she thought that one of the angles had been dispensed with. The remains of dinner still grace the table---dirty dishes, rumpled napkins, a champagne flute bearing a lipstick mark. There's even one of the Chocolate Heaven goodies left in the box---which is absolute sacrilege in my book, so I pop it in my mouth and enjoy the brief lift it gives me. I huff unhappily to myself. If they left chocolate uneaten, that must be because they couldn't wait to get down to it. Two of the red cushions from the sofa are on the floor, which shows a certain carelessness that Marcus doesn't normally exhibit. They're scattered on the white, fluffy sheepskin rug, which should immediately make me suspicious---and it does. I walk through to the bedroom and, of course, it isn't looking quite as pristine as it did yesterday. Both sides of the bed are disheveled and I think that tells me just one thing. But, if I needed confirmation, there's a bottle of champagne and two more flutes by the side of the bed. It seems that Marcus didn't sleep alone. Heavy of heart and footstep, I trail back through to the kitchen. More devastation faces me. Marcus had made no attempt to clear up. The dishes haven't been put into the dishwasher and the congealed remnants of last night's Moroccan chicken with olives and saffron-scented mash still stand in their respective saucepans on the cooker. Tipping the contents of one pan into the other, I then pick up a serving spoon and carry them both through the bedroom. I slide open the wardrobe doors and the sight of Marcus's neatly organized rows of shirts and shoes greet me. Balancing the pan rather precariously on my hip, I dip the serving spoon into the chicken and mashed potatoes and scoop up as much as I can. Opening the pocket of Marcus's favorite Hugo Boss suit, I deposit the cold mash into it. To give the man credit where credit is due, his mash is very light and fluffy. I move along the row, garnishing each of his suits with some of his gourmet dish, and when I've done all of them, find that I still have some food remaining. Seems as if the lovers didn't have much of an appetite, after all. I move onto Marcus's shoes---rows and rows of lovely designer footwear---casual at one end, smart at the other. He has a shoe collection that far surpasses mine. Ted Baker, Paul Smith, Prada, Miu Miu, Tod's... I slot a full spoon delicately into each one, pressing it down into the toe area for maximum impact. I take the saucepan back into the kitchen and return it to the hob. With the way I'm feeling, Marcus is very lucky that I don't just burn his flat down. Instead, I open the freezer. My boyfriend---ex-boyfriend---has a love of seafood. (And other women, of course.) I take out a bag of frozen tiger prawns and rip it open. In the living room, I remove the cushions from the sofa and gently but firmly push a couple of handfuls of the prawns down the back. Through to the bedroom and I lift the mattress on Marcus's lovely leather bed and slip the remaining prawns beneath it, pressing them as flat as I can. In a couple of days, they should smell quite interesting. As my pièce de résistance, I go back to the kitchen and take the half-finished bottle of red wine---the one that I didn't even get a sniff at---and pour it all over Marcus's white, fluffy rug. I place my key in the middle of the spreading stain. Then I take out my lipstick, a nice red one called Bitter Scarlet---which is quite appropriate, if you ask me---and I write on his white leather sofa, in my best possible script: MARCUS CANNING, YOU ARE A CHEATING BASTARD.

I became aware that I was repeating certain actions: checking that doors were locked, cookers were turned off, basins and toilet bowls were clean. Connected with these things were strange, repetitive rituals:

The Pressure Cooker by Stewart Stafford We arrive at the sweltering park, And disturb a larcenous squirrel, Trash can raider with easy spoils, He scampers away down the back. Solo lady in the gazebo watches, An outdoor Mrs. Bates silhouette, As a tuft of angel hair rolls along, I give the thirsty baby hydration. Transfixed by a burst helium balloon, Rocking itself to the unheard beats, Arid breeze, now ceiling conductor, Our squirrel pal returns to spy on us. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

we’ve had contact with an undisputed alien artifact that took over Eros Station, spent a little over a year preparing itself in the vicious pressure cooker of Venus, then launched a massive complex of structures just outside the orbit of Uranus and built a thousand-kilometer-wide ring.

Sometimes we must choose to congratulate and support those who are doing well. Instead of choosing to do what they are doing. Because they were praised in cooking, now suddenly everyone wants to be chefs . We need to understand that sometimes it is not the recipe but the cooker. We lose our success and opportunities by not sticking to our own lane , but by trying to do what everyone who is doing well did.

But Sanders did have one bit of intellectual property, an asset that would carry him forward yet again: a fried chicken recipe that he had perfected over the years in his restaurant. Initially, fried chicken had been an ancillary item on the menu, a means of using leftover chicken. However, customers on long drives didn’t want to wait the time it took to pan-fry the chicken. Another cooking method, immersing chicken through a wire basket in oil, was fast but didn’t meet Sanders’s exacting standards. It took an accidental experimentation with a pressure cooker to give Sanders his old restaurant’s special item: Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Shiitake Mushroom Frittata with Pecorino Romano

When I asked this question, where you excited? Curious? Thrilled that you'd learn something new? Anyone?... Sir? No. You all got into a frantic race. What's the use of such methods, even if you come first. Will your knowledge increase? No, just the pressure. This is college, not a pressure cooker. A circus lion also learns to sit on a chair in fear of the whip. But you call such a lion 'well trained', not 'well educated'.

She’s like a pressure cooker letting out some of the steam of her disastrous life in puffs of humor.

Phillipa placed one tray of appetizers after the other on the table---the jambon sec-wrapped chipotle figs with the cocoa-balsamic glaze; the crab cakes with the rémoulade dipping sauce; the varying star-shaped canapés, the bottoms buttery, toasted bread topped with different ingredients and garnished with chopped fresh herbs; the verrines filled with bœuf bourguignon and baby carrots; and the smoke salmon, beet carpaccio, and mascarpone bites served on homemade biscuits and sprinkled with capers. Everybody dug in, oohing and aahing. "I don't know which one I like best," exclaimed Marie, licking her lips. "They're all so delicious. I can't choose a favorite child." Phillipa winked. "Just wait until you see and taste Sophie's plat principal," she said, turning on her heel. She returned with a large pressure cooker, placing it on the table. She lifted the lid, and everybody breathed in the aromas, noses sniffing with anticipation. "This is Sophie's version of pot-au-feu de la mer, but with grilled lobster, crab, abalone, mussels, and large shrimp, along with a variety of root and fresh vegetables, a ginger-lemongrass-infused sauce, and garnished with borage, or starflowers, a smattering of sea salt, a dash of crème fraîche, fresh herbs, and ground pepper.

Do they have rice…? And do they have rice cookers?

Nonmonogamy can be a pressure cooker for growth. It is commonly and playfully known in the nonmonogamous world that you shouldn’t enter CNM unless you are ready to process, communicate, grow and then process, communicate and grow some more.

2. Add onion, celery, ½ teaspoon salt, and ¼ teaspoon pepper to fat left in skillet and cook over medium heat until vegetables are softened and lightly browned, 8 to 10 minutes. Stir in flour, tomato paste, garlic, and thyme and cook until fragrant, about 1 minute. Slowly stir in wine and broth, scraping up any browned bits and smoothing out any lumps; transfer to slow cooker.

RICE CAKES These are now a staple for the whole pro peloton. They are super-easy to make and can provide a tasty snack for kids as well. I have used these in other endurance sports, including Olympic sailing. Servings 20 Calories per serving: 157 kcal Carbohydrate per serving: 23 g Fat per serving: 6 g Protein per serving: 3 g INGREDIENTS 500 g white short-grain rice 1 l water 2 tbsp coconut oil 2 tbsp sugar (white or brown) 1 tsp vanilla extract 300 g cream cheese (or 200 g creamed coconut) METHOD 1. In a rice cooker, cook the rice with the water, sugar, vanilla and coconut oil. If you are not using a rice cooker, follow the instructions on the rice packet. 2. When cooked, mix in the cream cheese. For a non-dairy alternative, substitute 200 g of creamed coconut.

I needed to escape his intensity and the emotion swelling in the air around me. The room already felt like a pressure cooker—if the dial turned any higher, there were bound to be casualties.

Trailer parks are full of renegades, runaways, professional clowns, rock band guitarists, down on their luckers, wildlife lovers, 4:00 p.m. cocktailers, book readers, retired couples, single mothers, unicyclers, inventors, patteners, gardeners, dreamers, lost souls, hippies, motorheads, meth cookers, million milers, and iron your own suit at 6:00 a.m.’ers.

In a haze, I ordered a rice cooker from the Wolfgang Puck Bistro Collection, a cubic zirconia tennis bracelet, two push-up bras with silicone inserts, and seven hand-painted porcelain figurines of sleeping babies.

In a haze, I ordered a rice cooker from the Wolfgang Puck Bistro Collection, a cubic zirconia tennis bracelet, two push-up bras with silicone inserts, and seven hand-painted porcelain figurines of sleeping babies.

Around a million protester hermits are living in Japan right now. They’re called hikikomori—“ pulling inward”—and the majority are males, aged late teens and up, who have rejected Japan’s competitive, conformist, pressure-cooker culture. They have retreated into their childhood bedrooms and almost never emerge, in many cases for more than a decade. They pass the day reading or surfing the web. Their parents deliver meals to their doors, and psychologists offer them counseling online. The media has called them “the lost generation” and “the missing million.