Eating Ribs Quotes

She ran her hands over her body as if to bid it good-bye. The hipbones rising from a shrunken stomach were razor-sharp. Would they be lost in a sea of fat? She counted her ribs bone by bone. Where would they go?

Josh watches ER and yawns, not at all suspecting I’m trying to estimate how big his rib cage is like a meat-eating predator.

So Jason, in England, do you eat these ‘Farmer burgers?’” Wong Tong asked. “Farmer burgers? I don’t know what they are?” “Maybe I have the name wrong. I remember the name from the song,” Wong Tong explained. “What song?” Jason asked. “You know the ‘E, I, E, I, O’ song.” ‘E, I, E, I, O’ song? Jason started to roar with laughter. He tried to speak but was laughing, much to the annoyance of Wong Tong. He held his chest, laughing still hurt his ribs. “You mean the ‘Old Macdonald had a farm’ song. You mean Macdonald’s burgers,” he said, laughing. “Yes, I have had them. They’re good.

When the going gets tough, the tough eat ribs.

for God's sake, let's be done with the hypocrisy of claiming "I am a biblical literalist" when everyone is a selective literalist, especially those who swear by the antihomosexual laws in the Book of Leviticus and then feast on barbecued ribs and delight in Monday-night football, for it is toevali, an abomination, not only to eat pork but merely to touch the skin of a dead pig.

I eat a bunch of spinach, but only to clean out my pipes to make room for more ribs, fool! I will submit to fruit and zucchini, yes, with gusto, so that my steak-eating machine will continue to masticate delicious charred flesh at an optimal running speed. By consuming kale, I am buying myself bonus years of life, during which I can eat a shit-ton more delicious meat.

There are two types of people in the world: those who enjoy eating barbecued ribs and those who are turned off by gnawing on pig bones covered in goop.

I eat a bunch of spinach, but only to clean out my pipes to make room for more ribs, fool! I will submit to fruit and zucchini, yes, with gusto, so that my steak-eating machine will continue to masticate delicious charred flesh at an optimal running speed. By consuming kale, I am buying myself bonus years of life, during which I can eat a shit-ton more delicious meat. You don’t put oil in your truck because it tastes good. You do it so your truck can continue burning sweet gasoline and hauling a manly payload.

Pop music is like fast food. It's always available quickly and might even taste good while you're eating it...but eventually you're going to shit it out and see it for what it really is--all the packaging in the world can't cover up the fact that it's excrement.

How funny you are today New York like Ginger Rogers in Swingtime and St. Bridget’s steeple leaning a little to the left here I have just jumped out of a bed full of V-days (I got tired of D-days) and blue you there still accepts me foolish and free all I want is a room up there and you in it and even the traffic halt so thick is a way for people to rub up against each other and when their surgical appliances lock they stay together for the rest of the day (what a day) I go by to check a slide and I say that painting’s not so blue where’s Lana Turner she’s out eating and Garbo’s backstage at the Met everyone’s taking their coat off so they can show a rib-cage to the rib-watchers and the park’s full of dancers with their tights and shoes in little bags who are often mistaken for worker-outers at the West Side Y why not the Pittsburgh Pirates shout because they won and in a sense we’re all winning we’re alive the apartment was vacated by a gay couple who moved to the country for fun they moved a day too soon even the stabbings are helping the population explosion though in the wrong country and all those liars have left the UN the Seagram Building’s no longer rivalled in interest not that we need liquor (we just like it) and the little box is out on the sidewalk next to the delicatessen so the old man can sit on it and drink beer and get knocked off it by his wife later in the day while the sun is still shining oh god it’s wonderful to get out of bed and drink too much coffee and smoke too many cigarettes and love you so much

She lay on her back and walked her fingers down her ribs, skipped them over her abdomen, and landed on her pelvic bones. She tapped them with her Knuckles. [. . .] I can hear my bones, she thought. Her fingers moved up from her pelvic bones to her waist. The elastic of her underpants barely touched the center of her abdomen. The bridge is almost finished, she thought. The elastic hung loosely around each thigh. More progress. She put her knees together and raised them in the air. No matter how tightly she pressed them together, her thighs did not touch.

We feign disinterest and laugh, and creep into the kitchen some nights, a triangle of light spilled on the floor form the fridge, shoveling cold casseroles, ice cream, jelly, cheese, into our mouths, swallowing without chewing as we listen to the steady, echoing tisk-tisk-tisk of the clock. I have done this. Millions of people have done this. There is an empty space in many of us that gnaws at our ribs and cannot be filled by any amount of food. There is a hunger for something, and we never know quite what it is, only that it is a hunger, so we eat.

Think of the beginning of the story of the beginning of everything: Adam (without Eve and without divine guidance) names the animals. Continuing his work, we call stupid people bird-brained, cowardly people chickens, fools turkeys. Are these the best names we have to offer? If we can revise the notion of women coming from a rib, can’t we revise our categorizations of the animals that, draped with barbecue sauce, end up as the ribs on our dinner plates — or for that matter, the KFC in our hands?

In the mirror I stand, an injured deer in headlights, or maybe high beams, judging by the way my eyes water. I measure my wrists with my fingers, and I clutch at my rib cage, fingering it languidly, tracing the rise and fall of sharp bones until my heartbeat slows, and I dream of a faraway ocean.

I learned that Lilith was made from the same dust as Adam, and not from his rib. I learned that Lilith was either banished or left the Garden because she refused to obey and it seemed likely to me that was why Eve was punished the way that she was, as if any form that was not Adam was set up from the beginning to fail.

I would have done anything to stop the hitting. Anything. So much for human dignity, I think, a few whacks in the ribs and you’re calling a fat guy God and eating soil at his request.

There is coming a day, when freedom will just be a essence of the mind, an inner dwelling that was once physically attainable. They will tell you where you can live, and what you can wear and drive, what and how much you can eat and drink, and how to purchase those. They will strip you of your religion, race, gender, national origin, age, color, creed, views and power, and have control of the population. They will set in a new world order, and put you in the back of the line, marked and branded. Everything before will be erased, and the new will be manipulated. And what you believe most, can only be kept secret, for all must fall in line of their govern. Anything outside will be abolished. Even death, will be sought, but restrained. They will execute complete and total control over everything, and be sole owners of your soul. The light, that once guided will go dim, and liberty will be like an unwilled bird, suppressed in the cage of your ribs; wings cut off.

Look out! Oh, you chump and weak fool, you are one of a humanity that can't be numbered and not more than the dust of metals scattered in a magnetic field and clinging to the lines of force, determined by laws, eating, sleeping, employed, conveyed, obedient, and subject. So why hunt for still more ways to lose liberty? Why go toward, and not instead run from, the huge drag that threatens to wear out your ribs, rub away your face, splinter your teeth? No, stay away! Be the wiser person who crawls, rides, runs, walks to his solitary ends used to solitary effort, who procures for himself and heeds the fears that are the kings of this world. Ah, they don't give you much of a break, these kings! Many a dead or dying face lies or drifts under them.

In twenty years you could say and do a lot you wish you hadn't. In twenty years you could store up a lot of regrets. And then, when it was too late, when there was no one left to say "I'm sorry" to, "I didn't mean it" to, you could stop sleeping for regret, stop eating, talking, working, for regret. You could stop wanting to live. You could want to die for regret. It was only remembering the good times that kept you from taking the knife from the kitchen drawer and, holding it so, tightly in your fist, on the bed, naked to no purpose except that that was how you came into the world and how your best moments in the world had been spent--holding it so, roll onto the blade, slowly so that it slid like love between your ribs and into that stupidly pumping muscle in your chest that kept you regretting.

We all know the moon isn't made out of blue cheese...but if it was made out of bbq spare ribs would you eat it?

I want to eat the melancholy I can feel inside my ribs, beside my heart. I want to eat the sad...

In the window I smelled all the food of San Francisco. There were seafood places out there where the buns were hot, and the baskets were good enough to eat too; where the menus themselves were soft with foody esculence as though dipped in hot broths and roasted dry and good enough to eat too. Just show me the bluefish spangle on a seafood menu and I’d eat it; let me smell the drawn butter and lobster claws. There were places where they specialized in thick and red roast beef au jus, or roast chicken basted in wine. There were places where hamburgs sizzled on grills and the coffee was only a nickel. And oh, that pan-fried chow mein flavored air that blew into my room from Chinatown, vying with the spaghetti sauces of North Beach, the soft-shell crab of Fisherman’s Wharf — nay, the ribs of Fillmore turning on spits! Throw in the Market Street chili beans, redhot, and french-fried potatoes of the Embarcadero wino night, and steamed clams from Sausalito across the bay, and that’s my ah-dream of San Francisco…

An artist must regulate his life. Here is a time-table of my daily acts. I rise at 7.18; am inspired from 10.23 to 11.47. I lunch at 12.11 and leave the table at 12.14. A healthy ride on horse-back round my domain follows from 1.19 pm to 2.53 pm. Another bout of inspiration from 3.12 to 4.7 pm. From 5 to 6.47 pm various occupations (fencing, reflection, immobility, visits, contemplation, dexterity, natation, etc.) Dinner is served at 7.16 and finished at 7.20 pm. From 8.9 to 9.59 pm symphonic readings (out loud). I go to bed regularly at 10.37 pm. Once a week (on Tuesdays) I awake with a start at 3.14 am. My only nourishment consists of food that is white: eggs, sugar, shredded bones, the fat of dead animals, veal, salt, coco-nuts, chicken cooked in white water, mouldy fruit, rice, turnips, sausages in camphor, pastry, cheese (white varieties), cotton salad, and certain kinds of fish (without their skin). I boil my wine and drink it cold mixed with the juice of the Fuschia. I have a good appetite but never talk when eating for fear of strangling myself. I breathe carefully (a little at a time) and dance very rarely. When walking I hold my ribs and look steadily behind me. My expression is very serious; when I laugh it is unintentional, and I always apologise very politely. I sleep with only one eye closed, very profoundly. My bed is round with a hole in it for my head to go through. Every hour a servant takes my temperature and gives me another.

Ogvald attempted to eat a rack of ribs whilst being serviced by three of his favorites simultaneously. Sadly, the feat required rather more coordination than anticipated, and unlike his concubines, the good king inhaled when she should have swallowed.

Book, when I close you life itself opens. I hear broken screams in the harbor. The copper slugs cross the sandy areas, descending to Tocopilla. It is night. Between the islands our ocean palpitates with fish. It touches the feet, the thighs, the chalky ribs of my homeland. Night touches the shoreline and rises while singing at daybreak like a guitar awakening. I feel the irresistible force of the ocean's call. I am called by the wind, and called by Rodriguez, José Antonio, I received a telegram from the "Mina" worker's union and the one I love (I won't tell you her name) waits for me in Bucalemu. Book, you haven't been able to enwrap me, you haven't covered me with typography, with celestial impressions, you haven't been able to trap my eyes between covers, I leave you so I can populate groves with the hoarse family of my song, to work burning metals or to eat grilled meat at the fireside in the mountains. I love books that are explorers, books with forest and snow, depth and sky, but I despise the book of spiders that employs thought to weave its venomous wires to trap the young and unsuspecting fly. Book, free me. I don't want to be entombed like a volume, I don't come from a tome, my poems don't eat poems, they devour passionate events, they're nurtured by the open air and fed by the earth and by men. Book, let me wander the road with dust in my low shoes and without mythology: go back to the library while I go into the streets. I've learned to take life from life, to love after a single kiss, and I didn't teach anything to anyone except what I myself lived, what I shared with other men, what I fought along with them: what I expressed from all of us in my song.

In this office right now I am thinking about how long it would take a corpse to disintegrate right in this office. In this office these are the things I fantasize about while dreaming: Eating ribs at Red, Hot and Blue in Washington, D.C. If I should switch shampoos. What really is the best dry beer? Is Bill Robinson an overrated designer? What’s wrong with IBM? Ultimate luxury. Is the term “playing hardball” an adverb? The fragile peace of Assisi. Electric light. The epitome of luxury. Of ultimate luxury. The bastard’s wearing the same damn Armani linen suit I’ve got on.

She understood that pain was necessary in the world, a sense as critical as sight or hearing. It functioned to keep people safe, a very persuasive stop sign. In a way it was the mother to us all, slapping us back from the hot stove, forcing us to put down the sharp knife, teaching us self-preservation, training care into our bones. Pain was the reason we were alive. It was why as children we didn't toss ourselves down the staircase for the thrill of the ride, didn't stop eating just to bother our parents, didn't nibble off our fingertips to examine our insides. Pain made our existence in this world possible, opened life up to us... Unstoppable pain was different. The sensation in this case was not a mother. It was an abuser. It taught nothing. Instead it wrapped itself around the ribs, settled on the shoulders, a weight to be borne, making it hard to breathe or talk.

You never listen to me anymore. Before, if I was talking to you, you would always listen. But now you have no time to even talk to me. 'Yeah... Has Keaty told you not to eat the Stew?' 'Richard!' I frowned 'What?' 'You are not listening to me!' '… Oh. Well I'm sorry. I've got a lot on my mind.' 'Not me.' 'Huh?' 'I am not on your mind.' 'Uh... of course you are.' 'I am not' she poked me in the ribs. 'I think you do not love me anymore.' I looked at her in astonishment '… Are you serious?' 'Very serious' she said petulantly 'But... I mean... do we have to talk about this right now?' 'Yes. It must be now. Etienne is not here, and maybe soon I will never see you agai...' 'Francoise!' I hissed. 'Keep it down!' 'Maybe I should keep it down but maybe I should not. In the dope field, when I would not be quiet, you pushed me to the ground and held me tightly'. She giggled. 'It was very exciting'.

Everybody knows, but many deny, that eating red meat gives one character. Strength, stamina, stick-to-it-iveness, constitution, not to mention a healthful, glowing pelt. But take a seat for a second. Listen. I eat salad. How’s that for a punch in the nuts, ladies? What’s more, as I sit typing this on a Santa Fe patio, I just now ate a bowl of oatmeal. That’s right. Because I’m a real human animal, not a television character. You see, despite the beautifully Ron Swanson–like notion that one should exist solely on beef, pork, and wild game, the reality remains that our bodies need more varied foodstuffs that facilitate health and digestive functions, but you don’t have to like it. I eat a bunch of spinach, but only to clean out my pipes to make room for more ribs, fool! I will submit to fruit and zucchini, yes, with gusto, so that my steak-eating machine will continue to masticate delicious charred flesh at an optimal running speed. By consuming kale, I am buying myself bonus years of life, during which I can eat a shit-ton more delicious meat. You don’t put oil in your truck because it tastes good. You do it so your truck can continue burning sweet gasoline and hauling a manly payload.

He was too busy attacking the buffet table- tenderloin, crab claws, gravlax, mushrooms, cherrystones on the half shell. He held one out to Adrienne. "Eat this," he said. "No, thanks." "Come on." "I'm not hungry." "Not hungry?" he said. He piled his plate with Chinese spare ribs. "This food is incredible.

That’s how much you should love the woman you’re going to marry. You should love her so much that if she were taken away from you it would feel like your rib cage had been cracked open and some sadistic son of a bitch was cutting away tiny pieces of your heart, slathering them in salt, and eating them right in front of you.

The difference between social media and a social life is the difference between eating a marshmallow Peep and dining on a tomahawk-cut rib eye: one is substantial and nutritious; the other is just a momentarily satisfying puff of sweetened air, offering no long-term benefits. I can enjoy the fluff, but I can’t subsist on it.

I turned the final page. RATHANAEL THE SCORNED, read the lettering. Above it hung a skeleton twined in a ragged shroud, with two pairs of tattered, crowlike wings. Its fleshless skull grinned out at me, the eye sockets bound behind dark wrappings. It held an iron torch clasped in front of its rib cage, the top spiked like a crown, the flames roaring up, enveloping its body and wings in fire. The silver of its form had a dark, tarnished look like an old mirror, but I couldn’t tell if that was intentional or a result of the gilt flaking with age. Some powerful spirits held objects, like riveners did swords. It represented something important about their nature, but I had no idea what a torch might signify and doubted the revenant did either—only how ironic it was that I’d ended up with the revenant associated with fire. I absorbed its deadly visage, trying and failing to match it with the voice in my head. The revenant had devoured the populations of entire cities; it was also the entity who ordered me to eat my pottage. “I’ll have you know that I’m very good-looking by undead standards,” the revenant remarked.

We were all pretty quiet until Jeremiah broke the silence like breaking the top of a crème brulee. He said, “This potato salad tastes like bad breath.” “I think that would be your upper lip,” Conrad said. We all laughed, and it felt like a relief. For it to be okay to laugh. To be something other than sad. Then Conrad said, “This rib has mold on it,” and we all started to laugh again. It felt like I hadn’t laughed in a long time. My mother rolled her eyes. “Would it kill you to eat a little mold? Just scrape it off. Give it to me. I’ll eat it.” Conrad put his hands up in surrender, and then he stabbed the rib with his fork and dropped it on my mother’s plate ceremoniously. “Enjoy it, Laurel.” “I swear, you spoil these boys, Beck,” my mother said, and everything felt normal, like any other last night. “Belly was raised on leftovers, weren’t you, bean?” “I was,” I agreed. “I was a neglected child who was fed only old food that nobody else wanted.” My mother suppressed a smile and pushed the potato salad toward me. “I do spoil them,” Susannah said, touching Conrad’s shoulder, Jeremiah’s cheek. “They’re angels. Why shouldn’t I?” The two boys looked at each other from across the table for a second. Then Conrad said, “I’m an angel. I would say Jere’s more of a cherub.” He reached out and tousled Jeremiah’s hair roughly. Jeremiah swatted his hand away. “He’s no angel. He’s the devil,” he said. It was like the fight had been erased. With boys it was like that; they fought and then it was over. My mother picked up Conrad’s rib, looked down at it, and then put it down again. “I can’t eat this,” she said, sighing.

I’ve come to realize this isn’t “real” and there’s no substitute for actual interaction. The difference between social media and a social life is the difference between eating a marshmallow Peep and dining on a tomahawk-cut rib eye: one is substantial and nutritious; the other is just a momentarily satisfying puff of sweetened air, offering no long-term benefits. I can enjoy the fluff, but I can’t subsist on it.

Waist-to-Height Ratio, or WHtR.120 Instead of a scale, grab a simple measuring tape. Stand up straight and take a deep breath, exhale, and let it all hang out. The circumference of your belly (halfway between the top of your hip bones and the bottom of your rib cage) should be half your height—ideally, less. If that measurement is more than half your height, it’s time to start eating healthier and exercising more regardless of your weight.121

The Skinny Woman Who Is Beautiful and Toned but Also Gluttonous and Disgusting Again, I am more than willing to suspend my disbelief for good set decoration alone. One pristine kitchen from a Nancy Meyers movie like “It’s Complicated” compensates for five scenes of Diane Keaton being caught half naked in a topiary. But I can’t suspend disbelief enough, for instance, if the gorgeous and skinny heroine is also a ravenous pig when it comes to food. And everyone in the movie—her parents, her friends, her boss—are all complicit in this huge lie. They constantly tell her to stop eating. And this actress, this poor skinny actress who obviously lost weight to play the likable lead character, has to say things like “Shut up, you guys! I love cheesecake! If I want to eat an entire cheesecake, I will!” If you look closely, you can see this woman’s ribs through the dress she’s wearing—that’s how skinny she is, this cheesecake-loving cow.

I remembered all those times when the people around me believed that I had spent the last two years of my life faking an eating disorder for the sole purpose of attention. For that reason, every day I would read a thousand articles and watch a hundred videos on real survivors who’d battled anorexia. Then I would question myself. My ribs aren’t popping out of my stomach, so maybe it’s actually just in my mind. Then after a few days of surviving on nothing at all, I would look at myself, see my ribs popping out and ask myself, Am I now?

In the window I smelled all the food of San Francisco. There were seafood places out there where the buns were hot, and the baskets were good enough to eat too; where the menus themselves were soft with foody esculence as though dipped in hot broths and roasted dry and good enough to eat too. Just show me the bluefish spangle on a seafood menu and I’d eat it; let me smell the drawn butter and lobster claws. There were places where they specialized in thick red roast beef au jus, or roast chicken basted in wine. There were places where hamburgs sizzled on grills and the coffee was only a nickel. And oh, that pan-fried chow mein flavored air that blew into my room from Chinatown, vying with the spaghetti sauces of North Beach, the soft-shell crab of Fisherman’s Wharf—nay, the ribs of Fillmore turning on spits! Throw in the Market Street chili beans, redhot, and french-fried potatoes of the Embarcadero wino night, and steamed clams from Sausalito across the bay, and that’s my ah-dream of San Francisco. Add fog, hunger-making raw fog, and the throb of neons in the soft night, the clack of high-heeled beauties, white doves in a Chinese grocery window . . .

Don't believe vegetarians who tell you that meat has no flavor, that it comes from the spices or the marinade. The flavor is already there: earth and metal, salt and fat, blood. My favorite meat is chicken. I can eat a whole bird standing up in the kitchen, straight from the oven, burning my bare hands on its flesh. Anyone can roast a chicken, it is a good animal to cook. Lamb, on the other hand, is much harder to get right. You have to lock in the flavor, rubbing it with sea salt like you are exfoliating your own drying skin, tenderly basting it in its own juices, hour after hour. You have to make small slits across the surface of the leg, through which you can insert sprigs of rosemary, or cloves of garlic, or both. These incisions should run against the grain, in the opposite direction to which the muscle fibers lie. You can tell the direction better when the meat is still uncooked, when it is marbled and raw. It is worth running your finger along those fibers, all the way from one end to the other. This doesn't help with anything. It won't change how you cook it. But it is good to come to terms with things as they are. Preparing meat is always an act of physical labor. Whacking rib eye with a rolling pin. Snapping apart an arc of pork crackling. And there is something inescapably candid about it, too. If you've ever spatchcocked a goose- if you've pressed your weight down on its breastbone, felt it flatten and give, its bones rearranging under your hands- you will know what I am talking about. We are all capable of cruelty. Sometimes I imagine the feeling of a sliver of roast beef on my tongue: the pink flesh of my own body cradling the flesh of something else's. It makes sense to me that there is a market for a vegetarian burger that bleeds.

I'm crying because I have nothing...nothing left for you.' This made the witness very sad. He didn't want to be left out, so he began to cry, too. 'Wait', the gray boy said. 'For you, my brightest disciple, I have something special. I give all I have left...' The gray boy slipped his fingers through his ribs and tore out a piece of his heart and offered it to the witness. 'Take and eat, for this is my body' he said. The witness remarked that it tasted like Wonder Bread soaked in the juices of deiced Del Monte vegetables with just a pinch of sugar. He never felt happier in all his life. Now he belonged.

Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe—and I guess that dies with us—enough to cancel all that comes—What came is gone forever every time— That’s good! That leaves it open for no regret—no fear radiators, lacklove, torture even toothache in the end— Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul—and the lamb, the soul, in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change’s fierce hunger—hair and teeth—and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin, braintricked Implacability. Ai! ai! we do worse! We are in a fix! And you’re out, Death let you out, Death had the Mercy, you’re done with your century, done with God, done with the path thru it—Done with yourself at last—Pure —Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all—before the world— There, rest. No more suffering for you. I know where you’ve gone, it’s good.

Little Sleep's-Head Sprouting Hair in the Moonlight 1 You scream, waking from a nightmare. When I sleepwalk into your room, and pick you up, and hold you up in the moonlight, you cling to me hard, as if clinging could save us. I think you think I will never die, I think I exude to you the permanence of smoke or stars, even as my broken arms heal themselves around you. 2 I have heard you tell the sun, don't go down, I have stood by as you told the flower, don't grow old, don't die. Little Maud, I would blow the flame out of your silver cup, I would suck the rot from your fingernail, I would brush your sprouting hair of the dying light, I would scrape the rust off your ivory bones, I would help death escape through the little ribs of your body, I would alchemize the ashes of your cradle back into wood, I would let nothing of you go, ever, until washerwomen feel the clothes fall asleep in their hands, and hens scratch their spell across hatchet blades, and rats walk away from the culture of the plague, and iron twists weapons toward truth north, and grease refuse to slide in the machinery of progress, and men feel as free on earth as fleas on the bodies of men, and the widow still whispers to the presence no longer beside her in the dark. And yet perhaps this is the reason you cry, this the nightmare you wake screaming from: being forever in the pre-trembling of a house that falls. 3 In a restaurant once, everyone quietly eating, you clambered up on my lap: to all the mouthfuls rising toward all the mouths, at the top of your voice you cried your one word, caca! caca! caca! and each spoonful stopped, a moment, in midair, in its withering steam. Yes, you cling because I, like you, only sooner than you, will go down the path of vanished alphabets, the roadlessness to the other side of the darkness, your arms like the shoes left behind, like the adjectives in the halting speech of old folk, which once could call up the lost nouns. 4 And you yourself, some impossible Tuesday in the year Two Thousand and Nine, will walk out among the black stones of the field, in the rain, and the stones saying over their one word, ci-gît, ci-gît, ci-gît, and the raindrops hitting you on the fontanel over and over, and you standing there unable to let them in. 5 If one day it happens you find yourself with someone you love in a café at one end of the Pont Mirabeau, at the zinc bar where wine takes the shapes of upward opening glasses, and if you commit then, as we did, the error of thinking, one day all this will only be memory, learn to reach deeper into the sorrows to come—to touch the almost imaginary bones under the face, to hear under the laughter the wind crying across the black stones. Kiss the mouth that tells you, here, here is the world. This mouth. This laughter. These temple bones. The still undanced cadence of vanishing. 6 In the light the moon sends back, I can see in your eyes the hand that waved once in my father's eyes, a tiny kite wobbling far up in the twilight of his last look: and the angel of all mortal things lets go the string. 7 Back you go, into your crib. The last blackbird lights up his gold wings: farewell. Your eyes close inside your head, in sleep. Already in your dreams the hours begin to sing. Little sleep's-head sprouting hair in the moonlight, when I come back we will go out together, we will walk out together among the ten thousand things, each scratched in time with such knowledge, the wages of dying is love.

I spread my arms to encircle her till my elbows were firmly against the back of her rib cage. I wanted to fuse myself with her. I wanted to bite into her like an apple and then eat her, digest her, absorb her into my bloodstream, my hemoglobin, my ESR. “What are you thinking?” she asked. “I don’t know what to do. It’s a problem. I can’t have you.” “But I am yours,” she said simply. “I know, I know, but, I mean, I want to possess you like an apple,” I said. “An apple?” she burst out laughing. I didn’t know how to explain what I meant. I didn’t appreciate that someone who belonged to me could just laugh at what I had said. It was not permissible. It was against the rules. I rolled over forcefully so that she was on her back and I was on top. Then I bit her cheek as if I were biting an apple. It held none of the satisfaction I had imagined. I needed to bite her and swallow. I bit her round shoulders as if they were apples, then her stomach and her knees, her toes and her back, the round lobes of her bottom. I bit them harder than everything else because they were the roundest and most applelike. But she squealed, so I stopped. I noticed that my biting had caused her to start breathing heavily, so I replaced my teeth with my lips. I gathered different parts of her flesh between my lips and kissed her all over, in the opposite order in which I had bitten. In her breathless moans and her cries of pleasure I owned her more than I owned myself and was immersed in her more than I had ever been immersed in my own self. Me, I had not yet discovered. I was an unknown quantity, a constantly unraveling mystery. But India was absolutely and completely known both carnally and otherwise. I rolled off of her with the sweet exhaustion of a man who has just hunted his dinner animal.

Street food, she saw. Silky pasta, doughy pizza, steaming pho, obnoxiously tall burgers. Benches had been nestled behind the Royal Festival Hall, and they were filled with people eating personal feasts from paper plates: vast thalis; racks of sticky, black ribs; half lobsters with melting garlic butter and bread. Rows of diners craning to read menus wound between food trucks; queues intermingled, new arrivals negotiating for space. Piglet looked around, the National behind her. She had left the office early, she reasoned; she had time before finding a place to work. She edged forward, walking among the tables. The benches were full, some having to stand, juggling their fried chicken with their phones. There were young men who talked too loudly, laughed with their mouths full, and wore round, tortoiseshell glasses; glamorous women in their fifties and sixties, lunching and drinking; and au pairs with charges no older than twelve who ate salt beef bagels, cacio e pepe, and laksa.

Before I was turned, my human body sustained itself, albeit only for days. Something in me must have kept my heart beating and the muscles in my ribs tightening and relaxing, letting air into and out of my lungs. It's completely possible that that human power is still there, only dormant. Perhaps there is actually a lot of human potential in me. Last night, as my body had been warmed by Ben, I'd felt alive in a way I've never felt before. My heart had woken up and was beating faster than the demon could ever pump it; I'd felt a pleasure better and more intense than eating; I'd felt Ben's blood coursing through his veins but felt no desire to drink it, and only gratitude that he was alive and with me. It had been the duck that had repelled Ben---death had, essentially, repelled him: the remnants of my last meal. If I deny myself blood, perhaps the human side of me will get stronger until I can consume and live off human food, and I'll attract humans to me too, and a human life for myself, and human love.

British ecologist Josephine Andrews, now affiliated with the anthropology department at Washington University, reports a case of primate infanticide by a female black lemur in Madagascar. She found that, after an attack by dogs and the subsequent death of the leading female, a fight ensued between two adult females neither of whom was “dominant.” As they fought, one female suddenly picked up the other female’s infant and “ran back up the mango tree with the screaming infant, shaking it violently from side to side in her mouth, smashing the rib cage, and then held the body while eating some of the entrails.” The mother of the dead infant became silent and, although she sat watching the body, she did not ascend the tree to investigate. For the next few days, the female who had lost her infant sat apart from the rest of the group. She did not eat with the others, but waited until they had moved away before feeding. From then on, the killer of the baby lemur and her infant led the troop. The mother of the dead baby trailed some distance behind them.

Wilderness by Carl Sandburg There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go. There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross. There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go. There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis. There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot’s hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so. There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness. O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

THE Oldest Ones of All were gluttons. Probably it was because they seldom had enough to eat. You can read even nowadays a poem written by one of them, which is known as the Vision of Mac Conglinne. In this Vision there is a description of a castle made out of different kinds of food. The English for part of the poem goes like this: A lake of new milk I beheld In the midst of a fair plain. I saw a well-appointed house Thatched with butter. Its two soft door-posts of custard, Its dais of curds and butter, Beds of glorious lard, Many shields of thin pressed cheese. Under the straps of those shields Were men of soft sweet smooth cheese, Men who knew not to wound a Gael, Spears of old butter had each of them. A huge cauldron full of meat (Methought I’d try to tackle it), Boiled, leafy kale, browny-white, A brimming vessel full of milk. A bacon house of two-score ribs, A wattling of tripe—support of clans— Of every food pleasant to man, Meseemed the whole was gathered there. Of chitterlings of pigs were made Its beautiful rafters, Splendid the beams and the pillars Of marvellous pork.

And yeah, put out as I can be with Mama 'bout a lotta things, I gotta admit she gets all the credit for getting me interested in cooking when I was just knee-high to a grasshopper. Gladys never seemed to give a damn about it when we were kids, which I guess is why she and that family of hers nourish themselves today mainly on KFC and Whoppers and junk like that. But me, I couldn't keep my eyes off Mama when she'd fix a mess of short ribs, or cut out perfect rounds of buttermilk biscuit dough with a juice glass, or spread a thick, real shiny caramel icing over her 1-2-3-4 cakes. And I can remember like it was yesterday (must have been about 4 years old at the time) when she first let me help her bake cookies, especially the same jelly treats I still make today and could eat by the dozen if I didn't now have better control. "Honey, start opening those jars on the counter," she said while she creamed butter and sugar with her Sunbeam electric hand mixer in the same wide, chipped bowl she used to make for biscuit dough. Strawberry, peach, and mint- the flavors never varied for Mama's jelly treats, and just the idea of making these cookies with anything but jelly and jam she'd put up herself the year before would have been inconceivable to Mama.

I want more, I said, putting a hand to my stomach, which rides higher than most know. Closer to the heart. I want the jiang bing that vendor will make when she runs out of nut butter. I don't think she's arrogant. I think she's right. I want to sample jian bing from every cart in Beijing, and I want to taste what those kids are eating at home, what they don't teach in cookbooks at Le Cordon Bleu. There's so much out there--- Helplessly, I said, I haven't even told you how much I love foods wrapped in other foods. Then tell me. I tried. I tried. Banh xeo in Hanoi, I said, and duck folded in the translucent bing of northern China. I spoke of tacos in Mexico City: suadero, al pastor, gringas. South Indian dosas as long as my arm, thinner than a rib of a feather. Oh, Aida, I said when I fumbled the names of the chutneys. How can I know all I've ever want? Something will get left out. I was wrong about cilantro. Tlayudas, she said stubbornly, as if she hadn't heard. Blini. Crêpes. They're basically French jian bing, I said with a strangled laugh. Pita sandwiches. Pickle roll-ups. Calzone. Bossam! I yelled, and the dogs barked and the children cheered and the streets of old Milan rang with the imported memory of pork kissed by brine, earthy with Korean bean paste, safe in its bed of red leaf lettuce.

Back in L.A., I’d remained friends with my freshman-year boyfriend, Collin, and we’d become even closer after he confided in me one dark and emotional night that he’d finally come to terms with his homosexuality. Around that time, his mother was visiting from Dallas, and Collin invited me to meet them at Hotel Bel Air for brunch. I wore the quintessential early-1990s brunch outfit: a copper-brown silk tank with white, dime-size polka dots and a below-the-knee, swinging skirt to match. A flawless Pretty Woman--Julia Roberts polo match replica. I loved that outfit. It was silk, though, and clingy, and the second I sat down at the table I knew I was in trouble. My armpits began to feel cool and wet, and slowly I noticed the fabric around my arms getting damper and damper. By the time our mimosas arrived, the ring of sweat had spread to the level of my third rib; by mealtime, it had reached the waistline of my skirt, and the more I tried to will it away, the worse it got. I wound up eating my Eggs Florentine with my elbows stuck to my hip bones so Collin and his mother wouldn’t see. But copper-brown silk, when wet, is the most unforgiving fabric on the planet. Collin had recently come out to his parents, so I’d later determined I’d experienced some kind of sympathetic nervousness on Collin’s behalf. I never wore that outfit again. Never got the stains out. Nor would I ever wear this suit again.

So what will you do?” Joseph, Lord Kesmore, asked his brothers-by-marriage. Westhaven glanced around and noted Their Graces were absent, and the ladies were gathered near the hearth on the opposite side of the large, comfortable family parlor. “Do? I wasn’t aware we were required to do anything besides eat and drink in quantities sufficient to tide us over until summer of next year,” Westhaven said. The Marquess of Deene patted his flat tummy. “Hear, hear. And make toasts. One must make holiday toasts.” St. Just shifted where he lounged against the mantel. “Make babies, you mean. My sister looks like she’s expecting a foal, not a Windham grandchild, Deene.” Gentle ribbing ensued, which Westhaven knew was meant to alleviate the worry in Deene’s eyes. “The first baby is the worst,” Westhaven said. “His Grace confirms this. Thereafter, one has a sense of what to expect, and one’s lady is less anxious over the whole business.” “One’s lady?” Lord Valentine scoffed. “You fool nobody, Westhaven, but Kesmore raises an excellent point. Every time I peek into the studio in search of my baroness, all I see is that Harrison and Jenny are painting or arguing.” “Arguing is good,” Kesmore informed a glass that did not contain tea. “Louisa and I argue a great deal.” Respectful silence ensued before the Earl of Hazelton spoke up. “Maggie and I argue quite a bit as well. I daresay the consequences of one of our rousing donnybrooks will show up in midsummer.” Toasting followed, during which Lord Valentine admitted congratulations were also in order regarding his baroness, and St. Just allowed he suspected his countess was similarly blessed, but waiting until after Christmas to make her announcement. When

I kicked a rib cage off my foot and swaggered around the tree as if I owned the place. “Hey there!” Startled, Nidhogg stopped in mid-mutter. He stared at me, his huge yellow eyes blinking in confusion. Then, nostrils flaring dangerously, he let out a bellow that doubled as an impressive display of razor-sharp fangs. My heart faltered, but I swallowed my fear and pressed on. “Is that supposed to intimidate me?” I made a big show of rolling my eyes. “I’ve heard louder roars from Thor’s butt.” Nidhogg flinched as if I’d whacked him on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. “That wasn’t very nice.” He sounded so hurt I almost felt sorry for him. Instead, I snorted with derision. “Buddy, I insult everyone.” I waved my daggers. “See these? They’re sharp, but not as sharp as my tongue.” Or your fangs, I added to myself as the dragon loomed in closer to inspect my blades. “Wow. Those are pointy.” Nidhogg looked genuinely impressed. “Are your insults really sharper than that?” “Mister, that question is so dumb it makes me think your brain is like Odin’s left eye socket—completely empty.” Nidhogg winced. “Wow. That really, really hurt. But you’re right, of course.” He tapped a daggerlike claw against his skull. “My brain is empty. Of insults, anyway.” That was my opening. I sheathed my daggers and cocked my head to one side as if considering something. “You know, I have some powerful one-liners that never fail to infuriate. I’d be willing to share a few, but what’s in it for me?” Nidhogg scratched his belly. “Well, for starters, I won’t eat you,” he offered. “Hmm. Tell you what. Let me climb up Yggdrasil when we’re done, and you’ve got a deal.” Nidhogg stuck out a claw. I thought he was going to slice me to ribbons, but then I realized he wanted to shake on it. I did so, very carefully. “Okay,” I said.

But every once in a great while, the pull of her heritage would hit her, and Grand-mere would cook something real. I could never figure out what it was that triggered her, but I would come home from school to a glorious aroma. An Apfel-strudel, with paper-thin pastry wrapped around chunks of apples and nuts and raisins. The thick smoked pork chops called Kasseler ribs, braised in apple cider and served with caraway-laced sauerkraut. A rich baked dish with sausages, duck, and white beans. And hoppel poppel. A traditional German recipe handed down from her mother. I haven't even thought of it in years. But when my mom left, it was the only thing I could think to do for Joe, who was confused and heartbroken, and it was my best way to try to get something in him that didn't come in a cardboard container. I never got to learn at her knee the way many granddaughters learn to cook; she never shared the few recipes that were part of my ancestry. But hoppel poppel is fly by the seat of your pants, it doesn't need a recipe; it's a mess, just like me. It's just what the soul needs. I grab an onion, and chop half of it. I cut up the cold cooked potatoes into chunks. I pull one of my giant hot dogs out, and cut it into thick coins. Grand-mere used ham, but Joe loved it with hot dogs, and I do too. Plus I don't have ham. I whisk six eggs in a bowl, and put some butter on to melt. The onions and potatoes go in, and while they are cooking, I grate a pile of Swiss cheese, nicking my knuckle, but catching myself before I bleed into my breakfast. By the time I get a Band-Aid on it, the onions have begun to burn a little, but I don't care. I dump in the hot dogs and hear them sizzle, turning down the heat so that I don't continue to char the onions. When the hot dogs are spitting and getting a little browned, I add the eggs and stir up the whole mess like a scramble. When the eggs are pretty much set, I sprinkle the cheese over the top and take it off the heat, letting the cheese melt while I pop three slices of bread in the toaster. When the toast is done, I butter it, and eat the whole mess on the counter, using the crispy buttered toast to scoop chunk of egg, potato, and hot dog into my mouth, strings of cheese hanging down my chin. Even with the burnt onions, and having overcooked the eggs to rubbery bits, it is exactly what I need.

The four women came to see them at the house later in the afternoon. Alexander and Tatiana were playing soccer. Actually Tatiana had just gotten the ball away from him and, squealing, was trying to hold on to it, while he was behind her, trying to kick it from under her. He had lifted her off the ground and was pressing himself hard into her while she was shrieking. All he was wearing was his skivvies, and all she was wearing was his ribbed top and her underwear. Flummoxed, Tatiana stood in front of Alexander, trying to shield his near-naked body from four pairs of wide eyes. He stood behind her, his arms on her shoulders, and Tatiana heard him say, “Tell them—No, forget it, I will,” and before she could utter a sound, he came forward, walked up to them, twice their size, bare and unrelentingly himself, and said, “Ladies, in the future you might want to wait for us to come and see you.” “Shura,” Tatiana muttered, “go and get dressed.” “Soccer is probably the least of what you’ll see,” Alexander said into the women’s stunned faces before going inside the house. When he came back out, suitably covered, he told Tatiana he was going to the village to get a couple of things they needed, like ice and an ax. “What an odd combination,” she remarked. “Where are you going to get ice from?” “The fish plant. They have to refrigerate their fish, don’t they?” “Ax?” “From that nice man Igor,” Alexander yelled, walking up the clearing, blowing her a kiss. She gazed after him. “Hurry back,” she called. Naira Mikhailovna apologized hastily. Dusia was mouthing a prayer. Raisa shook. Axinya beamed at Tatiana, who invited them all for a bit of kvas. “Come inside. See how nicely Alexander cleaned the house. And look, he repaired the door. Remember, the top hinge was broken?” The four women looked around for a place to sit. “Tanechka,” said Naira nervously, “there is no furniture in here.” Axinya whooped. Dusia crossed herself. “I know, Naira Mikhailovna. We don’t need much.” She looked down on the floor. “We have some things, we have my trunk. Alexander said he will make us a bench. I’ll bring my desk with the sewing machine…we’ll be fine.” “But how—” “Oh, Naira,” said Axinya, “leave the girl alone, will you?” Dusia glared at the rumpled bedsheets on top of the stove. A flustered Tatiana smiled. Alexander was right. It was better to go and visit them. She asked when would be a good time to come for dinner. Naira said, “Come tonight, of course. We’ll celebrate. But you come every night. Look, you won’t be able to eat here at all. There’s nowhere even to sit or cook. You’ll starve. Come every night. That’s not too much to ask, is it?

went off, without waiting for serving men, and unsaddled my horse, and washed such portions of his ribs and his spine as projected through his hide, and when I came back, behold five stately circus tents were up—tents that were brilliant, within, with blue, and gold, and crimson, and all manner of splendid adornment! I was speechless. Then they brought eight little iron bedsteads, and set them up in the tents; they put a soft mattress and pillows and good blankets and two snow-white sheets on each bed. Next, they rigged a table about the centre-pole, and on it placed pewter pitchers, basins, soap, and the whitest of towels—one set for each man; they pointed to pockets in the tent, and said we could put our small trifles in them for convenience, and if we needed pins or such things, they were sticking every where. Then came the finishing touch—they spread carpets on the floor! I simply said, "If you call this camping out, all right—but it isn't the style I am used to; my little baggage that I brought along is at a discount." It grew dark, and they put candles on the tables—candles set in bright, new, brazen candlesticks. And soon the bell—a genuine, simon-pure bell—rang, and we were invited to "the saloon." I had thought before that we had a tent or so too many, but now here was one, at least, provided for; it was to be used for nothing but an eating-saloon. Like the others, it was high enough for a family of giraffes to live in, and was very handsome and clean and bright-colored within. It was a gem of a place. A table for eight, and eight canvas chairs; a table-cloth and napkins whose whiteness and whose fineness laughed to scorn the things we were used to in the great excursion steamer; knives and forks, soup-plates, dinner-plates—every thing, in the handsomest kind of style. It was wonderful! And they call this camping out. Those stately fellows in baggy trowsers and turbaned fezzes brought in a dinner which consisted of roast mutton, roast chicken, roast goose, potatoes, bread, tea, pudding, apples, and delicious grapes; the viands were better cooked than any we had eaten for weeks, and the table made a finer appearance, with its large German silver candlesticks and other finery, than any table we had sat down to for a good while, and yet that polite dragoman, Abraham, came bowing in and apologizing for the whole affair, on account of the unavoidable confusion of getting under way for a very long trip, and promising to do a great deal better in future! It is midnight, now, and we break camp at six in the morning. They call this camping out. At this rate it is a glorious privilege to be a pilgrim to the Holy Land.

The man was naked. He was all bones and ribs and snarling mouth. The front of him was caked in blood, a smear of charcoal black in the dim red glow of Palmer’s dive light. There was just a flash of this grisly image before the man crashed into Palmer, knocking him to the ground, desperate hands clenching around his throat. Palmer saw pops of bright light as his head hit the floor. He couldn’t breathe. He heard his own gurgles mix with the raspy hisses from the man on top of him. A madman. A thin, half-starved, and full-crazed madman. Palmer fought for a breath. His visor was knocked from his head. Letting go of the man’s wrists, he reached for his dive knife, but his leg was pinned, his boot too far away. He pawed behind himself and felt his visor, had some insane plan of getting it to his temples, getting his suit powered on, overloading the air around him, trying to shake the man off. But as his fingers closed on the hard plastic—and as the darkness squeezed in around his vision—he instead swung the visor at the snarling man’s face, a final act before the door to that king’s crypt sealed shut on him. A piercing shriek returned Palmer to his senses. Or it was the hands coming off his neck? The naked man howled and lunged again, but Palmer got a boot up, caught the man in the chest, kicked him. He scrambled backward while the man reeled. The other diver. Brock’s diver. Palmer turned and crawled on his hands and knees to get distance, got around a desk, moving as fast as he could, heart pounding. Two divers. There had been two divers. He waited for the man’s partner to jump onto his back, for the two men to beat him to death for his belly full of jangling coin— —when he bumped into the other diver. And saw by his dive light that he was no threat. And the bib of gore on the man chasing him was given sudden meaning. Palmer crawled away, sickened. He wondered how long the men had been down here, how long one had been eating the other. Hands fell onto his boots and yanked him, dragging him backward. A reedy voice yelled for him to be still. And then he felt a tug as his dive knife was pulled from its sheath, stolen. Palmer spun onto his back to defend himself. His own knife flashed above him traitorously, was brought down by those bone-thin arms, was meant to skewer him. There was a crunch against his belly. A painful blow. The air came out of Palmer. The blade was raised to strike him again, but there was no blood. His poor life had been saved by a fistful of coin. Palmer brought up his knee as the man struck again—and shin met forearm with a crack. A howl, and the knife was dropped. Palmer fumbled for it, his dive light throwing the world into pale reds and deep shadows. Hand on the hilt, his knife reclaimed, he slashed at the air, and the man fell back, hands up, shouting, “Please, please!” Palmer scooted away, keeping the knife in front of him. He was weak from fitful sleep and lack of food, but this poor creature before him seemed even weaker. Enraged and with the element of surprise, the man had nearly killed him, but it had been like fighting off a homeless dune-sleeper who had jumped him for some morsel of bread. Palmer dared to turn his dive light up so he could see the man better. “Sorry. I’m sorry,” the man said. “Thought you were a ghost.” The

resumed walking. The visitors unloaded fresh meat, beer, and mead; and cooking fires were started inside and outside the fort. The banquet hall proved ideal for the jarls, except that the throne-like chair used by Olaf was set aside. The banquet ran its course, first the toasts, then the eating and more drinking intermingled with conversation and more toasts until all were satiated and relaxed, for this was a business banquet. Gunnar, with the most longships, stood to speak of their proposal. “We came here first to congratulate you for getting rid of Olaf. He was a threat to all of us. And to know more about Alfonso, the Christian warrior we have heard so much about. We heard that your God gives you great strength and protection, as you killed seven berserkers single-handed.” Alfonso was about to say, “Only one,” but Harald jabbed him on the ribs with his elbow. “We heard that you bent the steel bars in the freezing water of the creek to get inside the fort.” Alfonso’s eyes shifted for a moment from Gunnar to Harald and saw him with a serious look and nodding at the statement. “We heard that you killed the guards by the gates, opened them, then fought off Olaf’s men until Harald and his warriors arrived. “We heard that you can do all this because your God seeks a vestal virgin that was kidnapped from His temple. Is all this true?” Alfonso was about to stand up, when Harald stood up and looked all around. “Yes, it is all true. We saw him kill the berserker.” The visitors looked around and saw Harald’s men nodding. “And he had to get through the bars underwater. Soon after, he killed the gate guards and opened the gates, defending them until we arrived.” He looked around, “Ask my men.” Words of “Yes, true, I saw it,” were heard. Harald sat down and looked at Alfonso. “Your turn.” They had become quiet as he stood and looked all around. He realized that the jarls were there because of him. They had some purpose in mind. They wanted his help but how? “Yes, I killed the berserker sent by Olaf. I was in the freezing water and got through the bars. I killed everyone guarding the gate, I opened it and

First, a little plate of nibbles. Gingersnaps with a chunk of Port Salut drizzled with white truffle honey and chopped chili, a recipe I absconded from Phil's friends Peter and David when we visited them in New York last year." I can feel the mix of sweet heat and creamy cheese on my tongue. "Then, little espresso cups with kari squash soup. Braised short ribs with a pomegranate bourbon glaze, your famous asparagus salad, smashed fingerling potatoes with mascarpone and lobster chunks and chervil, and vanilla panna cotta with mixed berries macerated in elderflower liqueur and chocolate truffles.

One Sunday a girl from our study group, Jenny, invited us all to her mom's house in Hyde Park for a true Sunday Soul Food Dinner. Jenny's mom, Billie, a tiny woman with skin the color of café au lait, and silvery hair in a perfect chignon, laid out a soul food spread that brought a tear to the eye. Barbecue ribs, macaroni and cheese, collard greens with ham hocks, bread dressing, green beans, biscuits, candied sweet potatoes, creamed corn, and in the center of the table, a huge pile of fried chicken. I had never tasted anything like that fried chicken. The perfect balance of crisp batter to tender juicy meat. Everything that day was delicious, but the fried chicken was transcendent.

She is never going to let me live down that stupid Thanksgiving," Kai says. I can't help but take the bait. "You made prime rib!" "It was delicious," Kai says, shrugging. "IT WAS BEEF! You can't have beef on Thanksgiving, except for appetizers like meatballs or something. You have TURKEY on Thanksgiving." Last Thanksgiving I spent with Phil and Kai, since I was orphaned and separated and Gilly couldn't make it from London. Everything was delicious, but it was like a dinner party and not Thanksgiving. The prime rib wasn't the only anomaly. No mashed potatoes or stuffing or sweet potatoes with marshmallows or green bean casserole. He had acorn squash with cippolini onions and balsamic glaze. Asparagus almondine. Corn custard with oyster mushrooms. Wild rice with currants and pistachios and mint. All amazing and perfectly cooked and balanced, and not remotely what I wanted for Thanksgiving. When I refused to take leftovers, his feelings were hurt, and when he got to the store two days later, he let me know. "Look," Kai says with infinite patience. "For a week we prepped for the Thanksgiving pickups." He ticks off on his fingers the classic menu we developed together for the customers who wanted a traditional meal without the guilt. "Herb-brined turkey breasts with apricot glaze and roasted shallot jus. Stuffing muffins with sage and pumpkin seeds. Cranberry sauce with dried cherries and port. Pumpkin soup, and healthy mashed potatoes, and glazed sweet potatoes with orange and thyme, and green beans with wild mushroom ragu, and roasted brussels sprouts, and pumpkin mousse and apple cake. We cooked Thanksgiving and tasted Thanksgiving and took Thanksgiving leftovers home at the end of the day. I just thought you would be SICK OF TURKEY!

The fact that there were more adults than children at her party didn't seem to faze Dixie. "That child is like a dandelion," Lettie said. "She could grow through concrete." Dixie's birthday party had a combination Mardi Gras/funeral wake feel to it. Mr. Bennett and Digger looped and twirled pink crepe paper streamers all around the white graveside tent until it looked like a candy-cane castle. Leo Stinson scrubbed one of his ponies and gave pony rides. Red McHenry, the florist's son, made a unicorn's horn out of flower foam wrapped with gold foil, and strapped it to the horse's head. "Had no idea that horse was white," Leo said, as they stood back and admired their work. Angela, wearing an old, satin, off-the-shoulder hoop gown she'd found in the attic, greeted each guest with strings of beads, while Dixie, wearing peach-colored fairy wings, passed out velvet jester hats. Charlotte, who never quite grasped the concept of eating while sitting on the ground, had her driver bring a rocking chair from the front porch. Mr. Nalls set the chair beside Eli's statue where Charlotte barked orders like a general. "Don't put the food table under the oak tree!" she commanded, waving her arm. "We'll have acorns in the potato salad!" Lettie kept the glasses full and between KyAnn Merriweather and Dot Wyatt there was enough food to have fed Eli's entire regiment. Potato salad, coleslaw, deviled eggs, bread and butter pickles, green beans, fried corn, spiced pears, apple dumplings, and one of every animal species, pork barbecue, fried chicken, beef ribs, and cold country ham as far as the eye could see.

I have yet to meet a man who can quench my thirst. I'm looking for a man as strong as I am, stronger than meat, than liquor, a man brave as a frightened mother, with a heart hard as a tooth. The hearts of men are too easily stolen, they are not vigilant in guarding the gates of their ribs and my thieving fingers can always reach beneath the sternum and snatch it." "What do you do with their hearts?" "I eat them.

My mother, Woman with Many Robes, asks if you want to eat?” Loretta gave an emphatic shake of her head, pressing closer to his chest. In a toss-up, she chose to stay with Hunter. He leaned forward so he could look into her eyes. “You will not be afraid. My mother will crack heads. Your good friend, eh? You will trust.” Loretta scanned the wall of leather-clad bodies and, for the first time, hugged her captor’s arm more closely around her. The dark depths of his eyes shifted, warming on hers. A ghost of a smile flitted across his harsh mouth, and his fingertips tightened their hold on her ribs. Looking up, he said something in Comanche. The woman nodded and turned to shoo the onlookers out of the way, her spoon tapping a hollow tattoo on slow-moving heads. Hunter chuckled, his chest vibrating against Loretta’s shoulder blades as he steered the mare along the path his mother cleared. The crowd formed walls on each side of them, hanging back only when Hunter drew up before a lodge. When he began to dismount, Loretta clutched his wrist, terrified he might abandon her. “Yo-oh-hobt pa-pi! Yo-oh-hobt pa-pi!” a small girl cried, dancing around the mare’s legs, her button eyes gleaming, her plump brown bottom jiggling so hard that she was about to lose her breechcloth. “Ein mah-heepicut?” Hunter pried Loretta’s frantic fingers from his arm and slid off the horse. Smiling at the child, he leaned over and retied her breechcloth thong. “Huh, yes.” Glancing up at Loretta, he said, “She is a yellow-hair, and she is mine.

Chicken Cacciatore I am a lover of braised meats, whether it’s pot roast or short ribs or beef brisket…or this beautiful stewed chicken dish. Just give me some meat, a pot with a lid, and some combination of liquid ingredients, and I’ll be eating out of your hand…as long as your hand is holding braised meat. That might have been the weirdest introductory sentence of any recipe I’ve ever written. Chicken cacciatore generally involves browning chicken pieces in a pot over high heat, then sautéing a mix of vegetables--onions, peppers, mushrooms, tomatoes--in the same pot. Spices are added, followed by a little wine and broth, and the chicken and veggies are allowed to cook together in the oven long enough for magic to happen… And magic does happen. I use chicken thighs for this recipe because I happen to love chicken thighs. But you can use a cut-up whole chicken or a mix of your favorite pieces. Just be sure to leave the skin on or you’ll regret it the rest of your life. Not that I’m dramatic or anything.

I also started losing single friends. One day I stood alone at a barbecue at my house and saw nothing but couples around me. It seemed like I was the only single dude in the mix. Everyone else was splitting their racks of ribs into halves and sharing. Meanwhile, I had to eat a whole rack by myself like some kind of lonely fatso.

They eat every part of them, including the testicles. I don’t eat the testicles. I don’t want anybody eating on mine, so I won’t eat on anybody’s. I eat the hams, ribs, and shoulders. I enjoy them. Once you start eating testicles, it’s like you’ve gone cannibalistic.

Behold these joyful devourers The land laid out skewered in silver Candlesticks of softest pewter Rolling the logs down cut on end To make roads through the forest That once was—before the logs (Were rolled down cut on end)— We called it stump road and we Called it forest road when Our imaginations starved You can make fans with ribs Of sheep and pouches for baubles By pounding flat the ears Of old women and old men— Older is best for the ear grows For ever it’s said, even when There’s not a scrap anywhere to eat So we carried our wealth In pendulum pouches wrinkled And hairy, diamonds and gems Enough to buy a forest or a road But maybe not both Enough even for slippers of Supplest skin feathered in down Like a baby’s cheek There is a secret we know When nothing else is left And the sky stops its tears A belly can bulge full On diamonds and gems And a forest can make a road Through what once was You just won’t find any shade PENDULUMS WERE ONCE TOYS BADALLE OF KORBANSE SNAKE

Butternut Breakfast Soup Serves: 6 4 cups frozen butternut squash 2 medium apples, peeled, seeded, and chopped 4 cups (packed) kale, tough stems and center ribs removed and leaves chopped, or frozen kale, chopped 1 cup chopped onion 2 tablespoons Pomegranate Balsamic Vinegar* or other fruit-flavored vinegar 5 cups carrot juice, fresh (5 pounds of carrots, juiced) or store-bought refrigerated ½ cup unsweetened soy, almond, or hemp milk ½ cup raw cashews ¼ cup hemp seeds 1 teaspoon cinnamon ½ teaspoon nutmeg Place squash, apples, kale, onion, vinegar, and carrot juice in a soup pot. Bring to a boil, lower heat, cover, and simmer for 30 minutes or until kale is tender. Purée half of the soup with the nondairy milk, cashews, and hemp seeds in a high-powered blender. Return blended mixture to soup pot. Add cinnamon and nutmeg. PER SERVING: CALORIES 314; PROTEIN 9g; CARBOHYDRATE 58g; TOTAL FAT 8.3g; SATURATED FAT 1.3g; SODIUM 167mg; FIBER 9.7g; BETA-CAROTENE 28,816mcg; VITAMIN C 106mg; CALCIUM 267mg; IRON 4.3mg; FOLATE 70mcg; MAGNESIUM 159mg; ZINC 1.9mg; SELENIUM 8.4mcg

Dr. Fuhrman’s Famous Anticancer Soup Serves: 10 1 cup dried split peas ½ cup dried adzuki or cannellini beans 4 cups water 6 to 10 medium zucchini 5 pounds large organic carrots, juiced (6 cups juice; see Note) 2 bunches celery, juiced (2 cups juice; see Note) 2 tablespoons VegiZest* or other no-salt seasoning blend, adjusted to taste 1 teaspoon Mrs. Dash no-salt seasoning 4 medium onions, chopped 3 leek stalks, cut lengthwise and cleaned carefully, then coarsely chopped 2 bunches kale, collard greens, or other greens, tough stems and center ribs removed and leaves chopped 1 cup raw cashews 2½ cups chopped fresh mushrooms (shiitake, cremini, and/or white) Place the peas and beans and water in a very large pot over low heat. Bring to a boil, and reduce heat. Add the zucchini whole to the pot. Add the carrot juice, celery juice, VegiZest, and Mrs. Dash. Put the onions, leeks, and kale in a blender and blend with a little bit of the soup liquid. Pour this mixture into the soup pot. After at least 10 minutes, remove the softened zucchini with tongs and blend them in the blender with the cashews until creamy. Pour this mixture back into the soup pot. Add the mushrooms and continue to simmer until the beans are soft, about 2 hours total cooking time. Note: Freshly juiced organic carrots and celery will maximize the flavor of this soup. PER SERVING: CALORIES 296; PROTEIN 14g; CARBOHYDRATE 49g; TOTAL FAT 7.5g; SATURATED FAT 1.4g; SODIUM 172mg; FIBER 10.2g; BETA-CAROTENE 16,410mcg; VITAMIN C 90mg; CALCIUM 178mg; IRON 4.8mg; FOLATE 203mcg; MAGNESIUM 151mg; ZINC 3mg; SELENIUM 10.1mcg

Fortunately, there may be an even better tool than BMI that we can use to gauge the health risks of body fat. It’s called Waist-to-Height Ratio, or WHtR.120 Instead of a scale, grab a simple measuring tape. Stand up straight and take a deep breath, exhale, and let it all hang out. The circumference of your belly (halfway between the top of your hip bones and the bottom of your rib cage) should be half your height—ideally, less. If that measurement is more than half your height, it’s time to start eating healthier and exercising more regardless of your weight.

Katherine sits at a table of four. She's a defensive diner, with her back to the wall like Al Capone. James asks for her order. Tea. Spicy tofu. Does she want it with, or without pork? She wants the pork. Would she like brown rice? No, she says, brown rice is an affectation of Dagou's, not authentic. White rice is fine. Whatever her complications, James thinks, they're played out in the real world, not in her palate. But Katherine's appetite for Chinese food is hard-won. She's learned to love it, after an initial aversion, followed by disinclination, and finally, exploration. Everyone knows she grew up in Sioux City eating peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, carrot sticks, and "ants on a log" (celery sticks smeared with peanut butter, then dotted with raisins). Guzzling orange juice for breakfast, learning to make omelets, pancakes, waffles, and French toast. On holidays, family dinners of an enormous standing rib roast served with cheesy potatoes, mashed potatoes, and sweet potatoes with marshmallows, Brussels sprouts with pecans, creamed spinach, corn casserole, and homemade cranberry sauce. Baking, with her mother, Margaret Corcoran, Christmas cookies in the shapes of music notes, jingle bells, and double basses. Learning to roll piecrust. Yet her immersion in these skills, taught by her devoted mother, have over time created a hunger for another culture. James can see it in the focused way she examines the shabby restaurant. He can see it in the way she looks at him. It's a clinical look, a look of data collection, but also of loss. Why doesn't she do her research in China, where her biological mother lived and died? Because she works so hard at her demanding job in Chicago. In the meantime, the Fine Chao will have to do.

From a time even before then, from before James was born, there's a list of frequently requested items in English and Chinese: Egg rolls Wontons Pot stickers Crab rangoons (What are these? Winnie, their mother, annotated in Chinese. Their father wrote underneath, Wontons filled with cream cheese.) Beef with broccoli Following a scattershot statistical analysis, Winnie also compiled a list of things Americans liked: Large chunks of meat Wontons and noodles together in the same soup Pea pods and green beans, carrots, broccoli, baby corn (no other vegetables) Ribs or chicken wings Beef with broccoli Chicken with peanuts Peanuts in everything Chop suey (What is this? Leo wrote. I don't know, Winnie wrote.) Anything with shrimp (The rest of them can't eat shrimp, she annotated. Be careful.) Anything from the deep fryer Anything with sweet and sour sauce Anything with a thick, brown sauce And there is, of course, the list of things the Americans didn't like: Meat on the bone (except ribs or chicken wings) Rice porridge Fermented soybeans

Genesis 1:26-29: male and female are both created. Genesis 1:26-29: Eve is formed after Adam, shaped from one of his ribs. Genesis 1:26-29 and Genesis 5:1-2: can be read as the female and male being created at the same time, but only the male being created in the image of God. Genesis 1:26-29: gives permission to Adam and the first woman to eat the fruit of all the trees in the Garden. Genesis 2:15-25: prohibits eating of the Tree of Knowledge.

When I was five years old, my mother took me to a Baptist Sunday school, where I first heard the Garden of Eden story. I was shocked to learn that Eve, the first woman, was created as an afterthought by God out of Adam’s rib and that she was responsible for all of the sorrows of the world. Eve had listened to the serpent and persuaded Adam to join her in eating the forbidden fruit from the tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. I was humiliated by the message that all females share the guilt of Eve’s original sin. At the same time, this knowledge resolved my deep confusion about why my daddy was so mean to my mother and to me―why we were always being brutally punished. Suddenly I realized that my father―who was male, just like God―could kill us and it would never make up for our sin of being female. I began to pray every night to become Eve so I could somehow reverse the curse so that there would be no more pain and suffering in the world. - excerpt from Foremothers of the Women's Spirituality Movement: Elders and Visionaries, edited by Miriam Robbins Dexter and Vicki Noble

Pigs don't fly, but our spare ribs do when you order them.

I’m not leaving you. Not today, not tomorrow, and not the day after. Hell will freeze over. I’ll eat a McRib first.

This one is skewered guts. It's all the guts except the liver." "It's got that unique texture of a gut, with a slightly bitter taste!" "The flavor of the guts tends to seep out when you make soup with it, but this retains all its refreshing original flavor!" "This is a fin skewer. As you can guess from its name, it's the dorsal fin of the eel... ... wrapped around a skewer with ribs and garlic chives." "This is my favorite one!" "They throw these parts away when they make kabayaki." "Ah! I understand why this is your favorite, Yamaoka-san! The eel and the garlic chives create a rich, savory flavor!" "I never thought eel and garlic chives would go so well together!" "The dorsal fin of a left-eyed flounder is called an engawa, and it's considered a delicacy. It's the most active part of the fish's body, so it's fatty and good to eat." "The same goes for the eel." "This one is the collar. It's the meat around the neck, below the eyes... ... which I cut open and skewered after taking the head off. The head bone is very tough, so this is the only part of the eel I throw away." "Hmm, so it's called the "collar" because it's the area around the neck." "It has a complex flavor to it too. It's totally different from the stomach meat, the guts or the dorsal fin!" "It kind of tastes like a mixture of fish and lamb meat! There are so many other skewers, right?!" "Yahata-maki, which is eel meat wrapped around burdock. Tanzaku, where the meat has been cut like strips of paper. Smoked eel. And of course, we can't forget the famous kabayaki.

Ah! the time, the thoughts, the hearts, the souls, the duties, the services--which the inordinate love of this wicked world eats up and destroys! Where one thousand are destroyed by the world's frowns--ten thousand are destroyed by the world's smiles! The world, siren-like, sings to us, then sinks us! It kisses us, and betrays us, like Judas! It kisses us and smites us under the fifth rib, like Joab. The honors, splendor, and all the glory of this world, are but sweet poisons, which will much endanger us, if they do not eternally destroy us. Ah! the multitude of souls that have glutted on these sweet baits and died forever!

It’s soft like prime rib, but richer and leaner. Perfectly seasoned. It’s better than any meat I’ve ever tasted. Sure, in a blind taste test against the top offering from the finest New York City steakhouse this meat probably wouldn’t win. But food enjoyment is context dependent. Research shows that the exact same dish can taste better or worse depending on a variety of factors. Like where a person is eating it, who they’re eating it with, how hungry they are, and, apparently, how hard they worked for it.

All around the edges of the room, these primal cuts—dozens of briskets, loins, and ribs—were layered four or five high, impaled on the ascending hooks of stainless-steel meat trees that hung from the ceiling. “I wouldn’t want to eat that,” Solasz said, appearing out of nowhere as I admired the fruit of this upside-down forest. At this point, he explained, the beef is too fresh—it has not completed its transformation from muscle into meat. “It would be tough right now,” he said. “It needs a little age to be tender.

Yo momma's so skinny she can use a bracelet as a hula hoop. Yo momma's so thin that if she stands in front of a wall she looks like a crack. Yo momma's so skinny she can't sideways when taking a selfie. Yo momma's so skinny she played the part of the staff in the story of Moses. Yo momma's so skinny she hid behind a stick during a game of hide and seek. Yo momma's so skinny, her pants have one belt loop. Yo momma's so skinny when she is taking a shower, she has to run around to get wet. Yo momma's legs so skinny, she looks like a blow pop. Yo momma's so skinny she can hang glide off a dorito. Yo momma's so skinny I put a dime on her head and people mistook her for a Nail. Yo momma's so skinny, she can grate cheese on her ribs. Yo momma's so skinny, when I slapped her I got a paper cut! Yo momma's so skinny, if she had a sesame seed on her head, she'd look like a push pin. Yo momma's so skinny the Olsen Twins called and said they want their eating disorder back. Yo momma's so skinny, if she turned sideways and stuck out her tongue, she would look like a zipper. Yo momma's so skinny, she can see out the peephole with both eyes. Yo momma's so skinny, she could dive through a fence.

My grandfather woke up to a beer and fried bacon and sausage every morning, and he lived to be ninety-five. Outlived every vegetarian, vegan, and whatever the fuck I’ve ever heard of.” “Doesn’t mean he felt good doing it.” He paused. “You know the Hindus think animals have prana, energy, and if an animal is killed, the energy rots. It turns dark. And when we eat the meat, we ingest that dark energy.” “Yeah, well, maybe they just haven’t been over to Pat’s Barbeque and had their ribs.” Dixon

Precisely three days after Christopher and Audrey had left for London, Beatrix went to the Phelans’ house to ask after Albert. As she had expected, the dog had set the household into chaos, having barked and howled incessantly, ripped carpeting and upholstery to shreds, and bitten footman’s hand. “And in addition,” the housekeeper, Mrs. Clocker, told Beatrix, “he won’t eat. One can already see his ribs. And the master will be furious if we let anything happen to him. Oh, this is the most trying dog, the most detestable creature I’ve ever encountered.” A housemaid who was busy polishing the banister couldn’t seem to resist commenting, “He scares me witless. I can’t sleep at night, because he howls fit to wake the dead.” The housekeeper looked aggrieved. “So he does. However, the master said we mustn’t let anyone take Albert. And as much as I long to be rid of the vicious beast, I fear the master’s displeasure even more.” “I can help him,” Beatrix said softly. “I know I can.” “The master or the dog?” Mrs. Clocker asked, as if she couldn’t help herself. Her tone was wry and despairing. “I can start with the dog,” Beatrix said in a low undertone. They exchanged a glance. “I wish you could be given the chance,” Mrs. Clocker murmured. “This household doesn’t seem like a place where anyone could get better. It feels like a place where things wane and are extinguished.” This, more than anything, spurred Beatrix into a decision. “Mrs. Clocker, I would never ask you to disobey Captain Phelan’s instructions. However…if I were to overhear you telling one of the housemaids where Albert is being kept at the moment, that’s hardly your fault, is it? And if Albert manages to escape and run off…and if some unknown person were to take Albert in and care for him but did not tell you about it immediately, you could not be blamed, could you?” Mrs. Clocker beamed at her. “You are devious, Miss Hathaway.” Beatrix smiled. “Yes, I know.” The housekeeper turned to the housemaid. “Nellie,” she said clearly and distinctly. “I want to remind you that we’re keeping Albert in the little blue shed next to the kitchen garden.” “Yes, mum.” The housemaid didn’t even glance at Beatrix. “And I should remind you, mum, that his leash is on the half-moon table in the entrance hall.” “Very good, Nellie. Perhaps you should run and tell the other servants and the gardener not to notice if anyone goes out to visit the blue shed.” “Yes, mum.” As the housemaid hurried away, Mrs. Clocker gave Beatrix a grateful glance. “I’ve heard that you work miracles with animals, Miss Hathaway. And that’s indeed what it will take, to tame that flea-ridden fiend.” “I offer no miracles,” Beatrix said with a smile. “Merely persistence.” “God bless you, miss. He’s a savage creature. If dog is man’s best friend, I worry for Captain Phelan.” “So do I,” Beatrix said sincerely.

And this actress, this poor skinny actress who so clearly lost weight to play the likable lead, has to say things like ‘shut up you guys! I love cheesecake! If I want to eat an entire cheesecake, I will!’ If you look closely, you can see this woman’s ribs through the dress she’s wearing--that’s how skinny she is, this cheesecake-loving cow.

DR. FUHRMAN’S FAMOUS ANTI-CANCER SOUP SERVES 10 ½ cup dried split peas ½ cup dried beans (can use any variety) 4 cups water 4 medium onions chopped 6–8 medium zucchini, cut into 1-inch pieces 3 leek stalks, coarsely chopped 2 bunches kale, collard greens, or other greens, tough stems and center ribs removed and leaves chopped 5 pounds carrots, juiced (5–6 cups juice; see note) 2 bunches celery, juiced (2 cups juice; see note) 2 tablespoons Dr. Fuhrman’s VegiZest or Mrs. Dash 1 cup raw cashews 8 ounces fresh mushrooms (shiitake, cremini, and/or oyster), chopped Place the split peas, beans, and water in a very large pot over low heat. Bring to a boil and simmer for 30 minutes. Add the onions, zucchini, leeks, and kale to the pot. Add the carrot juice, celery juice, and VegiZest. Simmer until the onions, zucchini, and leeks are soft, about 40 minutes. Remove 2 cups of the soup liquid, being careful to leave the beans and at least half of the kale in the pot. Using a high-powered blender or food processor, blend the soup liquid with the cashews. Return the creamy mixture to the pot. Add the mushrooms and simmer for 30 minutes, or until the beans are soft. Note: Freshly juiced organic carrots and celery will maximize the flavor of this soup.

C’mon. Just a plate of food, and I promise, you don’t have to talk to anyone. You can just perch yourself in the corner, eat a plate of ribs, and glower.” She winked. “You know, be your usual self.

She always had a big pot of oatmeal going on the stove and was happy to whip up a short stack of pancakes at the drop of a hat, but she pretty much made the rest of the plates to order. After the first week she had a good handle not only on what each man liked for his morning meal, but what he needed. Mr. Cupertino still loved the occasional inspired omelet and once she had made him Eggs Meurette, poached eggs in a red wine sauce, served with a chunk of crusty French bread, which was a big hit. She balanced him out other mornings with hot cereal, and fresh fruit with yogurt or cottage cheese. Johnny mostly went for bowls of cereal washed down with an ocean of cold milk, so Angelina kept a nice variety on hand, though nothing too sugary. The Don would happily eat a soft-boiled egg with buttered toast every day for the rest of his life, but she inevitably got him to eat a little bowl of oatmeal just before or after with his coffee. Big Phil was on the receiving end of her supersize, stick-to-your-ribs special- sometimes scrambled eggs, toast, potatoes, and bacon, other times maybe a pile of French toast and a slice of ham. Angelina decided to start loading up his plate on her own when she realized he was bashful about asking for seconds. On Sundays, she put on a big spread at ten o'clock, after they had all been to church, which variously included such items as smoked salmon and bagels, sausages, broiled tomatoes with a Parmesan crust, scrapple (the only day she'd serve it), bacon, fresh, hot biscuits and fruit muffins, or a homemade fruit strudel. She made omelets to order for Jerry and Mr. Cupertino. Then they'd all reconvene at five for the Sunday roast with all the trimmings.

Lessons from Continuous Glucose Monitoring In the years that I have used CGM, I have gleaned the following insights—some of which may seem obvious, but the power of confirmation cannot be ignored: Not all carbs are created equal. The more refined the carb (think dinner roll, potato chips), the faster and higher the glucose spike. Less processed carbohydrates and those with more fiber, on the other hand, blunt the glucose impact. I try to eat more than fifty grams of fiber per day. Rice and oatmeal are surprisingly glycemic (meaning they cause a sharp rise in glucose levels), despite not being particularly refined; more surprising is that brown rice is only slightly less glycemic than long-grain white rice. Fructose does not get measured by CGM, but because fructose is almost always consumed in combination with glucose, fructose-heavy foods will still likely cause blood-glucose spikes. Timing, duration, and intensity of exercise matter a lot. In general, aerobic exercise seems most efficacious at removing glucose from circulation, while high-intensity exercise and strength training tend to increase glucose transiently, because the liver is sending more glucose into the circulation to fuel the muscles. Don’t be alarmed by glucose spikes when you are exercising. A good versus bad night of sleep makes a world of difference in terms of glucose control. All things equal, it appears that sleeping just five to six hours (versus eight hours) accounts for about a 10 to 20 mg/dL (that’s a lot!) jump in peak glucose response, and about 5 to 10 mg/dL in overall levels. Stress, presumably, via cortisol and other stress hormones, has a surprising impact on blood glucose, even while one is fasting or restricting carbohydrates. It’s difficult to quantify, but the effect is most visible during sleep or periods long after meals. Nonstarchy veggies such as spinach or broccoli have virtually no impact on blood sugar. Have at them. Foods high in protein and fat (e.g., eggs, beef short ribs) have virtually no effect on blood sugar (assuming the short ribs are not coated in sweet sauce), but large amounts of lean protein (e.g., chicken breast) will elevate glucose slightly. Protein shakes, especially if low in fat, have a more pronounced effect (particularly if they contain sugar, obviously). Stacking the above insights—in both directions, positive or negative—is very powerful. So if you’re stressed out, sleeping poorly, and unable to make time to exercise, be as careful as possible with what you eat. Perhaps the most important insight of them all? Simply tracking my glucose has a positive impact on my eating behavior. I’ve come to appreciate the fact that CGM creates its own Hawthorne effect, a phenomenon where study subjects change their behavior because they are being observed. It makes me think twice when I see the bag of chocolate-covered raisins in the pantry, or anything else that might raise my blood glucose levels.

retching and cracked ribs are a horrible combination. I was highly worried about even bringing her here in my wagon—it could’ve made things worse. But I had no choice. I couldn’t leave her out there at Rickter’s Bend. So, I drove as carefully as I could. And I prayed a lot,” Jack said. He pursed his lips. “Anyway, she seemed to just want to try to get settled down before trying to eat or drink much,” he said. Mrs. Stout

Ribs, ribs, I love ribs. I love to smoke them, sauce them and eat them!

PROTOCOL #1: LONG-TERM AND SUSTAINED Fermented cod liver oil + vitamin-rich butter fat—2 capsules upon waking and before bed Vitamin D3—3,000–5,000 IU upon waking and before bed (6,000–10,000 IU per day), until you reach blood levels of 55 ng/mL. Short ice baths and/or cold showers—10 minutes each, upon waking and right before bed Brazil nuts—3 nuts upon waking, 3 nuts before bed (see important footnote).15 PROTOCOL #2: SHORT-TERM AND FUN “NITRO BOOST” 20–24 Hours Prior to Sex Eat at least 800 milligrams of cholesterol (example: four or more large whole eggs or egg yolks) within three hours of bedtime, the night before you want to have incredible sex. The Wolverine intro to this chapter was partially thanks to two ¾-pound rib-eye steaks the night before, but it’s easier to stomach hard-boiled eggs. Why before bed? Testosterone is derived from cholesterol, which is primarily produced at night during sleep (between midnight and 4:00–6:00 A.M.). Four Hours Prior to Sex 4 Brazil nuts 20 raw almonds 2 capsules of the above-mentioned fermented cod/butter combination

I hiked on until I startled a wolf standing at the edge of a willow thicket. It leapt away, then froze and glanced back. One of its paws was mangled. Its head looked huge in comparison to its emaciated body. Slowly, on three legs, its ribs jutting out of its mangy gray coat, the wolf approached. I yelled, and it hopped back into the brush. The wolf followed me, whining, barking, and letting out ominous howls. A few minutes passed before it emerged from the brush and cut me off. It glanced around nervously then walked toward me. I yelled and waved my arms over my head. It stopped for a moment and then came closer. I had brought my brother Luke's .357 pistol - it was light for bears but, at the time, was the only handgun I had access to. I pulled the pistol from the holster and yelled as angrily as I could. The wolf froze, glancing skittishly back and forth, before hopping into the willows. I continued hiking, and the wolf paralleled me. Twenty minutes later, it cut me off and approached again. At thirty feet, I leveled the pistol and yelled. It glanced back and forth, looking both desperate and terrified, then hobbled closer. At twenty feet, I aimed the pistol. "Leave me alone!" I yelled as loud as I could. I'm not sure why I didn't pull the trigger. Maybe it was because I was confident it could not hurt me, armed as I was. Maybe it was because I don't like killing animals I don't eat. Maybe it was because I tricked myself into thinking there was hope the wolf would somehow survive. Maybe it was because I lacked the compassion to help it die.

Once You’re in Keto, How Can You Keep It Going Without Fasting? The short answer is: Eat a boatload of fat (~1.5 to 2.5 g per kilogram of body weight), next-to-no carbs, and moderate protein (1 to 1.5 g per kilogram of body weight) each day. We’ll look at Dom’s typical meals and day in a minute, but a few critical notes first: High protein and low fat doesn’t work. Your liver will convert excess amino acids into glucose and shut down ketogenesis. Fat as 70 to 85% of calories is required. This doesn’t mean you always have to eat rib eye steaks. A chicken breast by itself will kick you out of ketosis, but a chicken breast cut up into a green leafy salad with a lot of olive oil, feta cheese, and some Bulletproof Coffee (for example) can keep you in ketosis. One of the challenges of keto is the amount of fat one needs to consume to maintain it. Roughly 70 to 80% of your total calories need to come from fat. Rather than trying to incorporate fat bombs into all meals (one does get tired of fatty steak, eggs, and cheese over and over again), Dom will both drink fat between meals (e.g., coconut milk—not water—in coffee) and add in supplemental “ice cream,” detailed on page 29. Dom noticed that dairy can cause lipid profile issues (e.g., can spike LDL) and has started to minimize things like cream and cheese. I experienced the same. It’s easy to eat a disgusting amount of cheese to stay in keto. Consider coconut milk (Aroy-D Pure Coconut Milk) instead. Dom doesn’t worry about elevated LDL as long as other blood markers aren’t out of whack (high CRP, low HDL, etc.). From Dom: “The thing that I focus on most is triglycerides. If your triglycerides are elevated, that means your body is just not adapting to the ketogenic diet. Some people’s triglycerides are elevated even when their calories are restricted. That’s a sign that the ketogenic diet is not for you. . . . It’s not a one-size-fits-all diet.

I thought the horses would run over me, that any moment their feet would crush my back and head. Something struck me, and I fell and landed on my face; dust filled my eyes. I heard the sound of a man landing from his horse and some shuffling. Then I was in the air. I had been lifted by the man, whose hand was gripping my ribs, the other hand my legs. ... He had put me on his saddle and he tied me onto it. I felt a rope against my back, digging into my skin. He was tying me to the horse. ... Two days later I was thrown onto the ground and told that that was where I would be sleeping. I awoke to the smell of something burning. It smelled like flesh on fire... the Arab was putting a burning metal rod to my head. He was branding me. In my ear he branded the number 8, turned on its side. Moses turned to show me. It was a very rough marking, the symbol raised and purple, scarred into the flesh behind his ear. —Now you will always know who owns you, this man said to me. The pain was so intense that I passed out. I woke when I was being lifted. I was thrown on the saddle again and he tied me down again, this time tighter than before. We rode for two more days. ... It was some kind of military camp. Hundreds “of boys like me were there, all under twelve, Dinka and Nuer boys. I was put in a huge barn with all of these boys, and we were locked inside. There was no food. The barn was full of rats; everyone was being bitten by them. ... Every time there was a battle, the boys would be brought out from the barn and made to give blood. ... I was put on a horse again and we rode for many days. We stopped at a house, a very well-built house. It was the house of an important man, Captain Adil Muhammad Hassan. I learned that I was being given as a gift. Hassan was very thankful and the two of them went inside to eat. I was still tied to the horse outside. They were gone inside all evening and I stayed on the horse. ... The man had two wives, and three children, all the children very young. I thought that the kids would be decent to me, but they were crueler than their parents. The kids were taught to beat me and spit on me. “The kids especially liked to whip me. The oldest boy, when he was left alone with me, would whip me without pause. ... I squatted in the yard like a frog, and he brought his children out and told them to jump on me. They sat on my back and pretended that I was a donkey, and they laughed, and Hassan laughed. They called me a stupid donkey. And the kids fed me garbage. They said I had to eat it, so I ate it—anything they gave me. Animal fat, tea bags, rotten vegetables. ... “There was another Sudanese there, a girl named Akol. She worked in the kitchen, mostly, but she was pregnant with Hassan’s baby so his wife hated her. The wife would find Akol crying for her mother and she would scream at her, threatening to slit her throat with a knife. She called her bitch and slave and animal.

chuck roast, strip, chuck eye, sirloin and beef are beset. You’ll also want chick brisk, prime rib, brisket or other roasts. Ground beef is fine as long as you are getting fatty ground beef. You can also eat beef organs. There are many who practice the carnivore diet that believe that organs are necessary if you want to have complete nutrition on this diet.

For lamb, stick with chops, ribs and shank. For pork, the best cuts are shoulder, pork belly, ribs and butt roasts. For poultry, your best options are wings, thighs and drumsticks. As far as seafood is concerned, try shrimp, scallops, lobster, crab, sardines, mackerel, trout and salmon.

Harper knew Wayne Storr must've told the kitchen staff to go all out with this dinner, because she couldn't believe the quality of every course. Seared scallops with charred scallions, slow-cooked lamb shoulder with fennel ricotta, grass-fed rib eye with polenta and salsa verde, finished with a tiramisu that made her eyes roll back in her head. At least, that's what it felt like, and if Manny's rapturous expression was any indication, he liked it too. "That is categorically the best meal I've ever had." He patted his stomach and groaned. "And I'm not going to eat for the next week, so I'm stuffed." "Me too." But she knew a good way to burn off the calories, and she couldn't wait any longer. While the food may have been delicious, watching Manny eat had been torture. His lips wrapping around a scallop, his tongue flicking out to capture a dab of salsa verde on his lip, the small, satisfied groan as he spooned the final scoop of tiramisu into his mouth. He'd driven her slowly but surely crazy. It seemed like the entire meal had been one giant exercise in foreplay, and she'd been patient long enough. Time for dessert. In her case, greed was good.

She runs her hands over her hipbones and her ribs, stark even under her nightgown, and she thinks about how crazy she was not to appreciate it. How stupid she was all her life not to eat the French Fries and vanilla Cokes. As if her slimness and beauty were the most valuable things she could ever own.