Gras Quotes

Do what you do. This Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, New Year's Eve, Twelfth Night, Valentine's Day, Mardi Gras, St. Paddy's Day, and every day henceforth. Just do what you do. Live out your life and your traditions on your own terms. If it offends others, so be it. That's their problem.

So,” I demanded, trying to sound confident, “where can we find this trod to New Orleans?” “The frost giant ruins,” Ash replied, looking thoughtful. “Very close to Mab’s court.” At Puck’s glare, he shrugged and offered a tiny, rueful smirk. “She goes to Mardi Gras every year.” I pictured the Queen of the Unseelie Court flashing a couple of drunken partygoers, and giggled uncontrollably. All three shot me a strange look. “Sorry,” I gasped, biting my lip. "Still kind of giddy, I guess.

Ozzy Osbourne and Motley Crue in New Orleans on Mardi Gras = bad idea!

Cannibals? Who is not a cannibal? I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Fejee that salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it will be more tolerable for that provident Fejee, I say, in the day of judgement, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who nailest geese to the ground and feastest on their bloated livers in thy pate de fois gras.

This wasn't strong-willed, fly-by-the-seat-of-her-miniskirt Kate that I'd befriended last year. You think you know a girl- and then she goes and loses her virginity at a Mardi Gras party and goes soft.

Mardi Gras, baby. Mardi Gras. Time when all manner of weird shit cuts loose and parties down.

The sky is purple, the flare of a match behind a cupped hand is gold; the liquor is green, bright green, made from a thousand herbs, made from altars. Those who know enough to drink Chartreuse at Mardi Gras are lucky, because the distilled essence of the town burns in their bellies. Chartreuse glows in the dark, and if you drink enough of it, your eyes will turn bright green.

Yeah, I know, but word came from Artemis herself that she wanted him here. Looks like we’re having a psycho reunion this week…Oh wait, it’s Mardi Gras. Duh. (Talon)

On Mardi Gras, she got his soul back and freed him. (Wulf) Oh man, that sucks. Now he’s going to have to join Kyrian on the geriatric patrol. (Chris)

How was I to know your pet was a god-killer? What kind of idiot ties herself down to one of his kind? (Dionysus) Well, gee, what was I supposed to do? Hook up with Mr. All-powerful God-killer or get myself a Mardi Gras float and hang out with him? (She pointed to Camulus, who looked extremely offended by her comment.) You’re such a moron. No wonder you’re the patron god of drunken frat boys. (Artemis)

This night felt like a last hurrah, like we could blaze our brightest, at the apex of our insane adolescence. This was our Mardi Gras before the dark days of Lent.

Ga nu maar liggen liefste in de tuin, de lege plekken in het hoge gras, ik heb altijd gewild dat ik dat was, een lege plek voor iemand, om te blijven.

The peculiar predicament of the present-day self surely came to pass as a consequence of the disappointment of the high expectations of the self as it entered the age of science and technology. Dazzled by the overwhelming credentials of science, the beauty and elegance of the scientific method, the triumph of modern medicine over physical ailments, and the technological transformation of the very world itself, the self finds itself in the end disappointed by the failure of science and technique in those very sectors of life which had been its main source of ordinary satisfaction in past ages. As John Cheever said, the main emotion of the adult Northeastern American who has had all the advantages of wealth, education, and culture is disappointment. Work is disappointing. In spite of all the talk about making work more creative and self-fulfilling, most people hate their jobs, and with good reason. Most work in modern technological societies is intolerably dull and repetitive. Marriage and family life are disappointing. Even among defenders of traditional family values, e.g., Christians and Jews, a certain dreariness must be inferred, if only from the average time of TV viewing. Dreary as TV is, it is evidently not as dreary as Mom talking to Dad or the kids talking to either. School is disappointing. If science is exciting and art is exhilarating, the schools and universities have achieved the not inconsiderable feat of rendering both dull. As every scientist and poet knows, one discovers both vocations in spite of, not because of, school. It takes years to recover from the stupor of being taught Shakespeare in English Lit and Wheatstone's bridge in Physics. Politics is disappointing. Most young people turn their backs on politics, not because of the lack of excitement of politics as it is practiced, but because of the shallowness, venality, and image-making as these are perceived through the media--one of the technology's greatest achievements. The churches are disappointing, even for most believers. If Christ brings us new life, it is all the more remarkable that the church, the bearer of this good news, should be among the most dispirited institutions of the age. The alternatives to the institutional churches are even more grossly disappointing, from TV evangelists with their blown-dry hairdos to California cults led by prosperous gurus ignored in India but embraced in La Jolla. Social life is disappointing. The very franticness of attempts to reestablish community and festival, by partying, by groups, by club, by touristy Mardi Gras, is the best evidence of the loss of true community and festival and of the loneliness of self, stranded as it is as an unspeakable consciousness in a world from which it perceives itself as somehow estranged, stranded even within its own body, with which it sees no clear connection. But there remains the one unquestioned benefit of science: the longer and healthier life made possible by modern medicine, the shorter work-hours made possible by technology, hence what is perceived as the one certain reward of dreary life of home and the marketplace: recreation. Recreation and good physical health appear to be the only ambivalent benefits of the technological revolution.

To encapsulate the notion of Mardi Gras as nothing more than a big drunk is to take the simple and stupid way out, and I, for one, am getting tired of staying stuck on simple and stupid. Mardi Gras is not a parade. Mardi Gras is not girls flashing on French Quarter balconies. Mardi Gras is not an alcoholic binge. Mardi Gras is bars and restaurants changing out all the CD's in their jukeboxes to Professor Longhair and the Neville Brothers, and it is annual front-porch crawfish boils hours before the parades so your stomach and attitude reach a state of grace, and it is returning to the same street corner, year after year, and standing next to the same people, year after year--people whose names you may or may not even know but you've watched their kids grow up in this public tableau and when they're not there, you wonder: Where are those guys this year? It is dressing your dog in a stupid costume and cheering when the marching bands go crazy and clapping and saluting the military bands when they crisply snap to. Now that part, more than ever. It's mad piano professors converging on our city from all over the world and banging the 88's until dawn and laughing at the hairy-shouldered men in dresses too tight and stalking the Indians under Claiborne overpass and thrilling the years you find them and lamenting the years you don't and promising yourself you will next year. It's wearing frightful color combination in public and rolling your eyes at the guy in your office who--like clockwork, year after year--denies that he got the baby in the king cake and now someone else has to pony up the ten bucks for the next one. Mardi Gras is the love of life. It is the harmonic convergence of our food, our music, our creativity, our eccentricity, our neighborhoods, and our joy of living. All at once.

Deliverance is to the Bible what jazz music is to Mardi Gras: bold, brassy, and everywhere.

Where are you from, Mr. Pendergast? Can't quite place the accent.” “New Orleans.” “What a coincidence! I went there for Mardi Gras once." “How nice for you. I myself have never attended.” Ludwig paused, the smile frozen on his face, wondering how to steer the conversation onto a more pertinent topic.

But the reasons against going to New Orleans--that spicy southern city known for jazz and Mardi Gras and hospitality--were the very reasons we had to go.

To want to meet an author because you like his books is as ridiculous as wanting to meet the goose because you like paté de foie gras.

in until ten, not even on Mardi Gras nights. No one except the girl in the black silk dress, the thin little girl with the short, soft dark hair that fell in a curtain across her eyes. Christian always wanted to brush it away from her face, to feel it trickle through his fingers like rain. Tonight, as usual, she slipped in at nine-thirty and looked around for the friends who were never there. The wind blew the French Quarter in behind her, the night air rippling warm down Chartres Street as it slipped away toward the river, smelling of spice and fried oysters and whiskey and the dust of ancient bones stolen and violated.

The safest day at the Melody is St. Paddy's," adds another Mardi Gras girl. "All the cops are out vomiting at the parade.

She was evil. Couldn't he, who killed demons with his own hands, realize that? And now I had to run for Mardi Gras Queen because of him. Or her. I didn't know whose fault it was but there was no way I could back down now.

I don't want you to sketch this cripple, this freak of nature, I want you to slaughter him, crucify him, to nail him to your paper with charcoal!

In New Orleans I have noticed that people are happiest when they are going to funerals, making money, taking care of the dead, or putting on masks at Mardi Gras so nobody knows who they are.

She was a full lipped and hipped italian tomato with Rome burning in her eyes. She had the look of a carnival in Rio, or Mardi Gras in New Orleans, or bullfights in Spain, or Saturday night in my apartment.

You’ll get through this. You fear you won’t. We all do. We fear that the depression will never lift, the yelling will never stop, the pain will never leave. Here in the pits, surrounded by steep walls and angry brothers, we wonder, Will this gray sky ever brighten? This load ever lighten? We feel stuck, trapped, locked in. Predestined for failure. Will we ever exit this pit? Yes! Deliverance is to the Bible what jazz music is to Mardi Gras: bold, brassy, and everywhere.

Not being able to swipe into the subway when people are backing up behind you. Waiting for him at the bar. Leaving your purse open on a stool with a mess of bills visible. Mispronouncing the names while presenting French wines. Your clogs slipping on the waxed floors. The way your arms shoot out and you tense your face when you almost fall. Taking your job seriously. Watching the sex scene from Dirty Dancing on repeat and eating a box of gingersnaps for dinner on your day off. Forgetting your stripes, your work pants, your socks. Mentally mapping the bar for corners where you might catch him alone. Getting drunker faster than everyone else. Not knowing what foie gras is. Not knowing what you think about abortion. Not knowing what a feminist is. Not knowing who the mayor is. Throwing up between your feet on the subway stairs. On a Tuesday. Going back for thirds at family meal. Excruciating diarrhea in the employee bathroom. Hurting yourself when you hit your head on the low pipe. Refusing to leave the bar though it's over, completely over. Bleeding in every form. Beer stains on your shirt, grease stains on your jeans, stains in every form. Saying you know where something is when you have absolutely no idea where it is. At some point, I leveled out. Everything stopped being embarrassing.

Go to the meat market of a Saturday night and see the crowds of live bipeds staring up at the long rows of dead quadrupeds. Does not that sight take a tooth out of the cannibal's jaw? Cannibals? who is not a cannibal? I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Fejee that salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it will be more tolerable for that provident Fejee, I say, in the day of judgement, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who naliest geese to the ground and feistiest on their bloated livers in thy paté-de-foie-gras.

Das Gras wächst nicht schneller, wenn man daran zieht.

But still . . . there was a charge in the air. It was Mardi Gras in New Orleans, after all.

Those who have not lived in New Orleans have missed an incredible, glorious, vital city--a place with an energy unlike anywhere else in the world, a majority-African American city where resistance to white supremacy has cultivated and supported a generous, subversive, and unique culture of vivid beauty. From jazz, blues, and and hip-hop to secondlines, Mardi Gras Indians, jazz funerals, and the citywide tradition of red beans and rice on Monday nights, New Orleans is a place of art and music and food and traditions and sexuality and liberation.

...it's the groups that can't accept diversity that hate and fear us the most. They should celebrate diversity, not just accept it.

Smaak heeft de pad die naar de weegbree kruipt wanneer hij door een spin gebeten is. Smaak leidt het varken naar de truffel, de misselijke hond naar het gras, de bizon over duizenden mijlen naar de zoutsteen. Smaak heeft de zwaluw die de blindheid van haar jongen wil genezen en vanzelf de weg vindt naar het sap van de stinkende gouwe.

Darf man einen Wolf zwingen, Gras zu fressen, wenn er keinen Appetit darauf hat?

I glanced at the pain charms draped around my neck, thinking I looked like a drunken prostitute at Mardi Gras.

That was the point of Mardi Gras, was it not? To serve and honor all the people, to bring into hard lives a touch of royalty and grandeur....To put on a spectacle such as this, free of charge, was an honor. New Orleans was sick and wounded, but no other city in the world had a celebration quite like this. It was beautiful precisely because it was so frivolous.

I thought it was kind of funny when Dionysus ran a Dark-Hunter over with a Mardi Gras float a couple of years ago. That amused me for days on end." He laughed like an evil cartoon villian.

Naar de vertraging der vlakten verlang ik, naar het gras der rust, naar wolken van eenzaam varen en de wattenwind der zuiverheid, naar de lommerdorpen van ontspanning en pastorieën der voltooide liefde.

We are particular and temporarily identifiable wiggles in a stream that enters us in the form of light, heat, air, water, milk, bread, fruit, beer, beef Stroganoff, caviar, and pâté de foie gras. It goes out as gas and excrement—and also as semen, babies, talk, politics, commerce, war, poetry, and music. And philosophy. A

Here, just a minute.” He touched a drop of marsh water onto the slide, covered it with another, and focused the eyepiece. He stood. “Have a look.” Kya leaned over gently, as if to kiss a baby. The microscope’s light reflected in her dark pupils, and she drew in a breath as a Mardi Gras of costumed players pirouetted and careened into view. Unimaginable headdresses adorned astonishing bodies so eager for more life, they frolicked as though caught in a circus tent, not a single bead of water. She put her hand on her heart. “I had no idea there were so many and so beautiful,” she said, still looking. He identified some odd species, then stepped back, watching her. She feels the pulse of life, he thought, because there are no layers between her and her planet.

All is indeed a Blessing IF you can just see beyond the veils; for it is ‘all’ an illusion and a test, and one of the greatest Divine Mysteries of this life cycle.” This IS my constant prayer, my mantra, my affirmation, reverberation, reiteration and my ever-living reality.

While Apicius is full of ancient delicacies such as roasted peacock, boiled sow vulva, testicles, and other foods we would not commonly eat today, there are many others that are still popular, including tapenade, absinthe, flatbreads, and meatballs. There is even a recipe for Roman milk and egg bread that is identical to what we call French toast. And, contrary to popular belief, foie gras was not originally a French delicacy. The dish dates back twenty-five hundred years, and Pliny credits Apicius with developing a version using pigs instead of geese by feeding hogs dried figs and giving them an overdose of mulsum (honey wine) before slaughtering them.

Wir lagen auf der Wiese und baumelten mit der Seele. Der Himmel war weiß gefleckt; wenn man von der Sonne recht schön angebraten war, kam eine Wolke, ein leichter Wind lief daher, und es wurde ein wenig kühl. Ein Hund trottete über das Gras, dahinten. ›Was ist das für einer?‹ fragte ich. – ›Das ist ein Bulldackel‹, sagte die Prinzessin. Und dann ließen wir wieder den Wind über uns hingehen und sagten gar nichts. Das ist schön, mit jemand schweigen zu können.

I reject animal welfare reform and single-issue campaigns because they are not only inconsistent with the claims of justice that we should be making if we really believe that animal exploitation is wrong, but because these approaches cannot work as a practical matter. Animals are property and it costs money to protect their interests; therefore, the level of protection accorded to animal interests will always be low and animals will, under the best of circumstances, still be treated in ways that would constitute torture if applied to humans. By endorsing welfare reforms that supposedly make exploitation more “compassionate” or single-issue campaigns that falsely suggest that there is a coherent moral distinction between meat and dairy or between fur and wool or between steak and foie gras, we betray the principle of justice that says that all sentient beings are equal for purposes of not being used exclusively as human resources. And, on a practical level, we do nothing more than make people feel better about animal exploitation.

On peut rire de tout, mais pas à n'importe quel moment.

Don’t go stargazing with anyone else. You want stars, I’ll give you stars.

That didn’t sound like them slinging beads at us. Think if I whip my shirt off, they’ll go blind and leave?” Nick

cause we don't hide, We parade our pride!

I thought you hated wizards,” I said. “I do.” He kissed me again

The millions of vacationers who came here every year before Katrina were mostly unaware of this poverty. French Quarter tourists were rarely exposed to the reality beneath the Disneyland Gomorrah that is projected as 'N'Awlins,' a phrasing I have never heard a local use and a place, as far as I can tell, that I have never encountered despite my years in the city. The seemingly average, white, middle-class Americans whooped it up on Bourbon Street without any thought of the third-world lives of so many of the city's citizens that existed under their noses. The husband and wife, clad in khaki shorts, feather boa, and Mardi Gras beads well out of season, beheld a child tap-dancing on the street for money and clapped along to his beat without considering the obvious fact that this was an early school-day afternoon and that the child should be learning to read, not dancing for money. Somehow they did not see their own child beneath the dancer's black visage. Nor, perhaps, did they see the crumbling buildings where the city's poor live as they traveled by cab from the French Quarter to Commander's Palace. They were on vacation and this was not their problem.

(And did I mention how in summer the streets of Smyrna were lined with baskets of rose petals? And how everyone in the city could speak French, Italian, Greek, Turkish, English, and Dutch? And did I tell you about the famous figs, brought in by camel caravan and dumped onto the ground, huge piles of pulpy fruit lying in the dirt, with dirty women steeping them in salt water and children squatting to defecate behind the clusters? Did I mention how the reek of the fig women mixed with pleasanter smells of almond trees, mimosa, laurel, and peach, and how everybody wore masks on Mardi Gras and had elaborate dinners on the decks of frigates? I want to mention these things because they all happened in that city that was no place exactly, that was part of no country because it was all countries, and because now if you go there you'll see modern high-rises, amnesiac boulevards, teeming sweatshops, a NATO headquarters, and a sign that says Izmir...)

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

Remember this quotation from Jimmy Moore: “One way to remember that eating carbohydrates leads to an increase in blood and liver fat is to compare it to the French delicacy foie gras, a “fatty liver,” created by force-feeding carbohydrate (corn or, in Roman times, figs) to a goose. The same thing happens in humans.

Ci sono uomini sapienti che ogni notte si arrampicano in cima a delle torri per osservare la luna con dei cannocchiali. Io guardo semplicemente sott’acqua.. E’ molto più bello. Così la luna non la guardi soltanto, ci nuoti anche un pochino dentro.

Car l'homme ne vit que durant un clignement de paupières et ensuite c'est la pourriture à jamais, et chaque jour tu fais un pas de plus vers le trou en terre où tu moisiras en grande stupidité et silence en la seule compagnie de vers blancs et gras comme ceux de la farine et du fromage, et ils s'introduiront dans tous tes orifices pour s'y nourrir.

XXIII. Warum sind denn die Rosen so blaß, O sprich, mein Lieb, warum? Warum sind denn im grünen Gras Die blauen Veilchen so stumm? Warum singt denn mit so kläglichem Laut Die Lerche in der Luft? Warum steigt denn aus dem Balsamkraut Hervor ein Leichenduft? Warum scheint denn die Sonn’ auf die Au’ So kalt und verdrießlich herab? Warum ist denn die Erde so grau Und öde wie ein Grab? Warum bin ich selbst so krank und so trüb’, Mein liebes Liebchen, sprich? O sprich, mein herzallerliebstes Lieb, Warum verließest du mich?

La première fois que Lauren a vu le confrère de son patron, elle l'a supposé né des amours indignes entre un crapaud femelle et un poussin trop gras. "En un mot : crapoussin!

Wonder if good ole NOLA knows its precious Mardi Gras puked all over the Vegas Strip.

Cannibals? who is not a cannibal? I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Fejee that salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it will be more tolerable for that provident Fejee, I say, in the day of judgment, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who nailest geese to the ground and feastest on their bloated livers in thy pate-de-foie-gras.

Alex hoped Daniel appreciated exactly how bold and daring he was being in going to the grocery store on Tuesday rather than Saturday. It was like fucking Mardi Gras over here, everything upside down.

Like Mardi Gras and Halloween rolled into a public party at the Playboy mansion, Rio during Carnaval is like no other place on earth. And the freak-flags fly like the color guard of an invading army.

Bij leven had de neushoorn nooit iets anders dan hooi, planten, gras, groenten en fruit gegeten; geen andere dieren en geen mensen. Ook al had ze vanmiddag al een paar maal tegen domme, kleine kinderen gezegd dat hij van kinderen onder de zeven jaar leefde, dat vreedzame dieet nam haar voor de geweldenaar in. Er zo woest en vervaarlijk uitzien en dan alleen maar bloemen en appels eten. (Vingers van Marsepein)

Huge tureens of puréed chestnut soup with truffles were carried in and served to each guest, filling the air with a rich earthy small. Then the servants brought in ballotine of pheasant, served with cold lobster in aspic and deep-sea oysters brought up the river by boat that morning. Our own foie gras on tiny rounds of bread was followed by 'margret de canard,' the breast meat of force-fed ducks, roasted with small home-grown pears and Armagnac. There was a white-bean cassoulet with wild hare, a haunch of venison cooked in cinnamon and wine, eel pie, and a salad of leaves and flowers from the garden, dressed in olive oil and lemon.

I hear you're a writer,' said 2040..."What are you writing about?' Not liking to discuss my writing with strangers, I had been privately auditioning possible conversation stoppers, but I didn't think that I would ever have the nerve to use one. But now, in the most awkward of situations, it seemed appropriate. 'Actually, I'm writing a biography,' I responded casually. 'About a man in Alaska who makes foie gras from penguins.

It is not, perhaps, entirely because the whale is so excessively unctuous that landsmen seem to regard the eating of him with abhorrence; that appears to result, in some way, from the consideration before mentioned: i.e. that a man should eat a newly murdered thing of the sea, and eat it too by its own light. But no doubt the first man that ever murdered an ox was regarded as murderer; perhaps he was hung; and if he had been put on his trial by oxen, he certainly would have been; and he certainly deserved it if any murderer does. Go to the meat-market of a Saturday night and see the crowds of live bipeds staring up at the long rows of dead quadrupeds. Does not that sight take a tooth out of the cannibal’s jaw? Cannibals? who is not a cannibal? I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Fejee that salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it will be more tolerable for that provident Fejee, I say, in the day of judgment, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who nailest geese to the ground and featest on their bloated livers in they pate-de-fois-gras. But Stubb, he eats the whale by its own light, does he? and that is adding insult to injury, is it? Look at your knife-handle, there, my civilized and enlightened gourmand dining off that roast beef, what is that handle made of?—what but the bones of the brother of the very ox you are eating? And what do you pick your teeth with, after devouring that fat goose? With a feather of the same fowl. And with what quill did the Secretary of the Society for the Suppression of Cruelty to Ganders formerly indite his circulars? It is only within the last month or two that that society passed a resolution to patronize nothing but steel pens.

His day is done. Is done. The news came on the wings of a wind, reluctant to carry its burden. Nelson Mandela’s day is done. The news, expected and still unwelcome, reached us in the United States, and suddenly our world became somber. Our skies were leadened. His day is done. We see you, South African people standing speechless at the slamming of that final door through which no traveller returns. Our spirits reach out to you Bantu, Zulu, Xhosa, Boer. We think of you and your son of Africa, your father, your one more wonder of the world. We send our souls to you as you reflect upon your David armed with a mere stone, facing down the mighty Goliath. Your man of strength, Gideon, emerging triumphant. Although born into the brutal embrace of Apartheid, scarred by the savage atmosphere of racism, unjustly imprisoned in the bloody maws of South African dungeons. Would the man survive? Could the man survive? His answer strengthened men and women around the world. In the Alamo, in San Antonio, Texas, on the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, in Chicago’s Loop, in New Orleans Mardi Gras, in New York City’s Times Square, we watched as the hope of Africa sprang through the prison’s doors. His stupendous heart intact, his gargantuan will hale and hearty. He had not been crippled by brutes, nor was his passion for the rights of human beings diminished by twenty-seven years of imprisonment. Even here in America, we felt the cool, refreshing breeze of freedom. When Nelson Mandela took the seat of Presidency in his country where formerly he was not even allowed to vote we were enlarged by tears of pride, as we saw Nelson Mandela’s former prison guards invited, courteously, by him to watch from the front rows his inauguration. We saw him accept the world’s award in Norway with the grace and gratitude of the Solon in Ancient Roman Courts, and the confidence of African Chiefs from ancient royal stools. No sun outlasts its sunset, but it will rise again and bring the dawn. Yes, Mandela’s day is done, yet we, his inheritors, will open the gates wider for reconciliation, and we will respond generously to the cries of Blacks and Whites, Asians, Hispanics, the poor who live piteously on the floor of our planet. He has offered us understanding. We will not withhold forgiveness even from those who do not ask. Nelson Mandela’s day is done, we confess it in tearful voices, yet we lift our own to say thank you. Thank you our Gideon, thank you our David, our great courageous man. We will not forget you, we will not dishonor you, we will remember and be glad that you lived among us, that you taught us, and that you loved us all.

The swelling can be so severe that it impairs blood flow and increases abdominal pressure, hindering the animal’s ability to breathe. Sometimes the liver and other organs will even rupture from the stress. Cruel and inhumane, it provides an excellent, if extreme, illustration of exactly what we’re doing to ourselves as a consequence of chronic sugar consumption: developing fat-filled livers and creating foie gras right inside of our own bodies.

I said I ordered us some foie gras.” “Oh,” said Arthur, vaguely. “Um, I always feel a bit bad about foie gras. Bit cruel to the geese, isn’t it?” “Fuck ’em,” said Ford, slumping on the bed. “You can’t care about every damn thing.

And then there is the most self-indulgent truffle recipe of all, which a friend claims is the closest thing on earth to having heaven in your mouth. You start with a generous slice of foie gras, and place it on a sheet of tinfoil. You then place your truffle on the foie gras and put it in the oven, where the truffle gradually sinks into the melting foie gras. The complex, slightly earthy taste of the truffle and the unctuous coating of foie gras may put you off hamburgers forever. Bon appétit!

I top it off with the sort of makeup that his mother would call “unseemly” or “unbecoming.” My lips are the color of fresh blood, making my mouth more eye-catching than the Babadook’s. My eyeliner is a thick swoop of black that extends way past its cue, and my eyelids glitter all the way up to my eyebrows like a pageant contestant. It’s not enough. I add pounds of blush and bronzer until my face is indistinguishable from a Mardi Gras float. I have bypassed “unseemly” and cannonballed head-first into Deborah’s nightmare.

Pride isn’t just for a parade one day a year. It is not a miniature rainbow flag or rubber bracelet with a corporate logo on it given freely on that day, like beads tossed during Mardi Gras. Pride is foremost our gay self-esteem, but it is also our bond with everyone in the LGBTQ community, everywhere. Pride is our unique way of letting everyone know that we are here, that we belong in this world. If we can say we are gay, we must not do so just to make our own lives better, easier, more transparent, and authentic. We do so to clear a path for those who can’t come out—for all the people who live in places where their freedom is not a given or who don’t feel safe in their own families—to make inroads in the straight world for them. Each time we come out, we send up a flare of hope and direction, showing the way.

Vu d'ici, on se rend bien compte que l'humanité n'a rien d'indispensable au fonctionnement de cette planète. Nous sommes éphémères, la végétation est persistante. On peut brûler l'herbe qui pousse sous nos pieds, elle repoussera toujours derrière nous. Nous sommes les touristes de luxe de l'évolution, les simples passagers d'une époque. Nous avons visité la Terre, nous l'avons magnifiée et dévastée, nous allons repartir. (p. 257)

De Geest van de Lichte Droge Sneeuw nam de Geest van de Korrelige Sneeuw tot gezellin en enige tijd later baarde zij ver in het Noorden een Berg van IJs. De Zonnegeest haatte het glinsterende kind dat groeide en zich steeds verder over het land uitstrekte en de zonnewarmte tegenhield zodat er geen gras kon groeien. De Zon besloot Berg van IJs te vernietigen, maar de Geest van de Stormwolk, de bloedverwant van Korrelige Sneeuw, ontdekte dat de Zon haar kind wilde doden. En in de zomer, toen de Zon op zijn krachtigst was, vocht de Geest van de Stormwolk met hem om het leven van Berg van IJs te redden.

Whether you are attending someone else's or holding your own dinner party, your main objective should be to lead guests away from the usual road of predictable behaviour and tedious conversation, and towards a shared voyage of epicurean delight. In much the same way as caged animals in zoos are kept mentally healthy by being set mealtime tasks by their keepers, dinner guests will find their repast far more satisfying if it is presented as a challenge and an opportunity for self-expression. For example, instead of the dry old formula of a plate flanked by serried ranks of knives, forks and spoons, today's modern host should show a little more ingenuity when selecting eating utensils. The novelty of using a Black & Decker two-speed drill to sheer flakes of the roast beef or a 15-inch spanner to negotiate the foie gras, will firmly place your party in the minds of your guests as a night to remember.

Perhaps the single most enjoyable part of my researches, which covered a period of about four years, was meeting the artists themselves, the people who provide the luxuries. All of them, from tailors and boot makers to truffle hunters and champagne blenders, were happy in their work, generous with their time, and fascinating about their particular skills. To listen to a knowledgeable enthusiast, whether he's talking about a Panama hat or the delicate business of poaching foie gras in Sauternes, is a revelation, and I often came away wondering why the price wasn't higher for the talent and patience involved.

During the Mardi Gras carnival in New Orleans, drunk and drugged and sleepless for sex-driven nights and days, I saw leering clowns on gaudy floats tossing cheap necklaces to grasping hands that clutched and grabbed and tore them, spilling beads; and revelers crawled on littered streets, wrestling for them, bleeding for them on sidewalks; and beads fell on spattered blood like dirty tears—and I saw costumed revelers turn into angels, angels into demons, demons into clowning angels; and in a flashing moment the night split open into a deeper, darker chasm out of which soared demonic clowning angels laughing.

Wie deel uitmaakt van een groep die een doel nastreeft, voelt zich opleven en blijkt plots tot veel meer in staat dan hij of zij voordien mogelijk achtte. Het leven wordt zinvoller en vreugdevoller. Maar net zoals bij genot schuilt ook hier hetzelfde addertje onder het gras. Elke vorm van zingeving kan ontsporen tot een monomane, dogmatische gekte, ten koste van zichzelf en anderen. Gezonde voeding promoten, met het accent op minder vlees en meer groenten, is zonder twijfel een goed idee. Slagers bedreigen is een stap te ver. Als zich inzetten voor een betere wereld betekent dat andersdenkenden geëlimineerd moeten worden, dan botsen we op een andere waanzin.

Der Baum wird nie an gebrochenem Herzen sterben und das Gras nie seinen Verstand verlieren. Von außen droht ihnen jede mögliche Gefahr, von innen her aber sind sie gefeit. Sie fallen sich nicht selbst in den Rücken, wie der Mensch mit seinem Geist und ersparen uns damit das wiederholte Schauspiel unseres eigenen zweideutigen Lebens.

Kya leaned over gently, as if to kiss a baby. The microscope's light reflected in her dark pupils, and she drew in a breath as a Mardi Gras of costumed players pirouetted and careened into view. Unimaginable headdresses adorned astonishing bodies so eager for more life, they frolicked as though caught in a circus tent, not a single bead of water.

I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Feegee that salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it will be more tolerable for that provident Feegee, I say, in the day of judgment, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who nailest geese to the ground and feastest on their bloated livers in thy paté-de-foie-gras.

I mean, once you have another guy's dick swelling and filling your mouth, it's a bit late to have a lengthy debate with yourself on your sexuality.

He’d been waiting all his life to meet a girl who made him want to act like a crazy, romantic ass for her.

So how do you feel about weddings?” “Are you proposing?” he asked.

The King Cake is a large doughnut-shaped coffee cake, sprinkled with purple, green, and gold sugar with a plastic doll hidden inside. At these parties, the cake is sliced, everyone gets a piece and whoever gets the hidden doll in their piece, must give the next party. Parties are expected to happen weekly for the entire Mardi Gras season. This is only about six weeks.

By this time in their lives, Joseph, Elaine, and Ivory were like lil maids, waking up and making their beds first thing, sweeping and dusting, the house would be shining. We were brought up with cleanliness. All of Lolo’s children knew how to clean, including the boy. “Guess who be out there windin’ them clothes through that wringer? Your big uncle,” Uncle Joe told me. When two of Lolo’s friends whom the children called Aunt Ruth and Aunt Agnes arrived at Roman Street for the annual Mardi Gras and Nursing Club balls, Joseph, Elaine, and Ivory pressed their gowns and laid them out on the bed for the women to slip into after they had taken their baths. When they returned from their parties, they found lamplit rooms, their slippers by turned-down beds, their nightclothes already laid out for them.

Lou recovered some foie gras, duck confit, and assorted veggies and herbs. As she grabbed the items, a menu started bubbling to the surface: foie gras ravioli with a cherry-sage cream sauce, crispy goat cheese medallions on mixed greens with a simple vinaigrette, pan-fried duck confit, and duck-fat-roasted new potatoes with more of the cherry-sage cream sauce. For dessert, a chocolate souffle with coconut crisps.

Any meal at the front was an exercise in war-time ingenuity and devotion of the lower classes for their officers. The Petite Marmite a la Thermit was from beef-broth cubes, the tinned Canadian salmon was called Saumon de Tin A & Q Sauce. The Epaule d'Agneau Wellington, N.Z. was army ration lamb, and the terrine of foie gras aux truffes was a can of foie gras that I had bought from the French commanding general. There was a salad of fresh lettuce from somewhere (no one asked in what or whose fertilizer it had been grown in since we would all soon be dead anyway) and the Macedoine de Fruits a la Quatre Bas was a can of mixed fruit. Then fresh strawberries soaked in Cognac. All the usual wines starting with an amontillado, Pommery Extra Sec, Chateau Steenworde Claret, Graham's Five Crowns Port, Bisquit Dubouche Grande Champagne Cognac, Brandy and a Waterloo Cup.

I was so happy it was like a food, like I'd been stuffed with it, a foie gras goose of happiness; happy enough to know, fully, that I was happy, and foolishly, for one second, to dare the thought: "Imagine—imagine if each Saturday morning could be like this," and in the middle of the singing, I blushed, not even looking at her, because even just having it I knew there was something wrong about the thought. Another boundary crossing—an acknowledgment to myself, so fleeting but so dangerous, of how hungry I was.

It [the charcuterie] was almost on the corner of the Rue Pirouette and was a joy to behold. It was bright and inviting, with touches of brilliant colour standing out amidst white marble. The signboard, on which the name QUENU-GRADELLE glittered in fat gilt letter encircled by leaves and branches painted on a soft-hued background, was protected by a sheet of glass. On the two side panels of the shop front, similarly painted and under glass, were chubby little Cupids playing in the midst of boars' heads, pork chops, and strings of sausages; and these still lifes, adorned with scrolls and rosettes, had been designed in so pretty and tender a style that the raw meat lying there assumed the reddish tint of raspberry jam. Within this delightful frame, the window display was arranged. It was set out on a bed of fine shavings of blue paper; a few cleverly positioned fern leaves transformed some of the plates into bouquets of flowers fringed with foliage. There were vast quantities of rich, succulent things, things that melted in the mouth. Down below, quite close to the window, jars of rillettes were interspersed with pots of mustard. Above these were some boned hams, nicely rounded, golden with breadcrumbs, and adorned at the knuckles with green rosettes. Then came the larger dishes--stuffed Strasbourg tongues, with their red, varnished look, the colour of blood next to the pallor of the sausages and pigs' trotters; strings of black pudding coiled like harmless snakes; andouilles piled up in twos and bursting with health; saucissons in little silver copes that made them look like choristers; pies, hot from the oven, with little banner-like tickets stuck in them; big hams, and great cuts of veal and pork, whose jelly was as limpid as crystallized sugar. Towards the back were large tureens in which the meats and minces lay asleep in lakes of solidified fat. Strewn between the various plates and sishes, on the bed of blue shavings, were bottles of relish, sauce, and preserved truffles, pots of foie gras, and tins of sardines and tuna fish. A box of creamy cheeses and one full of snails stuffed with butter and parsley had been dropped in each corner. Finally, at the very top of the display, falling from a bar with sharp prongs, strings of sausages and saveloys hung down symmetrically like the cords and tassels of some opulent tapestry, while behind, threads of caul were stretched out like white lacework. There, on the highest tier of this temple of gluttony, amid the caul and between two bunches of purple gladioli, the alter display was crowned by a small, square fish tank with a little ornamental rockery, in which two goldfish swam in endless circles.

Go to the meat-market of a Saturday night and see the crowds of live bipeds staring up at the long rows of dead quadrupeds. Does not that sight take a tooth out of the cannibal's jaw? Cannibals? who is not a cannibal? I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Fejee that salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it will be more tolerable for that provident Fejee, I say, in the day of judgment, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who nailest geese to the ground and feastest on their bloated livers in thy pate-de-foie-gras.

He rolled and thrashed in his bed, waiting for the dancing blue shadows to come in his window, waiting for the heavy knock on his door, waiting for some bodiless, Kafkaesque voice to call: Okay, open up in there! And when he finally fell asleep he did it without knowing it, because thought continued without a break, shifting from conscious rumination to the skewed world of dreams with hardly a break, like a car going from drive to low. Even in his dreams he thought he was awake, and in his dreams he committed suicide over and over: burned himself; bludgeoned himself by standing under an anvil and pulling a rope; hanged himself; blew out the stove’s pilot lights and then turned on the oven and all four burners; shot himself; defenestrated himself; stepped in front of a moving Greyhound bus; swallowed pills; swallowed Vanish toilet bowl disinfectant; stuck a can of Glade Pine Fresh aerosol in his mouth, pushed the button, and inhaled until his head floated off into the sky like a child’s balloon; committed hara-kiri while kneeling in a confessional at St. Dom’s, confessing his self-murder to a dumbfounded young priest even as his guts accordioned out onto the bench like beef stew, performing an act of contrition in a fading, bemused voice as he lay in his blood and the steaming sausages of his intestines. But most vividly, over and over, he saw himself behind the wheel of the LTD, racing the engine a little in the closed garage, taking deep breaths and leafing through a copy of National Geographic, examining pictures of life in Tahiti and Aukland and the Mardi Gras in New Orleans, turning the pages ever more slowly, until the sound of the engine faded to a faraway sweet hum and the green waters of the South Pacific inundated him in rocking warmth and took him down to a silver fathom.

Do not allow your children to celebrate the days on which unbelief and superstition are being catered to. They are admittedly inclined to want this because they see that the children of Roman Catholic parents observe those days. Do not let them attend carnivals, observe Shrove Tuesday (Mardi Gras), see Santa Claus, or observe Twelfth Night, because they are all remnants of an idolatrous papacy. You must not keep your children out of school or from work on those days nor let them play outside or join in the amusement. The Lord has said, “After the doings of the land of Egypt, where you lived, shall ye not do: and after the doings of the land of Canaan, where I bring you, you shall not do: neither shall you walk in their ordinances” (Lev. 18:3). The Lord will punish the Reformed on account of the days of Baal (Hosea 2:12-13), and he also observes what the children do on the occasion of such idolatry (Jer. 17:18). Therefore, do not let your children receive presents on Santa Claus day, nor let them draw tickets in a raffle and such things. Pick other days on which to give them the things that amuse them, and because the days of Christmas, Easter, and Pentecost have the same character, Reformed people must keep their children away from these so-called holy days and feast days.

Lou hoisted up her gown and winced as she tottered across the parking lot. The sparkly four-inch heels had looked so pretty in the box, but they felt like a mortar and pestle grinding each bone in her foot. She missed her green Crocs. Lou plucked at the tight elastic, squeezing her under the sleek black dress her fiancé, Devlin, had given her. He walked five steps ahead of her, so she scurried to catch up. "Overstuffed truffle and foie gras sausage," Lou said. Devlin's face crinkled in confusion. "What?" "It's a new dish, inspired by how I feel in these clothes. Maybe served over brown butter dumplings..." Lou tilted her head, visualizing the newly formed meal.

Sie drehte sich im Kreis und versuchte, alles in sich aufzunehmen. Die von den Hecken wild überwucherten, sanft nach innen gedrückten verwitterten Latten des Zauns. Die parallel stehenden Bäume, die in ihren breit aufgefächerten Kronen, ihren geneigten Stämmen und in ihren Blätterwolken längst alle Rechteckigkeit zu einer verblassenden Erinnerung gemacht hatten. Das Meer aus Gras, aufgeschossenen Kräutern und Brennnesseln, durch das im leichten Septemberwind hellgrüne Wellen an einem Ende des Gartens zum anderen liefen. "Das ist alles...", wieder suchte sie nach dem richtigen Wort, "das ist alles wie eine wunderbare Strafe für den versuch, Sachen, die wachsen, in eine Form zu pressen. Verstehst du das nicht?

A young person for Monsieur Jagiello,’ said the guard, with a grin. He stood away from the door, and there was the young person, holding a cloth-covered basket, blushing and hanging her pretty head. The others walked away to the window and talked in what they meant to be a detached, natural way; but few could help stealing glances at the maiden, and none could fail to hear Jagiello cry, ‘But my dear, dear Mademoiselle, I asked for black pudding and apples, no more. And here is foie gras, a gratin of lobster, a partridge, three kinds of cheese, two kinds of wine, a strawberry tart . . . ’ ‘I made it myself,’ said the young person. ‘I am sure it is wonderfully good: but it is much more than I can ever afford.’ ‘You must keep up your strength. You can pay for it later – or in some other way – or however you like.’ ‘But how?’ asked Jagiello, in honest amazement. ‘By a note of hand, do you mean?’ ‘Pray step into the passage,’ said she, pinker still. ‘There you are again,’ said Jack, drawing Stephen into another room. ‘Yesterday it was a thundering great patty, with truffles; and tomorrow we shall see a wedding-cake for his pudding, no doubt. What they see in him I cannot conceive. Why Jagiello, and the others ignored? Here is Fenton, for example, a fine upstanding fellow with side-whiskers that are the pride of the service – with a beard as thick as a coconut – has to shave twice a day – as strong as a horse, and a very fair seaman; but there are no patties for him.

einige gitarren, ein klavier, mikrophone von der decke, kleine schaumstoffpyramiden an den wänden. ein studio in new york an der upper east side. es ist ein warmer septemberabend draußen über der stadt. bob dylan verbrachte ihn bis etwa 5 p.m. auf der veranda seines freundes bill clinton, wo die beiden marihuana rauchten und kreatives schlafen praktizierten. bob braucht diese rituale mit freunden, bevor er ins studio geht, seit so vielen jahren, nach so vielen platten. jetzt, pünktlich um 7:34 p.m., sitzt er alleine hier im studio und schaut auf das geöffnete klavier. ähnlich wie helmut schmidt in deutschland darf auch bob dylan an jedem ort hemmungslos rauchen, selbst wenn an der wand ein großes, rot leuchtendes warnschild mit der aufschrift „do never smoke“ angebracht ist. die rauchwolken der siebenten camel filter ziehen wie magisch in den innenraum des flügels, sie stauen sich dort, scheinen sich einzunisten. vor den augen dylans aber wird das klavier zum sarg. er sieht im rauch eine spiegelung seiner eigenen gewohnt gelockten haare, er selbst daran mit dem kopf anmontiert, im besten anzug plus krawatte, eingebettet in verplüschte seitenwände. er wollte doch erste demos für die neue platte aufnehmen, nicht sich selbst im sarg visualisieren. verstimmt dämpft er die zigarette auf seinem linken unterarm aus und legt den stummel zärtlich zu den anderen auf den boden. er ist müde… das gras wirkt wohl immer noch. wie in trance steht er nun auf, verfügt sich zum flügel und platziert sich vor den tasten. im bleiernen halbschlaf geht es jetzt los. (0201)

Many are familiar with the so-called French paradox, which has been trumpeted with great fanfare by the wine industry. Despite the expected cardiac disaster that is traditional French cuisine, centered on butter, milk, and foie gras, the French have surprisingly low rates of heart disease. The claim was that at least part of the secret is the amount of wine, particularly red wine, drunk by the French, which appears to compensate for high levels of saturated fat. While the details of the French paradox have been disputed, research does suggest that moderate intake of any alcohol reduces the risk of coronary heart disease, 1 apparently by boosting the level of “good” HDLs. There is also some evidence for the long-term cognitive benefits of moderate alcohol use, including improved function on tasks such as memory or semantic fluency tests, as well as a decreased risk of depression. 2

E se ao menos essa ilusão da Cidade tornasse feliz a totalidade dos seres que a mantêm... Mas não! Só uma estreita e reluzente casta goza na Cidade os gozos especiais que ela cria. O resto, a escura, imensa plebe, só nela sofre, e com sofrimentos especiais que só nela existem! Deste terraço, junto a esta rica Basílica consagrada ao Coração que amou o Pobre e por ele sangrou, bem avistamos nós o lôbrego casario onde a plebe se curva sob esse antigo opróbrio de que nem Religiões, nem Filosofias, nem Morais, nem a sua própria força brutal a poderão jamais libertar! Aí jaz, espalhada pela Cidade, como esterco vil que fecunda a Cidade. Os séculos rolam; e sempre imutáveis farrapos lhe cobrem o corpo, e sempre debaixo deles, através do longo dia, os homens labutarão e as mulheres chorarão. E com este labor e este pranto dos pobres, meu Príncipe, se edifica a abundância da Cidade! Ei-la agora coberta de muradas em que eles se não abrigam; armazenada de estofos, com que eles se não agasalham; abarrotada de alimentos, com que eles se não saciam! Para eles só a neve, quando a neve cai, e entorpece e sepulta as criancinhas aninhadas pelos bancos das praças ou sob os arcos das pontes de Paris... A neve cai, muda e branca na treva; as criancinhas gelam nos seus trapos; e a polícia, em torno, ronda atenta para que não seja perturbado o tépido sono daqueles que amam a neve, para patinar nos lagos do Bosque de Bolonha com peliças de três mil francos. Mas quê, meu Jacinto! A tua Civilização reclama insaciavelmente regalos e pompas, que só obterá, nesta amarga desarmonia social, se o Capital der ao Trabalho, por cada arquejante esforço, uma migalha ratinhada. Irremediável, é, pois, que incessantemente a plebe sirva, a plebe pene! A sua esfalfada miséria é a condição do “esplendor sereno da Cidade. Se nas suas tigelas fumegasse a justa ração de caldo – não poderia aparecer nas baixelas de prata a luxuosa porção de foie gras e túbaras que são o orgulho da Civilização. Há andrajos em trapeiras – para que as belas Madames d’Oriol, resplandecentes de sedas e rendas, subam, em doce ondulação, a escadaria da Ópera. Há mãos regeladas que se estendem, e beiços sumidos que agradecem o dom magnânimo de um sou – para que os Efrains tenham dez milhões no Banco de França, se aqueçam à chama rica da lenha aromática, e surtam de colares de safiras as suas concubinas, netas dos duques de Atenas. E um povo chora de fome, e da fome dos seus pequeninos – para que os Jacintos, em janeiro, debiquem, bocejando, sobre pratos de Saxe, morangos gelados em champanhe e avivados de um fio de éter! – E eu comi dos teus morangos, Jacinto! Miseráveis, tu e eu! Ele murmurou, desolado: – É horrível, comemos desses morangos...

He was sitting at his desk. He had to get some relief from seeing what he did not want to see. The factory was empty. There was only the night watchman who’d come on duty with his dogs. He was down in the parking lot, patrolling the perimeter of the double-thick chain-link fence, a fence topped off, after the riots, with supplemental scrolls of razor ribbon that were to admonish the boss each and every morning he pulled in and parked his car, “Leave! Leave! Leave!” He was sitting alone in the last factory left in the worst city in the world. And it was worse even than sitting there during the riots, Springfield Avenue in flames, South Orange Avenue in flames, Bergen Street under attack, sirens going off, weapons firing, snipers from rooftops blasting the street lights, looting crowds crazed in the street, kids carrying off radios and lamps and television sets, men toting armfuls of clothing, women pushing baby carriages heavily loaded with cartons of liquor and cases of beer, people pushing pieces of new furniture right down the center of the street, stealing sofas, cribs, kitchen tables, stealing washers and dryers and ovens—stealing not in the shadows but out in the open. Their strength is tremendous, their teamwork is flawless. The shattering of glass windows is thrilling. The not paying for things is intoxicating. The American appetite for ownership is dazzling to behold. This is shoplifting. Everything free that everyone craves, a wonton free-for-all free of charge, everyone uncontrollable with thinking, Here it is! Let it come! In Newark’s burning Mardi Gras streets, a force is released that feels redemptive, something purifying is happening, something spiritual and revolutionary perceptible to all. The surreal vision of household appliances out under the stars and agleam in the glow of the flames incinerating the Central Ward promises the liberation of all mankind. Yes, here it is, let it come, yes, the magnificent opportunity, one of human history’s rare transmogrifying moments: the old ways of suffering are burning blessedly away in the flames, never again to be resurrected, instead to be superseded, within only hours, by suffering that will be so gruesome, so monstrous, so unrelenting and abundant, that its abatement will take the next five hundred years. The fire this time—and next? After the fire? Nothing. Nothing in Newark ever again.

Fukuoka, more than any other city in Japan, is responsible for ramen's rocket-ship trajectory, and the ensuing shift in Japan's cultural identity abroad. Between Hide-Chan, Ichiran, and Ippudo- three of the biggest ramen chains in the world- they've brought the soup to corners of the globe that still thought ramen meant a bag of dried noodles and a dehydrated spice packet. But while Ichiran and Ippudo are purveyors of classic tonkotsu, undoubtedly the defining ramen of the modern era, Hideto has a decidedly different belief about ramen and its mutability. "There are no boundaries for ramen, no rules," he says. "It's all freestyle." As we talk at his original Hide-Chan location in the Kego area of Fukuoka, a new bowl arrives on the table, a prototype for his borderless ramen philosophy. A coffee filter is filled with katsuobushi, smoked skipjack tuna flakes, and balanced over a bowl with a pair of chopsticks. Hideto pours chicken stock through the filter, which soaks up the katsuobushi and emerges into the bowl as clear as a consommé. He adds rice noodles and sawtooth coriander then slides it over to me. Compared with other Hide-Chan creations, though, this one shows remarkable restraint. While I sip the soup, Hideto pulls out his cell phone and plays a video of him layering hot pork cheeks and cold noodles into a hollowed-out porcelain skull, then dumping a cocktail shaker filled with chili oil, shrimp oil, truffle oil, and dashi over the top. Other creations include spicy arrabbiata ramen with pancetta and roasted tomatoes, foie gras ramen with orange jam and blueberry miso, and black ramen made with bamboo ash dipped into a mix of miso and onions caramelized for forty-five days.

I have been all over the world cooking and eating and training under extraordinary chefs. And the two food guys I would most like to go on a road trip with are Anthony Bourdain and Michael Ruhlmann, both of whom I have met, and who are genuinely awesome guys, hysterically funny and easy to be with. But as much as I want to be the Batgirl in that trio, I fear that I would be woefully unprepared. Because an essential part of the food experience that those two enjoy the most is stuff that, quite frankly, would make me ralph. I don't feel overly bad about the offal thing. After all, variety meats seem to be the one area that people can get a pass on. With the possible exception of foie gras, which I wish like heckfire I liked, but I simply cannot get behind it, and nothing is worse than the look on a fellow foodie's face when you pass on the pate. I do love tongue, and off cuts like oxtails and cheeks, but please, no innards. Blue or overly stinky cheeses, cannot do it. Not a fan of raw tomatoes or tomato juice- again I can eat them, but choose not to if I can help it. Ditto, raw onions of every variety (pickled is fine, and I cannot get enough of them cooked), but I bonded with Scott Conant at the James Beard Awards dinner, when we both went on a rant about the evils of raw onion. I know he is often sort of douchey on television, but he was nice to me, very funny, and the man makes the best freaking spaghetti in tomato sauce on the planet. I have issues with bell peppers. Green, red, yellow, white, purple, orange. Roasted or raw. Idk. If I eat them raw I burp them up for days, and cooked they smell to me like old armpit. I have an appreciation for many of the other pepper varieties, and cook with them, but the bell pepper? Not my friend. Spicy isn't so much a preference as a physical necessity. In addition to my chronic and severe gastric reflux, I also have no gallbladder. When my gallbladder and I divorced several years ago, it got custody of anything spicier than my own fairly mild chili, Emily's sesame noodles, and that plastic Velveeta-Ro-Tel dip that I probably shouldn't admit to liking. I'm allowed very occasional visitation rights, but only at my own risk. I like a gentle back-of-the-throat heat to things, but I'm never going to meet you for all-you-can-eat buffalo wings. Mayonnaise squicks me out, except as an ingredient in other things. Avocado's bland oiliness, okra's slickery slime, and don't even get me started on runny eggs. I know. It's mortifying.