Ham And Cheese Quotes

I would love a sandwich,' said Tybalt, with enough gravity to make it sound like a formal proclamation. Resolved: that we will have ham and cheese sandwiches.

You know,” he says, peeking inside the bag. “It’s okay. Because ham and cheese is my absolute favorite…and an apple? It’s like, the lunch of champions.” I stifle another yawn. “It doesn’t get much better than that, right?” “Only if you were eating with me,” he says.

I watched my friend Eleanor give birth," she said. "Once you've seen a child born, you realize a baby's not much more than a reconstituted ham and cheese sandwich. Just a little anagram of you and what you've been eating for nine months.

Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout Would not take the garbage out! She'd scour the pots and scrape the pans, Candy the yams and spice the hams, And though her daddy would scream and shout, She simply would not take the garbage out. And so it piled up to the ceilings: Coffee grounds, potato peelings, Brown bananas, rotten peas, Chunks of sour cottage cheese. It filled the can, it covered the floor, It cracked the window and blocked the door With bacon rinds and chicken bones, Drippy ends of ice cream cones, Prune pits, peach pits, orange peel, Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal, Pizza crusts and withered greens, Soggy beans and tangerines, Crusts of black burned buttered toast, Gristly bits of beefy roasts. . . The garbage rolled on down the hall, It raised the roof, it broke the wall. . . Greasy napkins, cookie crumbs, Globs of gooey bubble gum, Cellophane from green baloney, Rubbery blubbery macaroni, Peanut butter, caked and dry, Curdled milk and crusts of pie, Moldy melons, dried-up mustard, Eggshells mixed with lemon custard, Cold french fried and rancid meat, Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat. At last the garbage reached so high That it finally touched the sky. And all the neighbors moved away, And none of her friends would come to play. And finally Sarah Cynthia Stout said, "OK, I'll take the garbage out!" But then, of course, it was too late. . . The garbage reached across the state, From New York to the Golden Gate. And there, in the garbage she did hate, Poor Sarah met an awful fate, That I cannot now relate Because the hour is much too late. But children, remember Sarah Stout And always take the garbage out!

Faith without works is like Peanut Butter without Jelly, Ham without Cheese, and Kool aid without Sugar. God helps those that help themselves

Luc sighed as he raised his hands. "Look, this is not a trap, a test, or a drill. Archer's here, too. He's waiting for us, actually, and I'm more than willing to explain everything to you, but I'm not doing it standing here. Not when I found a Lunchables just a few minutes before you guys showed up, and I'm ready to make myself a delicious buffet of ham and cheese on crackers. I stared at him. "What? It's the kind that has Oreo cookies included," he replied. "That shit is banging.

Back home I’ll make myself a ham and cheese sandwich (I still have the palate of a nine-year-old)

Figs are delicious with soft cheese and ham, Toast is quite scrumptious with butter and jam, Eggs are improved by parsley and salt, But milkshakes are best with strawberries and malt.

If we had some cheese, we could have a ham-and-cheese sandwich,” replies Father Captain de Soya, “if we had some ham.

the ingredients for lunch: ciabatta bread, couscous salad with apricots, ham, and a goat’s cheese flan,

From the picnic basket, she withdrew a crusty baguette, a wedge of rich, double-cream cheese, two apples, some slices of paper-thin Bayonne ham, and a bottle of Bollinger ’36.

playing ham and cheese in the vampire sandwich.

How imperious the homicidal madness must have become if they’re willing to pardon—no, forget!—the theft of a can of meat! True, we have got into the habit of admiring colossal bandits, whose opulence is revered by the entire world, yet whose existence, once we stop to examine it, proves to be one long crime repeated ad infinitum, but those same bandits are heaped with glory, honors, and power, their crimes are hallowed by the law of the land, whereas, as far back in history as the eye can see—and history, as you know is my business—everything conspires to show that a venial theft, especially of inglorious foodstuffs, such as bread crusts, ham, or cheese, unfailingly subjects its perpetrator to irreparable opprobrium, the categoric condemnation of the community, major punishment, automatic dishonor, and inexpiable shame, and this for two reasons, first because the perpetrator of such an offense is usually poor, which in itself connotes basic unworthiness, and secondly because his act implies, as it were, a tacit reproach to the community. A poor man’s theft is seen as a malicious attempt at individual redress . . . Where would we be? Note accordingly that in all countries the penalties for petty theft are extrememly severe, not only as a means of defending society, but also as a stern admonition to the unfortunate to know their place, stick to their caste, and behave themselves, joyfully resigned to go on dying of hunger and misery down through the centuries forever and ever . . . Until today, however, petty thieves enjoyed one advantage in the Republic, they were denied the honor of bearing patriotic arms. But that’s all over now, tomorrow I, a theif, will resume my place in the army . . . Such are the orders . . . It has been decided in high places to forgive and forget what they call my momentary madness, and this, listen carefully, in consideration of what they call the honor of my family. What solicitude! I ask you, comrade, is it my family that is going to serve as a strainer and sorting house for mixed French and German bullets? . . . It’ll just be me wont it? And when I’m dead is the honor of my family going to bring me back to life?

It is a straight shot from Cancun to Havana, sixty-six minutes by jet plane across the Gulf of Mexico with a Soviet-blonde stewardess serving free rum and synthetic ham and cheese sandwiches.

What I Found in My Desk A ripe peach with an ugly bruise, a pair of stinky tennis shoes, a day-old ham-and-cheese on rye, a swimsuit that I left to dry, a pencil that glows in the dark, some bubble gum found in the park, a paper bag with cookie crumbs, an old kazoo that barely hums, a spelling test I almost failed, a letter that I should have mailed, and one more thing, I must confess, a note from teacher: Clean This Mess!!!!

He looked at George's sad face and offered: "Want to talk about when Magnus and Alec go, and we steal their suite and make our own meals in our own little kitchen?" George sighed. "Could we really, Simon, or is that too beautiful a dream? Every day would be a song. All I want is to make a sandwich, Simon. Just a humble sandwich, with ham, cheese, maybe a little dab of... oh my God." Simon wondered what a dab of "oh my God" would taste like.

Terence's idea of roughing it consisted of pork pie, veal pie, cold roast beef, a ham, pickles, pickled eggs, pickled beets, cheese, bread and butter, ginger beer and a bottle of port. It was possibly the best meal I had ever had in my life.

And the barman asked me if I was alright? Simple little question. And i said I was. And he said he'd make me a sandwich. And I said okay. And I nearly started crying--because you know, here was someone just...And I watched him. He took two big slices off a fresh loaf and buttered them carefully, spreading it all around. I'll never forget it. And then he sliced some cheese and cooked ham and an onion out of a jar, and put it all on a plate and sliced it down the middle. And, just someone doing this for me. And putting it down in front of me. 'Get that down you, now,' he said. And then he folded up his newspaper and put on his jacket, and went off on his break. And there was another barman then. And I took this sandwich up and I could hardly swallow it, because of the lump in my throat. But I ate i tall down because someone I didn't know had done this for me. Such a small thing. But a huge thing. In my condition.

We worked side by side building our sandwiches. Mine, just a few modest layers of meat and cheese, with a bit of lettuce for some added crunchiness; his, a Dagwood, piled high with turkey, ham, salami, lettuce, tomatoes, two kinds of cheese, and—were those jalapenos—with a teetering slice of bread carefully placed on top—there’s no way that’s going to fit into his mouth—he admired it for a moment then using his giant paw, smashed it into submission.

Nothing is a masterpiece - a real masterpiece - till it's about two hundred years old. A picture is like a tree or a church, you've got to let it grow into a masterpiece. Same with a poem or a new religion. They begin as a lot of funny words. Nobody knows whether they're all nonsense or a gift from heaven. And the only people who think anything of 'em are a lot of cranks or crackpots, or poor devils who don't know enough to know anything. Look at Christianity. Just a lot of floating seeds to start with, all sorts of seeds. It was a long time before one of them grew into a tree big enough to kill the rest and keep the rain off. And it's only when the tree has been cut into planks and built into a house and the house has got pretty old and about fifty generations of ordinary lumpheads who don't know a work of art from a public convenience, have been knocking nails in the kitchen beams to hang hams on, and screwing hooks in the walls for whips and guns and photographs and calendars and measuring the children on the window frames and chopping out a new cupboard under the stairs to keep the cheese and murdering their wives in the back room and burying them under the cellar flags, that it begins even to feel like a religion. And when the whole place is full of dry rot and ghosts and old bones and the shelves are breaking down with old wormy books that no one could read if they tried, and the attic floors are bulging through the servants' ceilings with old trunks and top-boots and gasoliers and dressmaker's dummies and ball frocks and dolls-houses and pony saddles and blunderbusses and parrot cages and uniforms and love letters and jugs without handles and bridal pots decorated with forget-me-nots and a piece out at the bottom, that it grows into a real old faith, a masterpiece which people can really get something out of, each for himself. And then, of course, everybody keeps on saying that it ought to be pulled down at once, because it's an insanitary nuisance.

Not when I found a Lunchables just a few minutes before you guys showed up, and I’m ready to make myself a delicious buffet of ham and cheese on crackers.” I stared at him. “What? It’s the kind that has Oreo cookies included,” he replied. “That shit is banging.” “God, you had so much potential,” Nancy muttered under her breath.

Not hungry, thanks, Mum.” “Have just a sandwich.” “No, thanks.” “I can make you a nice ham sandwich. Ham and mustard.” “No, really.” “Cheese? There’s some nice cheddar.” “Honestly, no.” “It’s no trouble.” “Oh, for goodness’ sake! Okay! I give in! I’ll have a bloody sandwich!” “You don’t have to have one,” Mary said, “if you don’t want one.

I stick by her side as she heads for the sub stand. Before she can place her order, I call, “Two ham and cheese subs on wheat bread. Four slices of ham, two slices of Provolone each, and a dash of mayo. Thank you.” Briar narrows her eyes at me. “You memorized my order?” “Told you I know you.” “Why did you order two?” “I love what you love.

They were very good, soft rolls stuffed with ham and tangy white cheese and then heated just enough to make the rolls crispy on the outside and to melt the cheese on the inside.

I go to the larder for the quinces and stop in amazement. For the larder is brimming over with food. Baskets of field mushrooms. Trugs of green apples and yellow pears. A metal bath containing two pink crabs. Slabs of newly churned butter as bright as a dandelion flower. Wheels of pale yellow cheese the size of my head. An earthenware bowl of cobnuts. A ham soaking in a pail of water.

Montserrat, stop at the deli, get a slice of ham and a bit of cheese and make yourself a real lunch. No wonder your gums bleed. You probably have the nutritional deficiencies of a seventeenth-century sailor.

didn’t bother them that the corpses would arrive at their doors, to quote Ruth Richardson, “compressed into boxes, packed in sawdust,…trussed up in sacks, roped up like hams…” So similar in their treatment were the dead to ordinary items of commerce that every now and then boxes would be mixed up in transit. James Moores Ball, author of The Sack-’Em-Up Men, tells the tale of the flummoxed anatomist who opened a crate delivered to his lab expecting a cadaver but found instead “a very fine ham, a large cheese, a basket of eggs, and a huge ball of yarn.” One can only imagine the surprise and very special disappointment of the party expecting very fine ham, cheese, eggs, or a huge ball of yarn, who found instead a well-packed but quite dead Englishman.

I wanted to try dainty Italian fare, and bought spicy Bologna sausage, pink papery hams, hard white bread, and chalky cheeses. I also bought the makings of a Mackeroni Pie I had seen made at an inn, and a new sort of green stuff named brockerly that proved a great deal tastier than cabbage.

I am not no swine,” Archie said. He spread peanut butter on his bread, dotted it with cream cheese and jam, added a piece of ham, and finally topped it with a wedge of banana. “Because a swine is two or more pigs, and I’m only one pig.” He added an olive to his masterpiece by way of garnish, and bit off a good quarter of it.

We have got into the habit of admiring colossal bandits, whose opulence is revered by the entire world, yet whose existence, once we stop to examine it, proves to be one long crime repeated ad infinitum, but those same bandits are heaped with glory, honors, and power, their crimes are hallowed by the law of the land, whereas, as far back in history as the eye can see—and history, as you know is my business—everything conspires to show that a venial theft, especially of inglorious foodstuffs, such as bread crusts, ham, or cheese, unfailingly subjects its perpetrator to irreparable opprobrium, the categoric condemnation of the community, major punishment, automatic dishonor, and inexpiable shame, and this for two reasons, first because the perpetrator of such an offense is usually poor, which in itself connotes basic unworthiness, and secondly because his act implies, as it were, a tacit reproach to the community. A poor man’s theft is seen as a malicious attempt at individual redress . . . Where would we be? Note accordingly that in all countries the penalties for petty theft are extremely severe, not only as a means of defending society, but also as a stern admonition to the unfortunate to know their place, stick to their caste, and behave themselves, joyfully resigned to go on dying of hunger and misery down through the centuries forever and ever …

Oh, America the Beautiful, where are our standards? How did Europeans, ancestral cultures to most of us, whose average crowded country would fit inside one of our national parks, somehow hoard the market share of Beautiful? They’ll run over a McDonald’s with a bulldozer because it threatens the way of life of their fine cheeses. They have international trade hissy fits when we try to slip modified genes into their bread. They get their favorite ham from Parma, Italy, along with a favorite cheese, knowing these foods are linked in an ancient connection the farmers have crafted between the milk and the hogs. Oh. We were thinking Parmesan meant, not “coming from Parma,” but “coming from a green shaker can.” Did they kick us out for bad taste? No, it was mostly for vagrancy, poverty, or being too religious. We came here for the freedom to make a Leaves of Grass kind of culture and hear America singing to a good beat, pierce our navels as needed, and eat whatever we want without some drudge scolding: “You don’t know where that’s been!” And boy howdy, we do not.” (p.4)

Torture Cuisine by Stewart Stafford Kitchen death growls, Whipping that cream, Beating those eggs, Burning all the toast. Knifing diced cheese, Drawn, quartered ham, Straining tomato sauce, Crushed-down walnuts. Peeling potatoes naked, Then smashing them up, You say purée, I say mash, Turkey and chicken skewers. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

I did not mean to be a Christian. I have been very clear about that. My first words upon encountering the presence of Jesus for the first time 12 years ago, were, I swear to God, “I would rather die.” I really would have rather died at that point than to have my wonderful brilliant left-wing non-believer friends know that I had begun to love Jesus. I think they would have been less appalled if I had developed a close personal friendship with Strom Thurmond. At least there is some reason to believe that Strom Thurmond is a real person. You know, more or less. But I never felt like I had much choice with Jesus; he was relentless. I didn’t experience him so much as the hound of heaven, as the old description has it, as the alley cat of heaven, who seemed to believe that if it just keeps showing up , mewling outside your door, you’d eventually open up and give him a bowl of milk. Of course, as soon as you do, you are fucked, and the next thing you know, he’s sleeping on your bed every night, and stepping on your chest at dawn to play a little push-push. I resisted as long as I could, like Sam-I-Am in “Green Eggs and Ham” — I would not, could not in a boat! I could not would not with a goat! I do not want to follow Jesus, I just want expensive cheeses. Or something. Anyway, he wore me out. He won. I was tired and vulnerable and he won. I let him in. This is what I said at the moment of my conversion: I said, “Fuck it. Come in. I quit.” He started sleeping on my bed that night. It was not so bad. It was even pretty nice. He loved me, he didn’t shed or need to have his claws trimmed, and he never needed a flea dip. I mean, what a savior, right? Then, when I was dozing, tiny kitten that I was, he picked me up like a mother cat, by the scruff of my neck, and deposited me in a little church across from the flea market in Marin’s black ghetto. That’s where I was when I came to. And then I came to believe.

Before long our entire table was covered in food: an earthenware ramekin of pearly-pink prawns bathed in garlic butter; translucent, paper-thin slices of cured ham fanned out on the plate; tortilla espanola with nuggets of potato and sweet onion; candy-stripe beets studded with goat cheese and almond slivers; slow-cooked short ribs almost silky in their tenderness; thick chorizo stew.

Breakfast. We have a rotation of various meals for breakfast. This is an example of one weekly menu: • Monday: cold cereal with bananas • Tuesday: hot cereal with grapefruit • Wednesday: pancakes, waffles, or French toast (from the freezer) and ham • Thursday: eggs with toast • Friday: bagels with fruit • Saturday: pancakes (made from scratch) and sausages • Sunday: scrambled eggs with cheese, ham, and potatoes

My mind veers back to roasted pigeon. And from pigeon, I travel effortlessly, unrestrainedly back to France...the pots of rillettes fragrant with garlic, the boned forelegs of ham yellowed with bread crumbs, the blood puddings curled up like snakes, the terrines and pâtés, the sausages from Lyon and Arles, the jowls of salmon cooked à la génoise, the hundreds of cheeses resplendent beneath their glass bells, the perfumed melons and honeyed apricots

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

One of his great pleasures is overdoing it with the groceries, involving several stops at little markets, cheese shops, the East Haven lady who makes her own Thai BBQ sauce and fries up a bag of plantains for him while he waits. At our old house, we had a refrigerator just for condiments. Even now, my older daughter always says, How can you be only two people and never have an empty fridge? That’s Brian, I say, buyer of burrata, soppressata, Meyer lemons, white peaches, Benton’s ham.

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.

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

Aurora's Sunday brunch buffet is world-class, desserts or no desserts. Your mouth starts to water the moment you enter and spot the seafood bar on your right- lobsters the color of blood oranges reclining on hillocks of shaved ice, oysters split open, their salty innards on show. Around the corner is an area devoted to cheese, huge rounds of fragrant, fresh Parmesan and a soft cheese with a gray-white rind, oozing and pungent. Behind the cheeses is a magnificent honeycomb hung on a metal frame and dripping down a silver gutter into a small bowl. The entire place smells like heaven- copper pots of hot, fresh bread being carried to tables, aged ham sliced from the bone, the chocolatier dipping soft pralines.

All my hard work had come to fruition that day: the new fireplace housed a might Yule log that warmed the room, casting reflections across the crystal and silver. I admired the forest green of the brocaded furniture, and the holly gathered in red ribbons hung about the walls. I decided that whatever temper Michael might be in, I would not let him spoil our first Christmas. The new damask cloth was spread with a fine repast: Peg's own Yule cakes looked even daintier than those I had already sampled. A great wheel of cheese had pride of place, beside magnificent pies of game and fruit. On a great round platter was a salamagundy salad as fresh as a bouquet of flowers; concentric rings of every delight: eggs, chicken, ham, beetroot, anchovies, and orange.

All around me, other dishes were taking shape: for the first service, a group of young girls were gilding candied plums, figs, oranges and apricots with fine gold leaf, and more gold was being smoothed onto sweet biscuits of fried dough cut into witty shapes and drenched in spiced syrup and rose water. There were torte of every kind: filled with pork belly and zucca; torte in the style of Bologna, filled with cheeses and pepper, and torte filled with capons and squabs. There were sausages, whole hams from all over the north of Italy. My suckling pigs were for the second service, alongside the lampreys, candied lemons wrapped in the finest sheet of silver, an enormous sturgeon in ginger sauce, a whole roast roebuck with gilded horns, cuttlefish cooked in their own ink.

MAKES ABOUT 10 LARGE OR 15 SMALL BISCUITS Cheddar Biscuits Flecks of sharp cheddar cheese add flavor and color to these biscuits. I like to make them smaller, using a 11/2-inch biscuit cutter or small juice glass to cut them out. For a party, these are fantastic filled with ham, fig jam, or my favorite, tomato jam. (For biscuit-making advice, see “Biscuit-Making Tips” on page 259.) 2 cups all-purpose flour plus more for rolling 21/4 teaspoons baking powder 3/4 teaspoon baking soda 1/2 teaspoon salt 6 tablespoons (3/4 stick) butter, chilled and cut into small cubes 3/4 cup sharp cheddar cheese, shredded 1 cup buttermilk 1/4 cup butter, melted 1. Preheat the oven to 425°F. 2. In a large mixing bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Cut the cold

So what are you after, eh? Side of beef? Some chops?' 'Aye, sir. Whatever you fancy.' He licked his lips and listed his favorite dishes: plain pudding, lemon pickle, roast beef. Then he asked for his own particulars: tobacco and coltsfoot for his pipe, and some more comfrey for Her Ladyship's tea. 'And no green oils. Get a block of dripping and cook it plain.' It was true that the food in France had been a great hog potch of good and bad. One night on the road we were served a right mess of giblets, fishy smelling frogs' legs and moldy old cheese. But at Chantilly the fricassee of veal was so tender I'm not sure how they softened it. I could have eaten the whole pot it was that good, but instead had to watch Jesmire scraping off the sauce, whining all the time for a little boiled ham.

So when I get home, I go shopping. I fill the cart with steak, fish, broccoli, avocados, canned squid, tuna, tomato juice, romaine lettuce, sour cream, and cashews—tubs of cashews, because they’ll be my go-to temptation snuffer. Also on the “yes” list: eggs, cheese, whole cream, dry white wine, Scotch, and salsa. But no fruit, breads, rice, potatoes, pasta, or honey. No beans, which means no tofu or soy of any stripe. No chips, no beer, no milk or yogurt. No deli ham or roast beef, either, since they’re often cured in sugar. Turkey was fine if you cooked it yourself, but even then you have to be careful. I thought I’d hit the perfect multi-meal solution when I came across a stack of small Butterballs in the frozen food section, and only as an afterthought did I check the label and discover they were sugar-injected.

Later that evening, I meet Alex and Gracie at a crepe stand on Fairview for dinner. He orders two ham-and-provolones and I chose a goat-cheese-spinach-and-tomato. We watch as the woman behind the stand pours the batter on the round wheel and rakes it into a perfect circle with a wooden tool. Within seconds, the batter thickens and bubbles, turning a shade of golden brown. She reaches for a tub of cheese labeled "Pro 3-5," then shakes her head and tucks it under the shelf before looking up at us. "Almost forgot to toss this one. Found it in the back of the fridge. Expired months ago." She opens up a new tub of shredded cheese and sprinkles it on Alex's crepe. I'm not thinking about expired cheese, however. It's "Pro 3-5" that haunts me. I know it's silly. It's an expiration date for provolone cheese, but I key Proverbs 3:5 into my phone, and read what comes back: "Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him and he will make your paths straight.

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

I was settin’ at this restaurant When the waiter came up and said, “What do you want?” I looked at the menu—it looked so nice Till he said, “Let me give you a little advice.” He said, “Spaghetti and potatoes got too much starch, Pork chops and sausage are bad for your heart. There's hormones in chicken and beef and veal, Bowl of ravioli is a dead man’s meal. Bread's got preservatives, there's nitrites in ham, Artificial coloring in jellies and jam. Stay away from doughnuts, run away from pie, Pepperoni pizza is a sure way to die. Sugar’s gonna rot your teeth and make you put on weight, Artificial sweetener’s got cyclamates. Eggs are high cholesterol, too much fat in cheese, Coffee ruins your kidneys and so do teas. Fish got too much mercury, red meat is poison, Salt's gonna send your blood pressure risin’. Hot dogs and bologna got deadly red dyes, Vegetables and fruits are sprayed with pesticides.” So I said, “What can I eat that's gonna make me last?” He said, “A small drink of water in a sterilized glass.” And then he stopped and he thought for a minute, And said, “Never mind the water—there’s carcinogens in it.” So I got up from the table and walked out in the street, Realizin’ there was absolutely nothing I could eat. So I haven't eaten for a month and I don't feel too fine, But I know that I'll be healthy for a long, long time.

Tuesday. When five o’clock Tuesday evening comes, I approach the apartment, carrying two large pizzas—a cheese pizza with only cheese, like Madison requested, the other a monstrosity made with ham and pineapple. Hesitantly, I knock, hearing a flurry of footsteps inside before the door yanks open, the little ball of energy in front of me, grinning. “Madison Jacqueline!” Kennedy shouts, popping up in my line of sight. “What did I say about answering the door like that?” “Oh.” Her eyes widen, and before I can say a word, she swings the door shut, slamming it in my face. I stand here for a moment before the door cracks open again, her head peeking out as she whispers, “You gots to knock.” As soon as it shuts again, I tap on the door. “Who’s there?” she yells. “Jonathan.” “Jonathan who?” I laugh, shifting the pizzas around when they start slipping from my grip. Before I can answer, the door opens once more, Kennedy standing there. “Sorry,” she mumbles, motioning for me to come in as she grasps Madison by the shoulders, steering her along. “We’re working on this stranger danger thing. She’s way too trusting.” “But I know it was him,” Madison protests. “You can never be too sure,” Kennedy says. “It’s always best to double-check.” I open my mouth to offer an opinion but stop myself, not sure if I’m at that place where my advice is welcome. I’m not trying to get kicked out before even eating any pizza

Eastern Shore Breakfast Pudding Eggs, cheddar, ham or sausage, and bread baked together in the rich tradition of English savory puddings. This rib-sticking main course is equally delicious in a vegetarian rendition. 4 thick slices white bread, torn into quarters ¾ pound cooked ham, thinly sliced and chopped (or 1 pound sausage meat, cooked and drained) 1 cup sharp cheddar cheese, grated ½ medium onion, minced 1 sweet red pepper, diced 1 tablespoon olive oil 6 eggs 2 cups milk ¼ teaspoon salt Black and red pepper to taste Pinch of nutmeg Parsley to garnish Heat the oven to 350 degrees. Butter a deep 8 x 8 inch baking dish. Lay bread in the dish, covering the bottom, and top with the ham or sausage and cheese. In a small pan, sauté the onion and red pepper in oil until fragrant and softened, about 5 minutes, and layer on top of the cheese. Whisk together the eggs and milk, salt, peppers, and nutmeg. Pour the mixture over the bread, meat, vegetables, and cheese. Bake for about one hour, until the pudding is puffed, firm, and golden brown. Tent with foil if necessary to prevent too much browning. Cut into four squares, garnish with parsley, and serve along with Old Bay potatoes (below), steamed asparagus, and broiled tomatoes. You shouldn’t see a hungry guest again until dinnertime. Note: For vegetarians, substitute for the meat a cup each of lightly steamed broccoli cut into small florets and thinly sliced, sautéed zucchini—both well drained. Serves 4.

But this isn't standard Japanese picnic fare: not a grain of rice or a pickled plum in sight. Instead, they fill the varnished wooden tables with thick slices of crusty bread, wedges of weeping cheese, batons of hard salamis, and slices of cured ham. To drink, bottles of local white wine, covered in condensation, and high-alcohol microbews rich in hops and local iconography. From the coastline we begin our slow, dramatic ascent into the mountains of Hokkaido. The colors bleed from broccoli to banana to butternut to beet as we climb, inching ever closer to the heart of autumn. My neighbors, an increasingly jovial group of thirtysomethings with a few words of English to spare, pass me a glass of wine and a plate of cheese, and I begin to feel the fog dissipate. We stop at a small train station in the foothills outside of Ginzan, and my entire car suddenly empties. A husband-and-wife team has set up a small stand on the train platform, selling warm apple hand pies made with layers of flaky pastry and apples from their orchard just outside of town. I buy one, take a bite, then immediately buy there more. Back on the train, young uniformed women flood the cars with samples of Hokkaido ice cream. The group behind me breaks out in song, a ballad, I'm later told, dedicated to the beauty of the season. Everywhere we go, from the golden fields of empty cornstalks to the dense forest thickets to the rushing rivers that carve up this land like the fat of a Wagyu steak, groups of camouflaged photographers lie in wait, tripods and shutter releases ready, hoping to capture the perfect photo of the SL Niseko steaming its way through the hills of Hokkaido.

FAT-BURNING BREAKFAST MENUS Fat-Burning Breakfast 1 HEARTY OMELET 2 whole eggs, or 1 egg with 2 egg whites 1 ounce shredded cheese 1/4 cup chopped tomatoes and onions Cook in 1 tablespoon olive oil Carb options: 1 slice whole-wheat toast or English muffin General options: Replace chopped tomatoes and onions with 1 grilled tomato Replace chopped tomatoes and onions with 1/2 avocado Replace cheese with 1 slice ham or 1 sausage Replace cheese with 1 tablespoon butter for toast or English muffin Fat-Burning Breakfast 2 *SALMON BREAKFAST SOUFFLÉ Carb options: 1/2 cup berries or apple slices, or 1/2 cup oatmeal, or 1/2 cup high-fiber cereal Fat-Burning Breakfast 3 OMEGA-3 FISH BREAKFAST 4–6 ounces fish (cod, salmon, tuna, trout, or tilapia), grilled, baked, or sautéed 1 tablespoon olive oil 1 cup fresh vegetables (such as mushrooms, broccoli, bell peppers, or onions) 1 cup whole-fat or 2% cottage cheese Carb options: 1 apple or 1 cup cantaloupe slices, or 1/2 cup rice Fat-Burning Breakfast 4 GREEK YOGURT DELIGHT 1 cup whole-fat or 2% Greek yogurt, topped with cinnamon and 1/4 cup raw, unsalted nuts (almonds, walnuts, cashews, macadamias, or pecans) Carb options: 1/2 cup fresh berries (blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, strawberries) or 1/2 cup cooked steel-cut or 5-minute oatmeal Fat-Burning Breakfast 5 VEGGIE-EGG SCRAMBLE 2 eggs with 1 tablespoon butter or olive oil, scrambled with tomato, zucchini, onion, and green pepper Carb options: 1 slice whole-wheat toast or 1/2 cup fresh berries (blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, strawberries) General options: Choose other vegetables, such as mushrooms, spinach, or kale Add 1 tablespoon butter for toast Fat-Burning Breakfast 6 TRADITIONAL EGGS 2 eggs scrambled or pan-fried in 1 tablespoon olive oil 1 slice lean deli ham or Canadian bacon 1/2 sliced avocado Carb options: 1 slice whole-wheat toast, 1/2 English muffin, 1/2 cup cooked quinoa, or 1/2 cup long-grain brown rice General options: Replace avocado with sliced tomatoes Replace avocado with roasted sweet potato Add 1 tablespoon butter for toast or English muffin Fat-Burning Breakfast 7 *STEVE’S EASY EGG WHITE SOUFFLÉ 5 roasted asparagus spears 1/2 sliced tomato Carb options: 1 slice toast or 1/2 English muffin

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.

So, uh, where should I…?” I told up the pizza boxes as I trail off. “Oh, right. Kitchen table’s fine.” “I’ll show you!” Madison announces, as if I don’t know where it is, but I let her lead me there anyway. Kennedy shuts the door and follows behind us. I set the boxes on the table, and Madison doesn’t hesitate, popping the top one open. She makes a face, looking horrified. “Gross!” “What in the world are you—?” Kennedy laughs as she glances at the pizza. “Ham and pineapple.” “Why is that fruit on the pizza?” Madison asks. “Because it’s good,” Kennedy says, snatching the top box away before opening the other one. “There, that one’s for you.” Madison shrugs it off, grabbing a slice of cheese pizza, eating straight from the box. I’m gathering this is normal, since Kennedy sits down beside her to do the same. “You remembered,” she says plucking a piece of pineapple off a slice of pizza and popping it in her mouth. “Of course,” I say, grabbing a slice of cheese from the box Madison is hoarding. “Pretty sure I’m scarred for life because of it. Not something I can forget.” She laughs, the sound soft, as she gives me one of the most genuine smiles I’ve seen in a while. It fades as she averts her gaze, but goddamn it, it happened. “You shoulda gots the breads,” Madison says, standing on her chair as she leans closer, vying for my attention like she’s afraid I might not see her. “And the chickens!” “Ah, didn’t know you liked those,” I tell her, “or I would’ve gotten them.” “Next time,” she says, just like that, no question about it. “Next time,” I say. “And soda, too,” she says. “No soda,” Kennedy chimes in. Madison glances at her mother before leaning even closer, damn near right up on me, whisper-shouting, “Soda.” “I’m not so sure your mom will like that,” I say. “It’s okay,” Madison says. “She tells Grandpa no soda, too, but he lets me have it.” “That’s because you emotionally blackmail him,” Kennedy says. “Nuh-uh!” Madison says, looking at her mother. “I don’t blackmail him!” Kennedy scoffs. “How do you know? You don’t even know what that means.” “So?” Madison says. “I don’t mail him nothing!” ... “You give him those sad puppy-dog eyes,” Kennedy says, grabbing Madison by the chin, squeezing her chubby cheeks. “And you tell him you’ll love him ‘the mostest’ if he gives you some Coca-Cola to drink.” “ ‘Cuz I will,” Madison says. “That’s emotional blackmail.” “Oh.” Madison makes a face, turning to me when her mother lets go of her. “How ‘bout root beer?” “I’m afraid not,” I tell her. “Sorry.” Madison scowls, hopping down from the table to grab a juice box from the refrigerator.

The Enchanted Broccoli Forest. Oh, what a pleasure that was! Mollie Katzen's handwritten and illustrated recipes that recalled some glorious time in upstate New York when a girl with an appetite could work at a funky vegetarian restaurant and jot down some tasty favorites between shifts. That one had the Pumpkin Tureen soup that Margo had made so many times when she first got the book. She loved the cheesy onion soup served from a pumpkin with a hot dash of horseradish and rye croutons. And the Cardamom Coffee Cake, full of butter, real vanilla, and rich brown sugar, said to be a favorite at the restaurant, where Margo loved to imagine the patrons picking up extras to take back to their green, grassy, shady farmhouses dotted along winding country roads. Linda's Kitchen by Linda McCartney, Paul's first wife, the vegetarian cookbook that had initially spurred her yearlong attempt at vegetarianism (with cheese and eggs, thank you very much) right after college. Margo used to have to drag Calvin into such phases and had finally lured him in by saying that surely anything Paul would eat was good enough for them. Because of Linda's Kitchen, Margo had dived into the world of textured vegetable protein instead of meat, and tons of soups, including a very good watercress, which she never would have tried without Linda's inspiration. It had also inspired her to get a gorgeous, long marble-topped island for prep work. Sometimes she only cooked for the aesthetic pleasure of the gleaming marble topped with rustic pottery containing bright fresh veggies, chopped to perfection. Then Bistro Cooking by Patricia Wells caught her eye, and she took it down. Some pages were stuck together from previous cooking nights, but the one she turned to, the most splattered of all, was the one for Onion Soup au Gratin, the recipe that had taught her the importance of cheese quality. No mozzarella or broken string cheeses with- maybe- a little lacy Swiss thrown on. And definitely none of the "fat-free" cheese that she'd tried in order to give Calvin a rich dish without the cholesterol. No, for this to be great, you needed a good, aged, nutty Gruyère from what you couldn't help but imagine as the green grassy Alps of Switzerland, where the cows grazed lazily under a cheerful children's-book blue sky with puffy white clouds. Good Gruyère was blocked into rind-covered rounds and aged in caves before being shipped fresh to the USA with a whisper of fairy-tale clouds still lingering over it. There was a cheese shop downtown that sold the best she'd ever had. She'd tried it one afternoon when she was avoiding returning home. A spunky girl in a visor and an apron had perked up as she walked by the counter, saying, "Cheese can change your life!" The charm of her youthful innocence would have been enough to be cheered by, but the sample she handed out really did it. The taste was beyond delicious. It was good alone, but it cried out for ham or turkey or a rich beefy broth with deep caramelized onions for soup.

KELLY’S QUICHE  Ingredients: 8 oz. can refrigerator crescent rolls 2 eggs, slightly beaten 1 cup half and half 1 tbsp. grated Parmesan cheese 1 tbsp. minced onion Salt and pepper to taste 8 oz. shredded Monterey Jack cheese 1 to 1 1/2 cups cubed cooked meat (I like bacon or ham – if using bacon, crumble it) Directions:

1 cup milk plus: 1. Small bowl cold cereal + blueberries + yogurt 2. 1 egg, scrambled or boiled + 1 slice toast + strawberries 3. 1 cut-up chicken sausage + toast + ½ banana 4. ½ bagel + cream cheese + raspberries 5. 1 slice ham on toast + ½ orange 6. ½ tortilla rolled up with cheese + melon + yogurt 7. Small bowl oatmeal + cut-up bananas and strawberries Lunch and Dinner 1. 1 salmon cake + carrots + rice 2. Fish pie + broccoli 3. 3 oz salmon + cup of pasta + peas 4. 2 fish sticks + cup couscous + veg 5. ½ breast of chicken + veg + small potato 6. Roast chicken + dumplings + veg 7. 1 meat or peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich + apple + yogurt 8. 1 small homemade pizza + fruit 9. Pasta with tomato sauce and cheese + veg 10. Chicken risotto + veg 11. Ground beef + potato + peas 12. Small tuna pasta bake + veg 13. 4 meatballs + pasta + veg 14. Chicken stir-fry with veg + rice

Around me umpteen birds are singing umpteen marvelous melodies, whistles and warbles and chirps and quavers cutting pitches high then sweep-swooping low, the pulchritudinous swimming pool sized pond glimmering picturesque in the lazy and hazy early afternoon sun. An attractive well-groomed mother duck- followed in a flawless and disciplined line by its ducklings like fluffy automatons - plies her trade alongside a young and jubilant hominid couple who, satisfactorily fulfilled to have settled and copulated once and to never again except on birthdays or anniversaries be carnal, play with their progeniture with proficiently prepared picnics loaded with an overkill of mother's home made tarts and buns and baskets of ham and cheese sandwiches; it was all sensationally Disney and dizzying and droll and not at all what this trip desired.

They had a stash of Pepsi Clear at all times—it wasn’t a novelty for them. All the mother-fuckers were drinking a can of Pepsi Clear with, you know, the ham and cheese sandwich Mom made for you.

On a third table covered with a snow-white tablecloth were the most sumptuous zakuski – caviar, cheese, pâté, cured sausages, a joint of smoked ham, fish – and a range of exquisite crystal decanters with different types of vodka infusions in a variety of attractive colours – green, ruby, tawny and golden.

A sandwich loaf (for those who don't know) is a beautiful creation, a multilayer sandwich disguised as a cake. It had fallen out of fashion in recent years, but at one time it was all the rage to serve at bridal showers and christenings. To make a sandwich loaf, you take one loaf of bread, slice it horizontally, and fill each layer with a different filling. The loaves from Scandia were filled with three layers: chicken salad, ham salad, and egg salad. Then the whole thing is frosted with cream cheese, piped with flowers and waves until it becomes a floofy white log. To serve it, you slice it vertically like a cake, each piece containing the three different layers.

As Piper walked inside, she surmised that the place was part restaurant, part delicatessen, part butcher shop. One long wall was taken up with a sprawling glass-front refrigerated case housing all sorts of meats and cheeses waiting to be sliced. There were aisles of shelves lined with balsamic vinegars, oils, rice, pastas, salts, and seasonings. Customers sat eating sandwiches at several round tables to the side of the room. "What'll it be?" asked the teenager behind the counter. "I'm not sure," said Piper. "What's in a muffuletta?" The young man recited the ingredients. "Salami, pepperoni, ham, capicola, mortadella, Swiss cheese, provolone, and olive salad.

The customer quickly turned the lock on the front door before following Mike to the workstation and watching as the butcher slid a fat smoked ham back and forth, back and forth across the razor-sharp blade of the meat-slicing machine. Mike caught each thin slice and piled it on the round, sesame-seeded bread that lay split open on the counter. He repeated the process with salami, depositing it on the ham. Next a layer of capicola, followed by pepperoni, Swiss cheese, and provolone. "Looking good," said the customer, observing from the other side of the counter. "Thanks again for this." "No problem," said Mike. "We Royal Street folks have to help each other out when we can." "How many muffs do you think you've made in your life?" asked the customer, setting a shopping bag on the floor. The sandwich maker laughed. "I couldn't even begin to tell you." He reached for the glass container of olive spread he had mixed himself. Finely chopped green olives, celery, cauliflower, and carrot seasoned with extra-virgin olive oil, all left to marinate overnight.

through any structure without detection by his prey. He was a flawless assassin. It was just before five local time when Steven settled into the plush leather seating of the first-class compartment. The Deutsche Bahn Intercity Express, or ICE, was a high-speed train connecting major cities across Germany with other major European destinations. The trip to Frankfurt would take about four hours, giving him time to spend some rare personal time with his team. Slash was the first to find him. The men shook hands and sat down. Typically, these two longtime friends would chest bump in a hearty bro-mance sort of way, but it would be out of place for Europe. “Hey, buddy,” said Steven. “Switzerland is our new home away from home.” “It appears so, although the terrain isn’t that different from our place in Tennessee,” said Slash. “I see lots of fishin’ and huntin’ opportunities out there.” Slash grew up on his parents’ farm atop the Cumberland Plateau of Tennessee about halfway between Nashville and Knoxville. His parents were retired and spent their days farming while raising ducks, rabbits and some livestock. While other kids spent their free time on PlayStation, Slash grew up in the woods, learning survival skills. During his time with the SEAL Teams, he earned a reputation as an expert in close-quarters combat, especially using a variety of knives—hence the nickname Slash. “Beats the heck out of the desert, doesn’t it?” asked Steven. After his service ended, Slash tried a few different security outfits like Blackwater, protecting the Saudi royal family or standing guard outside some safe house in Oman. “I’m not saying the desert won’t call us back someday, but I’ll take the Swiss cheese and German chocolate over shawarma and falafel every friggin’ day!” “Hell yeah,” said Slash. “When are you comin’ down for some ham and beans, along with some butter-soaked cornbread? My folks really wanna meet you.” “I need to, buddy,” replied Steven. “This summer will be nuts for me. Hey, when does deer hunting season open?” “Late September for crossbow and around Thanksgiving otherwise,” replied Slash. Before the guys could set a date, their partners Paul Hittle and Raymond Bower approached their seats. Hittle, code name Bugs, was a former medic with Army Special Forces who left the Green Berets for a well-paying job with DynCorp. DynCorp was a private

Think I will take the first option. "Ham and Cheese - $2.50. Cheese and Ham - $2.90." -- On a menu.

Hot Italian Sandwiches 1 lb sliced ham 1 lb sliced hard salami 1 lb provolone or Swiss cheese 1 package soft sandwich rolls 1 head iceberg lettuce 1 bottle Italian dressing 1 cube butter, softened Granulated garlic

If I had some ham, I would make a ham and cheese, if I had some cheese." - Marty Lee

Walking into the Milkfarm cheese store and café at lunchtime, I was greeted by the pungent funk of melting aged Gruyère. Helen Harland was in town for a seminar and I was meeting her for lunch. I found her studying the sandwich case. "Gosh," she said. "I don't know what half these things are. Speck? Guanciale? Taleggio? Just pick one for me, please. Nothing too strong or spicy." I ordered her a grilled cheese made with Irish cheddar and French ham on pain au levain, and for myself, speck and young pecorino on a baguette.

There is no defeat more terrible than the defeat of the human heart driven wild by its desire of a mystical mirage. What makes this defeat so cruel is the inexorable complacency of the teachers of the spiritual life who insist that “if you have not found God it is because you have refused Him something. You have not consented to pay the price.” As if union with God were something put up for sale in monasteries like ham or cheese, a kind of secret bargain offered to men on the contemplative black market—offered to this or that unfortunate buyer at the precise moment when his pockets were empty.

My mom was never much of a cook---her style of cookery mostly involved cream-based canned soup and processed cheese---but her spaghetti salad was something of a delicacy in my town when I was growing up. The combination of spaghetti, ham, cubed cheese, and Miracle Whip doesn't sound as if it should go together, but somehow, when combined, the result is downright delicious. Maybe it's the fact that every bite reminds me of my mom, but when I crave something comforting and familiar, it's the first thing that comes to mind.

Everywhere I look, everywhere I turn: salad. Potato salad. Pasta salad. Tuna salad. Ham salad. There aren't any leafy green ones, although some, like my aunt's beloved cottage cheese lime Jell-O salad, are decidedly green. No, the bowls lining the tables and windowsills are filled with the kinds of salads I grew up with in Michigan, most containing some combination of proteins and carbs, the ingredients bound up with a spoonful of mayonnaise or its zesty cousin, Miracle Whip, my mother's all-time favorite condiment. She told me she'd never met a recipe that couldn't be improved by a spoonful of Miracle Whip. That, and maybe a dash of rum.

If you don't try the shaobing with Cubano pork today, you're missing out," I said. "It's just an explosion of flavor. The pork is tender and practically falls apart in my teeth, and the pickles add a nice vinegary crunch against the meatiness of the pork and ham and the richness of the cheese. And that structure! I'll never be able to eat a Cubano sandwich on ordinary bread again, not after the flaky crunch of the shaobing. I hope you caught the steam that billowed out when I took that bite. I'd bathe in it.

I decide to make a massive tortilla española, since that's something I can prepare in advance and serve warm or at room temperature. I add a Manchego and apple salad to the list, along with a watermelon and tomato salad and shrimp and squid a la pancha. For fourteen people, I will need a few more vegetable dishes---maybe some roasted red peppers stuffed with goat cheese and a green bean salad with apricots and jamón Serrano---along with a few more hot, meaty dishes, like ham croquetas and grilled hanger steak.

Spanish olives Boquerones Apple and Manchego salad with toasted walnuts Tomato and watermelon salad Green bean salad with apricots and jamón Serrano Tortilla española Croquetas de jamón Squid and shrimp a la plancha Grilled hanger steak with salsa verde Raw sheep's milk cheese with quince paste, chocolate-fig jam, & fruit-and-nut toasts

Patrick is with Luke. I’ve left my key on the counter. Keep an eye on my boy for me. Chase sighs, worried that he’s forced Shannon into making a decision she wasn’t comfortable with, but also relieved that Patrick is with his dad at last. And who knows? Maybe she’ll get her shit together and find someone or something that makes her happy. He’ll check in on Patrick tomorrow. Not now. He’s got too much to do. He showers quickly and the cool water brings down his core temperature, making him not want to get out. After dressing, he heads to the kitchen. The house feels eerily quiet as he throws together ham, cheese and some wilting lettuce leaves. It’s a little too quiet. Maybe he liked having house guests. Or maybe he should get a cat. A cat would be someone to talk to in the evenings. He laughs at the thought. “How about you get yourself a damn woman instead?” he says aloud. Settling down to eat in front of the TV, he switches it on and sees the crime scene he just left. It looks busy, but the cameras don’t pick up anything they shouldn’t see. The body has been taken away already.

mile high breakfast sandwiches. They add bacon, sausage, ham, a fried egg and a slice of American cheese. They are also very good with soups, chili or stews.

Reluctantly, she entered the delicatessen with a soda fountain and cases of cold meat. There were twenty different kinds of cheeses, barrels of pickles, and sausages hanging from the ceiling. A sandwich board stood behind the counter, listing specialty sandwiches. Rosie scanned the selection: turkey club on a French roll, Canadian ham and Gruyère cheese, roast beef with horseradish and Bermuda onions. She pictured Ben standing in their kitchen after a long day at the studio. He would assemble almost every item in the fridge: ham, Swiss cheese, mustard, pickles, mayonnaise, sprouts, lettuce, and tomatoes. He would carefully spread the mustard on a whole-wheat roll and build a sandwich as if he was constructing a pyramid.

JUSTIFYING OPPRESSION While history has proven Malthusianism empirically false, however, it provides the ideal foundation for justifying human oppression and tyranny. The theory holds that there isn’t enough to go around, and can never be. Therefore human aspirations and liberties must be constrained, and authorities must be empowered to enforce the constraining. During Malthus’s own time, his theory was used to justify regressive legislation directed against England’s lower classes, most notably the Poor Law Act of 1834, which forced hundreds of thousands of poor Britons into virtual slavery. 11 However, a far more horrifying example of the impact of Malthusianism was to occur a few years later, when the doctrine motivated the British government’s refusal to provide relief during the great Irish famine of 1846. In a letter to economist David Ricardo, Malthus laid out the basis for this policy: “The land in Ireland is infinitely more peopled than in England; and to give full effect to the natural resources of the country, a great part of the population should be swept from the soil.” 12 For the last century and a half, the Irish famine has been cited by Malthusians as proof of their theory of overpopulation, so a few words are in order here to set the record straight. 13 Ireland was certainly not overpopulated in 1846. In fact, based on census data from 1841 and 1851, the Emerald Isle boasted a mere 7.5 million people in 1846, less than half of England’s 15.8 million, living on a land mass about two-thirds that of England and of similar quality. So compared to England, Ireland before the famine was if anything somewhat underpopulated. 14 Nor, as is sometimes said, was the famine caused by a foolish decision of the Irish to confine their diet to potatoes, thereby exposing themselves to starvation when a blight destroyed their only crop. In fact, in 1846 alone, at the height of the famine, Ireland exported over 730,000 cattle and other livestock, and over 3 million quarts of corn and grain flour to Great Britain. 15 The Irish diet was confined to potatoes because—having had their land expropriated, having been forced to endure merciless rack-rents and taxes, and having been denied any opportunity to acquire income through manufactures or other means—tubers were the only food the Irish could afford. So when the potato crop failed, there was nothing for the Irish themselves to eat, despite the fact that throughout the famine, their homeland continued to export massive amounts of grain, butter, cheese, and meat for foreign consumption. As English reformer William Cobbett noted in his Political Register: Hundreds of thousands of living hogs, thousands upon thousands of sheep and oxen alive; thousands upon thousands of barrels of beef, pork, and butter; thousands upon thousands of sides of bacon; and thousands and thousands of hams; shiploads and boats coming daily and hourly from Ireland to feed the west of Scotland; to feed a million and a half people in the West Riding of Yorkshire, and in Lancashire; to feed London and its vicinity; and to fill the country shops in the southern counties of England; we beheld all this, while famine raged in Ireland amongst the raisers of this very food. 16 “The population should be swept from the soil.” Evicted from their homes, millions of Irish men, women, and children starved to death or died of exposure. (Contemporary drawings from Illustrated London News.)

425F. Roll out a pre-made pizza crust and top with marinara sauce, shredded cheese, crumbled bacon, and 2 fried eggs. Bake for 10-12 minutes or until the crust is golden brown. 19 Breakfast sandwich with ham and cheese:

in case you’re wondering, can be tricky because you need to chop some peppers and dice some ham and grate some cheese and beat the eggs until all of the white is completely folded into the yolk while butter melts in a pan but you need to bring the pan up to temperature slowly so that it won’t burn the butter or scald the eggs because once you pour the eggs in you need to run the spatula around the outer edge so that it doesn’t stick and you really need to watch carefully so you can see the exact point when the pan side of the eggs are firm but the top side is still runny because that’s when you flip them but I don’t have the skills to just flip it out of the pan so I just slowly work the spatula underneath until it’s all the way to the center of the egg circle and then flip it quickly so that it doesn’t

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

I’m not a pretty, little princess,” she said around a mouthful of ham and cheese as she sat on the couch in our living room. “I’m the fire who’ll burn your house down.

Speaking of money, I can pay rent. I talked to the housing office yesterday, and they said I can use the funds allocated for the football house to pay you. I just need you to fill out a form.” I expect her to be happy about the news, but she frowns. “Maybe just give me half of that money and keep the rest.” “Why would I do that?” “Because like Billy said, this place is a mess, and you’re not getting any of the amenities you had at the football house.” Fucking Billy. “Think of it as both of us investing our money in something for the twins.” She thinks about that a moment. “Really?” “Yes, really.” Before I forget, I grab a notepad off the counter. “I’m going to get groceries later. Why don’t you jot down whatever you want me to get?” “I don’t need anything.” This woman is going to kill me. “What do you plan on eating this week?” She shrugs. “Ham and cheese on crackers. Some soup. Why?” “You need more than that. You’re gestating two babies, Magnolia. You can’t treat yourself like a starving college student.” “I just… I can’t pay you back right away.” Did I not just offer to pay her rent and she was trying to return half of it? She’s making me insane. “I don’t expect you to pay me anything. I want to get us groceries because we need them. I’m in training and burn a shit ton of calories. You’re pregnant and need to eat more than a damn Triscuit.” “Why are you raising your voice at me? I’m doing the best I can. Half the time I can’t eat anything because it comes right back up, so what’s the point? I’ll try to eat something later, okay?” She storms off and slams her bedroom door.

He likes pastry, not sweet potato pie. Croissants, not cornbread. Kale, not collard greens. Ham and cheese, not ham hocks. Mayonnaise not sandwich spread.

She takes cookbooks out of the library and finds recipes that add a little glamour to our lives without expensive ingredients, so a pea soup that employs a ham bone might start with sautéed cumin seeds or a grilled cheese sandwich is elevated to an entrée with the addition of an exotic slaw on the plate. We mostly get along fine, and our division of labor is fair: cook and dishwasher, optimist and pessimist.

The government cheese… The cheese of the government may be tempered with real cheese powders however it’s constantly not the best thing you should eat in the world. You can make a traditional grilled cheese sandwich. With American cheese which is just vegetable oil with food coloring as well as the skim of milk. However, that’s just government milk with government oil to make governments grilled cheese sandwich so be the nation can afford to eat. Nothing wrong with that at all. It’s humbling to know the value of a dollar. Compare it to the sales at every single store. You find government cheese made by companies that have been around since the 1900s. There are many cheeses of the world. Every single country makes cheese. Some really good ones and some that smell like someone cut the cheese. The government cheese can be put on a hamburger, which isn’t made of ham at all. The cheese can be melted to broccoli or put in macaroni and cheese as a quick meal with vegetables if any kind basically that is just homemade some sort of helper, then. As to the box of the content we all know as to all have eaten in our lifetime says so in really big letters. In directions anyone can understand. The government cheese can be put in that as well. For it will taste really good, nonetheless. All hail the government cheese. It’s affordable as well as delicious if you don’t like other cheeses. It can be melted to be slopped on chili cheese dogs. At every bbq in every household across the world. So don’t make fun of government cheese for there is also government bread as well as government water as well as many other governments benefits you can enjoy. Again, we can all hail at the government cheese. Now the people that can part between the sarcasm as to the appreciation of the government cheese. Successfully I have portrayed the explanation of government assistance to feed the population food that they can afford. Until they figure out that growing food your self is even more affordable as to it still giving respect to the government cheese. It’s also more rewarding when you have abundance of what you need right there fresh grown as you then know where it came from and that it wasn’t pumped full of high fructose corn syrup. That most of us are not even aware of this fun fact that they do to add weight to the money that they make per pound that you spend your money on. Wasteful don’t you think when you can eat one watermelon of 30lbs, and you know it’s right and the vitamins are real.

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

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

Fifth grade,” I began. “That year Kristy, Mary Anne, Alan, and I were all in the same class. Kristy really got Alan. He’d been tormenting us—all the girls, really—for the entire year, and by June we had had it. So one day, Kristy comes to school and all morning she brags about this fantastic lunch her mother has packed: a chocolate cupcake, Fritos, fruit salad, a ham and cheese sandwich, two Hershey’s Kisses—really great stuff. Kristy says it’s a reward for something or other. And she says the lunch is so great she’s got to protect it by keeping it in her desk instead of in the coat room. So, of course, Alan steals the bag out of her desk during the morning. Then at noontime in the cafeteria, he makes this big production out of opening it. He’s sitting at the boys’ table, and they’re all crowded around, and us girls are looking on from the next table. Alan is the center of attention, which is just what he wants.” “And just what I wanted,” added Kristy. “Right. So Alan carefully takes all the packages and containers out of the bag and spreads them in front of him. Then he begins to open them. In one he finds dead spiders, in another he finds a mud pie.” “David Michael had made it for me,” said Kristy. (David Michael is Kristy’s little brother. He was four then.) “She’d even wrapped up a sandwich with fake flies stuck on it.” Stacey began to giggle. “It was great,” said Mary Anne. “Everyone was laughing. And Kristy had packed a real lunch for herself, which she’d kept in the coat room. All afternoon, the kids kept telling her how terrific her trick had been.

I stripped quickly and eagerly lowered into the bath, unable to keep from moaning at the pleasure of the heat on my skin. “Here you are,” said Vallon, stepping around the screen with a plate of food. He’d undressed down to his shirt and trousers, his armor all gone. “What are you doing!” I crossed my arms to cover my breasts and tucked my knees up higher. He merely grinned and set the plate of berries, bread, and slices of cheese and cold ham on the little table next to the tub where the bath oils had also been set. “Vallon! Get out of here,” I hissed. He completely ignored me and squatted behind me at the head of the tub. “Let’s wash your hair, shall we?” “I can do it myself.” “But I’d like to do it.” He leaned over the edge and to the side at my shoulder to catch my gaze. I tucked my arms higher over my breasts, knowing full well he could see the lower half of my body. But his eyes were solely on mine. “Unless you don’t want me to. I’ll go away. If that’s what you truly want.

You see,” began Ezrah as they stopped at a table where Marge sat with her uncle (who got a bagel with ham and cheese) and aunt (who ordered a cherry-colored drink), “we have this tradition in Arcane where every Halloween, everything is pumpkin spice and candy apples. It sounds overly exhausting and wonderful, and it is. But on just that day, I go ham―eat anything that I can get my hands on, and it’s all free.” He looked at Marge who was bickering to Kitianna about some lead and the court hearing, and whispered, “It was the only day I could get Margaret to be a kid. To stop studying, stop worrying about her life. It isn’t the same now.

Face the truth. I am past fifty. I have gray hair. Big deal. What was I so afraid of? Looking my age? That’s ridiculous, I thought to myself. I have somehow lived through five decades of bad decisions. I have scars that look like I got them in prison, and none of the under forties I work with believe that mothers used to send their children off with ham and cheese sandwiches in metal lunch boxes in 115-degree heat without one of those children dying. I have beaten the odds! My

The wealthy might have had ice, but water itself was not widely drunk because palatable supplies were not readily available. Elizabeth Ham recalled that for supper at her boarding school at Tiverton in Devon, ‘we had a little bit of bread with a little bit of cheese on it, and a little cider in a little mug. No one in these days ever dreamt of drinking water.’ 123 Devon was a county that made prodigious quantities of cider, but the main drink in England was ‘small beer’, also referred to as ‘small ale’ or ‘common beer’. Woodforde called it ‘table beer’, while strong ales were just ‘beer’ or ‘strong beer’. Small beer was safer than water, and because of its low alcohol content, it was not intoxicating.

Do you make pizza dough?" "Yes." "This is the same thing. Very easy." When the yeast was foamy, she added flour, olive oil, and salt and handed me a large wooden spoon. "Now you stir it hard until it comes together. Then we knead." She floured the counter and I stirred until the ingredients came together and then turned the dough mass out onto the flour. Rosa divided it in half and we each kneaded a piece until it was smooth. We shaped them into balls, and Rosa covered them with a kitchen towel. "Now we prepare the fillings," she said. She went into a large pantry and returned with a basket filled with Italian salamis, ham, cheeses, red bell peppers, broccoli rabe, and fresh arugula. Just as Sally had said on the promotion show, "Casey Costello was cooking right in the kitchen with a real Italian," but it was no different from cooking with Mom or Nonna. The ingredients were the same, and Rosa, like my mother and grandmother, used no recipes. She knew her way around her ingredients and seemed pleased that I did as well. I realized that more than the country, more than the language, the food connected me to my heritage. I oiled the peppers and put them in a hot oven to roast. When they were charred, I removed the stems and seeds and cut them into thin strips. I laid them on a dish and put a little olive oil, salt, and vinegar on them. She peeled the stems of the broccoli rabe then cut it into two-inch pieces before blanching it for a minute and then sautéing it with olive oil, garlic, and hot pepper. I washed the arugula, removed the tough stems, and dried it. We put the fillings on platters. The colors were dynamite.

I was thinking omelets today. Maybe broccoli and cheese?” Sean’s head slumped over his coffee cup and Emma knew she had to say something…without telling her grandmother she’d fed her own fiancé a food he hated her first night home. “Um…how about mushrooms instead?” Gram rummaged in the fridge. “I don’t see any mushrooms. We still have broccoli, though.” “Sean only eats broccoli once in a while, like for special occasions,” Emma said in a rush. “He loves it, but it…it makes him gassy.” Since Gram still had her head over the crisper door, Sean was free to give her a what-the-hell look and she gave him an apologetic smile. After three weeks of living a lie—or two different lies—she should have been better at thinking on her feet. “We can’t have that,” Gram said. “”We still have some leftover ham. How do ham-and-cheese omelets sound?” “That sounds wonderful,” Sean said, still glaring at Emma.

The chef outdid himself, as one delectable dish after another was brought up from the kitchens. For Gabriel, there was a succulent roast goose with figs and a tender glazed ham, while (Esme) dined on a pair of clever cheese dishes, one made with cream and potatoes and another from Italy that combined cheese-filled flat noodles smothered with a wonderful rosemary butter sauce. Accompanying all of that was a plentiful array of vegetables, spiced and stewed fruits and freshly baked breads with creamy butter. And for dessert, there was a flaming plum pudding with a cognac whipped cream so strong it threatened to leave her tipsy.

Helen lifted the lid, her eyes widening as she discovered a treasure trove of caramels, jelly creams, candied fruit, toffees and marshmallow drops, all wrapped in twists of waxed paper. Her wondering gaze traveled to the nearby mountain of accumulating delicacies... smoked Wiltshire ham and collar bacon, a box of dry-cured salmon, pots of imported Danish butter, tinned sweetbreads, and a sack of fat glossed dates. There was a basket of hothouse fruits, wheels of Brie in papery white rinds, cunning little cheeses wrapped in netting jars of rich fig paste, pickled quail eggs, bottles of jewel-colored fruit liqueur meant to be sipped from tiny glasses, and a gold-colored tin of cocoa essence.

Breakfast Eggs Prep time: 4 minutes, cook time: 15 minutes, serves: 2 Ingredients 4 large eggs, beaten 2 thin slices ham 2 teaspoon unsalted butter 2 tablespoon heavy cream 3 tablespoon Parmesan cheese, grated ⅛ teaspoon smoked paprika 2 sprigs fresh chives, chopped A pinch of salt to taste ¼ teaspoon black pepper, freshly ground Directions Butter the Pie Pan and put the ham slices, so that the bottom and sides of the Pie Pan are completely covered. Place the pan into the Air Fryer basket. In the medium mixing bowl combine beaten egg with heavy cream. Season with salt and ground black pepper. Whisk well to combine. Pour egg mixture into the Pie Pan, over the ham, and crack the remaining 3 eggs over top. Season lightly with salt and pepper and sprinkle with grated Parmesan cheese. Preheat the Air Fryer to 310-330 F and cook for about 10-12 minutes. When ready, uncover the Fryer and season the eggs with smoked paprika and chopped chives. Using a spatula, remove the shirred eggs from the Pie Pan, and transfer to a plate. Serve warm.

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.