Jay Cooke Quotes

He wants a thunder tiger, Akihito." "Well, I want a woman who can touch her ears with her ankles, cook a decent meal and keep her opinions to herself. But they don't fucking exist either!

Just don’t. Don’t tell me whatever reason you managed to cook up after last night, because whatever it is, we both know the real reason, the real problem is that you won’t even entertain the idea of letting me in. That’s just fucked up because I could have fallen in love with you. Hell, I probably already did. I have shit to take care of, so I guess I’ll see you around.

No matter how impressive it might sound to your future colleagues, not only is raw meat more difficult to ingest and less nutrient rich, it's also rife with ill humors. When feasting on the flesh of your enemies, gentle friends, always take the time to cook it first.

When feasting on the flesh of your enemies, gentlefriends, always take the time to cook it first.

I crack open two eggs and beat them in a bowl with some rice milk, pouring a few tablespoons of cinnamon and sugar, then some brown sugar and nutmeg. After putting some Cap'n Crunch cereal into a small sandwich bag, I take a frying pan and beat the bag until the pieces are all smashed and powdery, like a great dry rub. I pick up a piece of bread and dip it in my French toast mix. Then I dip it in the crushed Cap'n Crunch and cook it in the frying pan until it's a nice, golden brown and ready to flip on the other side.

I cut the chicken breasts into halves, season them with the dry seasonings, and bake them. When they're ready and cooked all the way through, I wrap each half in bacon and fry them with onion slices until the bacon's a nice, crispy, golden brown and the onions are soft and cooked through and through. The whole time they cook and simmer, I run the stick of butter around the chicken halves for even crispier edges and that buttery taste that brings anything to the next level- a strategy probably everybody black knows, and I guess it's to my benefit there's not many black people in this competition.

LOOKING The world goes by, and what have I to do with it? I merely observe how the geese stretch their necks towards the orange rim of sky. I watch how light fades and children make their way home, hungry and tired. The bushes outside become ghosts while baths run and kitchen windows steam up with the cooking. This is the smell of our home, where I have a place in the wrinkled hours making beds and hugging boys awake. This is the sound of the house where I feel out lives into words, translate ragged nights and days into something whole, or try to. You may look if you wish..... The world goes by, and what have you or I to do with it, except perhaps for looking... ?

Perfectionists are working not to improve the world but to keep it under control. They do everything perfectly not for the satisfaction of a job well done but as a way of camouflaging addiction’s presence in the family. By keeping everything orderly, they’re trying to make the disease less noticeable. They work tirelessly to create a perfect family life but are rarely cognizant of what motivates their obsession. Through their eyes, perfectionism is their finest quality. It’s the way they provide the ones they love with the very best. They have no idea that perfectionism is an outgrowth of fear and that it’s more about looking happy than being happy. The compulsion to have the cleanest house, cook the best meals, plant the perfect garden, and always look perfectly coiffed is, for the perfectionist, a way to stay safe. After all, when the house is well kept, the children are properly dressed, and everyone has good manners, how can

the Illinois Gazette, published some handy “Rules for Wives,” among them these: A good wife will always receive her husband with smiles, leaving nothing undone to render home agreeable and gratefully reciprocate kindness and attention. She will study to discover means to gratify his inclinations in regard to food and cooking; in the management of her family; in her dress, manner, and deportment. She will in everything reasonably comply with his wishes, and as far as possible, anticipate them. These were rules that Sarah and Jay and most of their contemporaries took for granted. But there were rules for husbands, too. A good husband will always regard his wife as his equal, treat her with kindness, respect, and attention and never address her with an air of authority as if she were, as some husbands appear to regard their wives, mere housekeepers. Keseberg seems to have been one of those husbands who paid attention only to the first set of rules. Increasingly,

He belonged to the new breed of male epicureans who viewed cooking as a competitive sport, and pursued it with the same avidity that others had for fly-fishing or golf, with the attendant fetishization of the associated gadgetry and equipment. He

Chorizo, tomatoes and eggs Feeds three to four as a snack or just you if you’ve had a crappy day and are wondering what the point of it all really is. INGREDIENTS One medium onion, chopped 250g cooking chorizo, skinned (piquant or not, depending on taste) Two 400g tins of chopped tomatoes. Buy the expensive ones if it makes you feel better about yourself, but the cheap ones will do the job 200g grated cheddar 100g torn-up mozzarella Three eggs Bunch of coriander 200g jar of pickled jalapeños Heat the oven to 200°C. Gently fry the chopped onion in olive oil in a deep-sided frying pan until soft. Break the chorizo into thumbnail-sized nuggets and fry with the onion. When the chorizo is browned, add the tomatoes, mix all the ingredients together, turn down the heat and let it simmer gently on the hob for twenty minutes or so until almost all the liquid has been boiled off. Stir occasionally to stop it sticking to the bottom of the pan. Decant half the mixture into an oven-proof casserole dish. Cover with half the mixed cheese. Add the rest of the tomato and chorizo mixture and cover with the remaining cheese. Put in the oven and leave until the cheese has started to brown and the liquid around the edges is bubbling. Take the dish out of the oven and turn on the grill. Meanwhile, crack the three eggs across the top. Put under the grill for about five minutes or until the eggs are cooked through. Scatter with the coriander and the pickled jalapeños. Eat this by scooping with tortilla chips.

The crash of 1873 had been foreshadowed by the bankruptcy of Jay Cooke

Maybe she hadn't worked in a restaurant, but anyone who made their cookbooks look like that must have known something. I flipped through a few others. Thai salads, meringue-topped cakes, Carolina barbecue. Then on the bottom shelves, I found a row of cheap black-and-white speckled notebooks. They didn't fit the grown-up vibe of the rest of the room. Everyone has a soft spot, Jay had said. I reached for one. "Cooking Notes," it said in sparkly green pen on the cover. The handwriting was rounder. A kid's. "October 25," I read slowly, trailing my finger along the page. Fish sticks. Cook at 400F for two minutes longer than the box says. Hank likes one tablespoon ketchup and one tablespoon yellow mustard mixed together. Mom likes one tablespoon mayonnaise with juice of a quarter of a lemon and one teaspoon Tabasco. Hank's waffles. Toast Eggos on medium, put on butter and maple syrup, then microwave for ten seconds to melt everything together. I flicked through a year of little Ellie's cooking. A lot of it was her trying to dress up convenience food--- pancakes, ramen. Toward the end of the notebook, she'd started to try random scratch recipes. Ground Turkey Tacos had lots of stars and fireworks drawn around it, while another for zucchini omelets only had "Yuck.

Many Detroiters, for example, are beginning to see urban agriculture as a real part of the solution; to grow things right where people live, where they work, and definitely need healthier food on the table. Green city gardens are scattered throughout Detroit now, from the schoolyard at Catherine Ferguson Academy for pregnant teens and teen moms, to reclaimed land owned by a local order of Catholic friars (Earthworks), to a seven-acre organic farm in Rouge Park. Together, city gardeners, nonprofit organizations, and the Greening of Detroit resource agency are writing a new local-food story of urban Michigan.

Life of a pretty boy who can cook.” And got a trophy dick.

It's an old New England style pie. You make a single baked crust. Then pour the crust full of berries to measure them and set aside. You put about a third as many more berries in a pan, with a quarter cup of water and boil a sauce up, with a half cup of sugar or a bit more, and a maybe a quarter teaspoon of nutmeg,” Jay told him. The cook nodded like he had been wondering about that last. “You add a bit of water if you need to thin the sauce, and then you dump in the raw berries and mix it up gently, so you don't bust up all the berries, and pour it in the shell to chill. The sauce blanches the berries just a bit, and they firm it up. My aunt would put a bit of gelatin in the sauce, but my mom didn't. That's all. It's pretty simple,” Jay said.

Vultures!” Joe cried with his mouth full. “Go away! We’re not dead yet.” “They aren’t vultures,” said the Professor, “but boobies.” “How do you know they’re boobies? They haven’t done anything stupid yet.” “It’s only what they’re called, Joe.” “They certainly look beautiful in flight,” said Danny. “Look how their wings catch the air currents.” “They’d look more beautiful in a plate with gravy and mashed potatoes,” Joe grinned. “I don’t think you’d enjoy them. They are fish-eaters, and they have a strong, fishy taste,” said the Professor. “We couldn’t cook them in the raft anyway,” Danny added. “Gee, that’s right,” said Joe. “We haven’t any potatoes.

688–711. Shipping my coffee takes a huge number of folks, including the Hong Kong Express ship crew, which brings the coffee to the port, including officers, electricians, cooks, and engineers such as Ariel Agalla, John Ryan Consad, Generoso Caneja, Angelito Segundino, Cesar Escobal, Maurice Bajo, Christoph Heers, Günter Naborowski, Ansgar Lehmköster, Danilo Napoto, Pawel Sobolewski, Aivan Delgado, John Aumüller, Lasse Gawande, Uriel Lumanog, Juan Carlos Nirza, Jay Vee Cruz, Mac Lawrence Dadivas, Remar Locsin, Genadij Dubrow, Gabriel Yana, Rheinell Nolasco, Michael Nierra, and Yonger Chaux.

Who usually cooks?” “Enid.” “Enid isn’t here. We had to let her go because we have you.

At the street level, Sugar Fair welcomed customers into a bright, child-like fantasy. The architecturally designed enchanted forest was awash in jewel tones, and gorgeous smells, and the waterfall of free-flowing chocolate. But it was the Dark Forest downstairs that had proved an unexpected money-spinner, an income stream that had helped keep them afloat through the precarious first year. Four nights a week, through a haze of purple smoke and bubbling cauldrons, Sylvie taught pre-booked groups how to make concoctions that would tease the senses, delight the mind... and knock people flat on their arse if they weren't careful. High percentage of alcohol. It was a mixology class with a lot of tricks and pyrotechnics. It had been Jay's idea to get a liquor license. "Pleasures of the mouth," he'd said at the time. "The holy trinity--- chocolate, coffee, and booze." With even her weekends completely blocked out, Sylvie had almost made a crack about forfeiting certain other pleasures of the mouth, but Jay had inherited a puritanical streak from his mother. Both their mouths looked like dried cranberries if someone made a sex joke. The sensuous, moody haven in the basement was a counterbalance to the carefully manufactured atmosphere upstairs. There were, after all, reasons to shy away from relentless cheer. Perhaps someone had just been through a breakup, or a family reunion. A really distressing haircut. Maybe they'd logged on to Twitter and realized half the population were a bunch of pricks. Or maybe the'd picked up the Metropolitan News and found Dominic De Vere indirectly thrashing their entire business aesthetic in a major London daily. Whatever the reason--- feeling a little stressed? A bit peeved? Annoyed as fuck? Welcome to the Dark Forest. Through the bakery, turn left, down the stairs.