Lunch Was Delicious Quotes

My mom was never the type to write me long letters or birthday cards. We never got mani-pedis together, she never gave me a locket with our picture in it. She wouldn't tell me I looked beautiful, or soothe me when a boy broke my heart. But she was there. She kept me safe. She did her best to make me tough. She fed me the most delicious home-cooked meals. For lunch, she'd pack me rare sliced steak over white rice and steamed broccoli. She sent me to private school from kindergarten through twelfth grade. She is still there for me. She will always be there for me, as long as she's able. That's a great mom.

Imagine you’re walking down the street eating a sandwich and someone says, Damn, that looks like a delicious sandwich, can I have a bite? You’d think, why would I ever let you eat this sandwich? This is my sandwich. So you’d walk on and continue eating, and they’d say, What? You’re not going to say anything? No need to get mad, I was just trying to compliment your sandwich. Let’s say this happened three times a day, strangers stopping you on the street, letting you know how good your food looks, asking if they can have some of it. What if people started yelling out of their cars about how much they wanted your sandwich. Let me have some! they’d exclaim, driving by with a honk. Were you supposed to say, I’m sorry, no thank you, every time? Would you feel obligated to explain over and over again that you don’t wish to share because it’s your lunch and you don’t know them? That you don’t owe them any of it? That it’s a little unreasonable that they’re asking in the first place? All you would want is to walk down the street eating your sandwich in peace. Maybe I am making this worse by comparing a woman’s body to a sandwich, but do you see what I mean?

After Elsa’s death, Einstein established a routine that as the years passed varied less and less. Breakfast between 9 and 10 was followed by a walk to the institute. After working until 1pm he would return home for lunch and a nap. Afterwards he would work in his study until dinner between 6.30 and 7pm. If not entertaining guests, he would return to work until he went to bed between 11 and 12. He rarely went to the theatre or to a concert, and unlike Bohr, hardly ever watched a movie. He was, Einstein said in 1936, ‘living in the kind of solitude that is painful in one’s youth but in one’s more mature years is delicious’.

The sandy beach reminded Harold of picnics. And the thought of picnics made him hungry. So he laid out a nice simple picnic lunch. There was nothing but pie. But there were all nine kinds of pie that Harold liked best. When Harold finished his picnic there was quite a lot left. He hated to see so much delicious pie go to waste. So Harold left a very hungry moose and a deserving porcupine to finish it up.

The lesson about food is that the most predictable and the most orderly outcomes are always not the best. They are just easier to describe. Fads are orderly. Food carts and fires aren't. Feeding the world could be a delicious mess, full of diverse flavors and sometimes good old-fashioned smoke.

The last thing we want to admit is that the forbidden fruit on which we have been gnawing since reaching the magic age of twenty-one is the same mealy Golden Delicious that we stuff into our children’s lunch boxes. The last thing we want to admit is that the bickering of the playground perfectly presages the machinations of the boardroom, that our social hierarchies are merely an extension of who got picked first for the kickball team, and that grown-ups still get divided into bullies and fatties and crybabies. What’s a kid to find out? Presumably we lord over them an exclusive deed to sex, but this pretense flies so fantastically in the face of fact that it must result from some conspiratorial group amnesia. […] In truth, we are bigger, greedier versions of the same eating, shitting, rutting ruck, hell-bent on disguising from somebody, if only from a three-year-old, that pretty much all we do is eat and shit and rut. The secret is there is no secret. That is what we really wish to keep from our kids, and its supression is the true collusion of adulthood, the pact we make, the Talmud we protect.

The last thing we want to admit is that the forbidden fruit on which we have been gnawing since reaching the magic age of twenty-one is the same mealy Golden Delicious that we stuff into our children’s lunch boxes.

My publishers, two Catalan brothers with an inherited income, took me out to lunch to inform me that the first print run would be only five hundred copies. Five hundred readers? I accept! And the lunch was delicious.

Several Meat Eaters lay in vomit, too weak to move. (The Black Meat is like a tainted cheese, overpoweringly delicious and nauseating so that the eaters eat and vomit and eat again until they fall exhausted.)

but when I told her they didn’t cost one penny and were very nutritious (I made that part up, but I’m sure it must be true), she ate them up. She packed them into her lunch pail this morning, and when I looked

[Lunch] was composed of one of the fish she had caught, evidently rescued from Mogget. This had been grilled with ginger, pepper, and some spice she didn't know, set atop a salad of grains and greenleaf, accompanied by a lightly sparkling clear wine she had to admit was delicious and refreshing.

Ungh,” Ryan said. “That shit is so hot.” Everyone turned to stare at him. He was bright red. “I said that out loud, didn’t I? Dammit.” “What?” I squeaked. “When you do magic, it turns me on,” Ryan said, shaking his head frantically. “Ah gods. I can’t—stop. Just stop. Ahhh, I get erections when you cast spells. Oh shit.” “Sweet molasses,” I managed to say. “This… this is not what I thought was going to happen today,” Gary said. “What you think happen?” Tiggy asked. “I thought Ryan and Sam would continue to ignore how much they want to bone each other and we would all be suffering in silence because Sam won’t pull his head out of his ass to see that Ryan wants to eat said ass for dinner.” “I do,” Ryan said through gritted teeth. “For breakfast, even. And lunch. And a midnight snack. Especially when you do magic.” “You have a magic kink?” I said, because that was the only thing I could focus on. “Yes. But only for you. Your magic gets me hard,” he said, looking like he wished he could be anywhere but where he was. “When you do anything, I get hard, really. Even your ridiculous sex puns. You remember when you wrapped those Dark wizards in stone at the restaurant?” “Yeah,” I managed to say. “I wanted to tell you that you gave me an e-rock-tion.” He bent over and banged his forehead against the table. “Why, why, why did I say that out loud? Please. Someone. Anyone. Kill me.” “Sex puns,” I breathed. “Knight Delicious Face said a sex pun.” “There it is again!” he exclaimed. “Knight Delicious Face. What is that?” “You’re a knight,” I said. “And your face is delicious.” “You think I’m delicious?” he said, suddenly shy. “Oh my gods,” Gary moaned. “This is so awkward I can’t even stand it. I physically hurt from how awkward this is. I don’t even care that we’re apparently in mortal danger. I just don’t want to listen to you two flirt anymore. Eloise? Yoo-hoo, Eloise? If you’re going to kill us, can you please do it now? I can’t take this anymore.

With their purchases in boxes the girls strolled down the street to a Spanish restaurant. Here they ate a delicious lunch of tacos and spicy chili. For dessert they had iced fresh fruit. Bess sighed. “Umm, that was super.” Afterward, they walked to a wide street beside a park where an outdoor painting exhibition was being held. The group stopped now and then to admire and compliment the artists who sat beside their work.

December 8, 1986 Hello John: Thanks for the good letter. I don’t think it hurts, sometimes, to remember where you came from. You know the places where I came from. Even the people who try to write about that or make films about it, they don’t get it right. They call it “9 to 5.” It’s never 9 to 5, there’s no free lunch break at those places, in fact, at many of them in order to keep your job you don’t take lunch. Then there’s OVERTIME and the books never seem to get the overtime right and if you complain about that, there’s another sucker to take your place. You know my old saying, “Slavery was never abolished, it was only extended to include all the colors.” And what hurts is the steadily diminishing humanity of those fighting to hold jobs they don’t want but fear the alternative worse. People simply empty out. They are bodies with fearful and obedient minds. The color leaves the eye. The voice becomes ugly. And the body. The hair. The fingernails. The shoes. Everything does. As a young man I could not believe that people could give their lives over to those conditions. As an old man, I still can’t believe it. What do they do it for? Sex? TV? An automobile on monthly payments? Or children? Children who are just going to do the same things that they did? Early on, when I was quite young and going from job to job I was foolish enough to sometimes speak to my fellow workers: “Hey, the boss can come in here at any moment and lay all of us off, just like that, don’t you realize that?” They would just look at me. I was posing something that they didn’t want to enter their minds. Now in industry, there are vast layoffs (steel mills dead, technical changes in other factors of the work place). They are layed off by the hundreds of thousands and their faces are stunned: “I put in 35 years…” “It ain’t right…” “I don’t know what to do…” They never pay the slaves enough so they can get free, just enough so they can stay alive and come back to work. I could see all this. Why couldn’t they? I figured the park bench was just as good or being a barfly was just as good. Why not get there first before they put me there? Why wait? I just wrote in disgust against it all, it was a relief to get the shit out of my system. And now that I’m here, a so-called professional writer, after giving the first 50 years away, I’ve found out that there are other disgusts beyond the system. I remember once, working as a packer in this lighting fixture company, one of the packers suddenly said: “I’ll never be free!” One of the bosses was walking by (his name was Morrie) and he let out this delicious cackle of a laugh, enjoying the fact that this fellow was trapped for life. So, the luck I finally had in getting out of those places, no matter how long it took, has given me a kind of joy, the jolly joy of the miracle. I now write from an old mind and an old body, long beyond the time when most men would ever think of continuing such a thing, but since I started so late I owe it to myself to continue, and when the words begin to falter and I must be helped up stairways and I can no longer tell a bluebird from a paperclip, I still feel that something in me is going to remember (no matter how far I’m gone) how I’ve come through the murder and the mess and the moil, to at least a generous way to die. To not to have entirely wasted one’s life seems to be a worthy accomplishment, if only for myself. Your boy, Hank

On the phone, Nick Epley had told me that he thinks that society, in which individuals are more isolated than ever before, would be happier if people talked to each other and made small connections when it’s easy to. When you’re both waiting in the same queue for twenty minutes; when the plane is delayed, you’re stuck at the gate, you’ve already listened to four podcasts and you’re admiring the shoes of the woman sitting next to you and want to tell her about something you just heard on Radio 4 but feel weird about it; when you want to ask the person eating lunch on a park bench where they got their delicious-smelling curry – maybe just do it. Most people will enjoy it. And if you’re game to really talk, head into Deep Self territory. But don’t, say, grab a book out of someone’s hands and ask, ‘So, when was the last time you cried in front of someone else?’ (Trust me on that one. Although this question has been tested by Nick and will get you into fertile Deep Talk territory real fast.)

Brian orders us both Grandpa's Turtle Sundaes, a classic with vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, caramel sauce, whipped cream and nuts, topped with a house-made turtle candy instead of a cherry. Sigh. So much for getting out of the elastic waistband pants anytime soon. But the thing is, it works. Decadent, insane, over the top, but so freaking delicious. Cold ice cream, fluffy whipped cream, the mingling richness of fudge and caramel, perfectly tempered with the salt and crunch of toasted pecans and peanuts. A weirdly perfect food.

Yep," I say, cutting a large slice of the Dutch Baby pancake and sliding it onto her plate along with two pieces of thick-sliced bacon. Then I serve myself, the fluffy pancake, doused in butter and lemon and confectioners' sugar, the bacon perfectly crispy and salty. "What happened? 'Cause that is some full-service lawyering; I'm clearly with the wrong firm. Damn this thing is delicious," she says in a rush, forking a large piece of pancake into her mouth and rolling her eyes. "I know, right?" I take a small bite, letting the flavors mingle, the light pancake, the tart lemon, the sweet sugar. Perfection.

My Deep-Fried Pork Cutlet with Fondue Lunch Set is ready to eat!" A Lunch Set?! With fondue even?! Wow, that's, um... a really Soma thing to make! "So I'm assuming the cheese is a dipping sauce? And it's in this little pot?" "Yep, you got it. Go on and give it a good dunking." "Here we go... huh? It's black?! Wait a minute, isn't this supposed to be cheese?!" Mmm! Sooo gooood! It's so light and tender! The crunchy outer shell practically melts in your mouth the second you bite into it! And the sauce is mellow and rich, melding together with the cutlet in indescribable deliciousness! "Wait... what is this sauce?!" "At a glance, it looks like tonkatsu sauce- the plain old black paste that always goes with pork cutlets. But it's really a black cheese sauce! I made an eggplant puree from chunks of eggplant I grilled over a brazier until their skins were charred good and black. Then I took that puree, rich with the unique aroma of charcoal grilling, and blend it with cheese!" "Ah! Now I see! The soft flavors of cheese and chargrilling work together, lingering in the mouth as a light but rich aftertaste! That's how you managed to give such a refined and elegant deliciousness!

The truth is, the vanity of protective parents that I cited to the court goes beyond look-at-us-we’re-such-responsible-guardians. Our prohibitions also bulwark our self-importance. They fortify the construct that we adults are all initiates. By conceit, we have earned access to an unwritten Talmud whose soul-shattering content we are sworn to conceal from “innocents” for their own good. By pandering to this myth of the naïf, we service our own legend. Presumably we have looked the horror in the face, like staring into the naked eye of the sun, blistering into turbulent, corrupted creatures, enigmas even to ourselves. Gross with revelation, we would turn back the clock if we could, but there is no unknowing of this awful canon, no return to the blissfully insipid world of childhood, no choice but to shoulder this weighty black sagacity, whose finest purpose is to shelter our air-headed midgets from a glimpse of the abyss. The sacrifice is flatteringly tragic. The last thing we want to admit is that the forbidden fruit on which we have been gnawing since reaching the magic age of twenty-one is the same mealy Golden Delicious that we stuff into our children’s lunch boxes. The last thing we want to admit is that the bickering of the playground perfectly presages the machinations of the boardroom, that our social hierarchies are merely an extension of who got picked first for the kickball team, and that grown-ups still get divided into bullies and fatties and crybabies. What’s a kid to find out? Presumably we lord over them an exclusive deed to sex, but this pretense flies so fantastically in the face of fact that it must result from some conspiratorial group amnesia. To this day, some of my most intense sexual memories date back to before I was ten, as I have confided to you under the sheets in better days. No, they have sex, too. In truth, we are bigger, greedier versions of the same eating, shitting, rutting ruck, hell-bent on disguising from somebody, if only from a three-year-old, that pretty much all we do is eat and shit and rut. The secret is there is no secret. That is what we really wish to keep from our kids, and its suppression is the true collusion of adulthood, the pact we make, the Talmud we protect.

The secret to successfully staying within your budget and enjoying delicious one serving meals at the same time is through planning. Set aside an hour each week and dedicate it to planning your breakfast, lunch and dinner meals.

Here you have your spaghetti, which, with a delicious sauce of ripe tomatoes, basil, sleek eggplant, and ricotta you will eat for lunch, when office workers, acrobats, and slaughtermen return home for the siesta and for a few brief hours the restless city sleeps.

Etiquette decrees that when a man has pulled a lady from the mud three times, he’s permitted to address her in intimate terms.” Charlotte joined him on the bench, biting into her sandwich. Her nearness warmed his side. Convenience or progress? “I must have missed that one.” “One of Beau Brummell’s strictures,” he said, starting his lunch. She was right. The food was squashed, but at least it was dry. Right now, he was hungry enough to gnaw the leg off the table, and this simple fare was delicious. “And once the lady has returned the favor by assisting the gentleman after he’s fallen flat on his rump, she’s required to call him Ewan.” “Even if that’s not his name?” “Even so,” he said solemnly. She snickered and bumped him with her elbow. “You talk such nonsense.” “Och, you turn my brain to porridge, lassie. I lost all sense the moment I looked into your lovely eyes.” “More nonsense.” Silly

Rome We stopped for lunch at a sidewalk café. Like the Italians, we started with an antipasto (appetizer) of grilled vegetables. I also ordered gnocchi (small potato dumplings), cacciucco (fish stew), and for dessert, torta di ricotta (cheesecake). Everything was delicious! Our waiter told us that each of Italy’s 20 regions has its own specialty dishes. And I thought pizza and pasta were Italy’s main foods!

You are going to have to take the rest of these croissants to work with you, I cannot be trusted alone in the house with a half-dozen buttery, crispy pillows of deliciousness." "Well, I wouldn't have brought so many, but that place will only sell them if you buy eight or more." I laugh. A Logan Square conundrum. "I know. One of the neighborhood quirks." "You hipsters with your crazy convolutions." I laugh. The transitional predominantly Latino neighborhood I moved into almost fifteen years ago has indeed become hipster central. Full of young men in skinny jeans and ironic T-shirts and scraggly facial hair, and young women in cotton sundresses with motorcycle boots, all blithely riding about on their vintage Schwinns with earbuds in, making motorists stabby.

Yeah, just what I needed, a massive three-day Hostess binge, followed by a week of trying to replicate recipes so that if no one decides to buy and reissue Twinkies and Suzy Q's, I'll be all set. It was a ridiculous endeavor, since most of the experience of Hostess is in the slightly plasticky tastes and textures, which cannot be replicated in a home kitchen. You can make a delicious moist yellow cake and fill it with a marshmallowy vanilla cream, and it will be spectacular, trust me; I ate at least a dozen. But it won't taste like a Twinkie. The cake won't have the springiness, the filling won't have the fluff, and it is impossible to get those three little dots in the bottom. Which would be fine, since I hadn't actually eaten a Hostess product for the better part of a decade, hadn't missed them either. But that little news item hit, and in a Pavlovian fit of nostalgia, I was off to the local gas station to load up on white boxes with blue and red details. Twinkies, Sno Balls, Ding Dongs... even a cherry Fruit Pie. All of them the flavors of my youth, and proof that there are certain things you should leave as fond memories, since they don't really hold up.

Lois and Eloise and Benji have been cooking from the book all week in preparation, making everything from homemade marshmallows and chewy pates de fruit, to homemade Oreos and Better than Nutter Butters. Caramels, macarons, miniparfaits filled with apple compote and vanilla custard and olive oil cake. Insane little chocolate tarts. Shortbreads and chocolates and my personal favorite, the Chocolate Bouchan, essentially a cork-shaped brownie that is one of the most delicious things I have ever tasted.

But for now, you are only mine," she said a bit more fiercely than she had intended. "And I am not ready to share you with them all just yet." His low laugh, which had been coming more easily lately, rolled freely from his throat as he brought her back into his arms. "Yet, you force meto share you," he stated. "You realize that once we are married, I will be able to take you away on a grand honeymoon. It will be just the two of us. Not only for the darkest hours of the night," he murmured suggestively as his hands began to roam up and down the length of her back, inciting delicious shivers. He lowered his head beside hers to tease the sensitive skin of her neck with his lips and breath. "But all day, as well. Through sunrise, midday, and dusk. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner." Lily sighed, melting into him. Her hands reached around to grasp his buttocks, and she pressed her lips to his bare shoulder before asking, "Can we take all of our meals to bed?" His laughter was deep, rolling, and infectious as he stepped away. "I had better get you home, or I shall make another meal of you.

Grilled Veggie and Cream Cheese Sandwiches There’s not much I love more than grilled vegetables. As delicious as a vegetable already is, something happens during the grilling process that makes me want to propose. And not to a man! To the grilled veggies themselves. Grilled vegetables are a great sandwich filler, and you won’t even think about the fact that there’s no meat anywhere in sight. I love this make-ahead sandwich because…well…you can make it ahead of time. Ha ha! Actually, it’s better if you make it ahead of time and let it get more and more wonderful. By the time lunch rolls around, you’ve got a little miracle on your hands. I mean in your hands. I mean in your mouth!

To break the mummified silence, Reyha says, "Thank you, Mom, it is delicious." A gold-rimmed china bowl filled with lettuce, wheat sprouts, and beans. I have requested a massacre of plants for lunch. The sound of the lettuce crunching between my teeth echoes in my ears... "Lettuce and carrots love human teeth," I say. They don't know that they should laugh. Mother's skin is so fair. Her lips bitterly curved downward, just like Reyhaneh's, show no sign of her usual naive smile. "It's great that you all eat meat. If everyone was a vegetarian, the sheep would die of hunger." I laugh at my own inane joke, dig out the unchewable lettuce string stuck between my teeth, and I put it on the side of the bowl. "At the front they used to tell us that if we were martyred, we would go to heaven. I have heard that in heaven, the instant you crave grapes or apples, the tree branches bend down to you. But the Quran doesn't say if there are carrots in heaven or not. Our house is better than heaven. It has lettuce, it has carrots. And I crave these every day...

The group picked up the picnic hamper from the Queen and strolled down a narrow path through the woods leading to Willow River. “Here’s a good spot.” Callie pointed to a shaded level area along the bank. “We haven’t been in this section before.” Soon everyone was enjoying the delicious lunch the girls had prepared: chicken sandwiches, potato salad, chocolate cake, and lemonade. While they were eating, the girls were the targets of good-natured kidding. “Boy!” Joe exclaimed as he finished his piece of cake. “This is almost as good as my mother and Aunt Gertrude make.” “That’s a compliment!” Chet said emphatically. Callie’s eyes twinkled. “I know it is. Joe’s mother and aunt are the best cooks ever!” Iola sniffed. “I don’t know about this compliment stuff. There’s something on your mind, Joe Hardy!” Joe grinned. “How are you on apple pie and cream puffs and—?” “Oh, stop it!” Iola commanded. “Otherwise, you won’t get a second piece of cake!” “I give up.” Joe handed over his paper plate.

My mom was a devoted wife and mother. The first up every morning, she would don her very practical apron, which was usually made out of floral feed-sack material and went over her head and buttoned or tied behind her back. She'd prepare lunches for my five sisters and me, and one for Dad, too... About three o'clock in the afternoon, Mom would straighten the house, vacuuming and dusting, and by the time we walked in from school, she'd be in the kitchen with her apron on, preparing the evening meal. Every dinner was complete with meat, potatoes, salad, two vegetables, and bread and butter. And the dining table was always set with a vase of fresh flowers or green cuttings. When dinner was just about ready, she'd go freshen up, changing clothes and putting on makeup. When one of my sisters once asked her how come she "got ready" and changed clothes right before dinner, Mom smiled and said, "Because my husband is coming home." When our father walked into the house from work, he was greeted with a delicious home-cooked meal on the table and Mom, all decked out in a fresh, pretty apron. [Dick Amman]

A sign advertising lunches and dinners swung from a post in front of a small white cottage. Flowered curtains hung at the windows and rose-bushes were in bloom along the walk. “Doesn’t look like a hideout for thieves,” said Joe, disappointed. Frank pointed out that the attractive front might be only a cover for some sinister doings inside. He insisted they find out, adding: “Guess we all could eat, anyway. Let’s go in. I’ll telephone and tell Mother we won’t be home for lunch.” The woman who owned the restaurant prepared a delicious meal for the boys, while they looked around. They saw the entire cottage, even the basement, for the owner proudly showed them her preserve closet. There was nothing the least bit suspicious about the house.

It does, however, have bathrooms. South Shore Surfside Beach was my beach of choice for my first three summers. In fact, I don’t think I went anywhere else. It’s wide. There’s plenty of space. It also has the Surfside Beach Shack. It’s not an exaggeration to say that if I could, I would eat lunch at the Surfside Shack every day of the summer, and so would my kids. The food is delicious.

They each contribute at least one dish to their new menu. It's not an extensive list, just a handful of favorites that are not only delicious and filling, but affordable as well. Peter makes the most mouthwatering shucos on heavenly soft long bread buns, buttered and toasted to perfection before being topped with halved hotdogs, guacamole, cabbage, mayonnaise, tomato sauce, chili sauce, and mustard. It's both crispy and soft at the same time, a perfect combination of textures in one's mouth. It's honestly the perfect dish for anyone looking for a quick but hearty meal for lunch. Freddie brings fish and chips to the table. Simple, delectable, but hardly anything to scoff at. He makes sure to use a beer batter to bring out the subtle flavors of the fresh halibut he uses. It's then fried to golden perfection. The fries are lovingly cut and seasoned by hand, optional Cajun spice in a small serving bowl to the side. He never skimps on the portion sizes, either. The fish is massive, and he makes sure to pile fries so high, a few always fall off the expo line. Rina contemplated making a classic pho from scratch, but eventually decided on her and her sister's personal favorite gỏi cuõn--- savory braised pork, massive prawns, soft vermicelli, cucumbers, lettuce, and diced carrots all wrapped up in a pretty rice paper blanket. The way she plates everything makes the dish look like a masterpiece that's too good to eat. Most people do, however, eat it eventually, because it'd be a right shame to waste such an amazing meal. Eden makes her mother's macaroni and cheese. The cheap, boxed shit from grocery stores doesn't even begin to compare. She comes in early to make the macaroni from scratch, rolling and kneading pasta dough with deft hands. The cheese sauce she uses is also made from scratch, generous helpings of butter and cream and sharp cheddar--- a sprinkle of salt and pepper and oregano, too--- melting into one cohesive concoction she then pours over her recently boiled pasta. She makes every bowl to order, placing everything in cute little ramekins they found on sale, popping it into the oven beneath the broiler so that the butter-coated bread crumb topping can turn a beautiful golden brown. With a bit of chopped bacon and fresh green onions sprinkled on top, it's arguably one of the most demanded dishes at The Lunchbox.

They talked in the way toddlers might throw playthings around the room. There was seldom any catching of an idea and sharing it. When the lunches were over, individual opinions lay scattered about in a delicious jumble only ever one layer deep.

After the delicious lunch and a delightfully friendly conversation, I did not see the Nubian and his girlfriend again until after Andy returned from Italy. It was then that the truth came out about the gorgeous Kismat’s unique ways.

Quinoa and Banana Muffins

The most delicious thing it’s going to see today is Preacher’s lunch,” she said, but she smiled when she said it. “Thank God,” he said, teasing. “I admit, I was pretty worried. I wondered—if I gave you wine and music and you began to seduce me, how would I—” “Get out of it?” she asked, amused. “Not exactly, mija.” He grinned. “How would I keep Jack from killing me.” “Don’t take this the wrong way, Mike, it’s not personal, but Jack isn’t in charge of what I do. He thinks he is. But he’s not.” “Big brothers,” Mike said. “Very annoying people...

So," he explains. "Take the piece of bread, dip it in the olive oil and then in the spice and nut mix, and then smear some of the spicy carrot dip on top." The appetizer is complicated to assemble, but absolutely delicious. The bread, a hearty baguette from La Boulangerie, is a chewy, crusty foil for the buttery oil, savory crunchy nut mixture, and sweet and spicy carrot puree. An explosion of flavor and texture. He also has some creamy local chèvre, and marinated olives.

So tonight we are just seven. Seven people, and twelve pounds of pork. I pick a piece of the insanely delicious crispy skin and feel it crunch between my teeth. Suddenly the ratio seems perfectly normal. Gene rubbed it with his secret spice mix early this morning, and it's been roasting in a slow oven all day. Andrea's creamy grits are the perfect thing to soak up the thick gravy, Jasmin's parsnips and pears are caramelized and sweet, and everyone praises my chard and chickpeas.

What do you want for lunch?" "Jag and I were talking about maybe needing a little Persian fix. What do you think?" "I think I will do an order to Noon O Kabab, and then take the dog for a walk. Can you keep an ear out for the doorbell?" "Will do?" I grab my iPad and log in to the restaurant website and place an order for hummus, baba ghanouj, spicy pomegranate wings, and skewers of chenjeh, koubideh, and lamb. The combination of grilled marinated rib eye, minced spiced beef, and tender lamb should be plenty for three hungry worker bees, with Persian rice and grilled vegetables, chunks of feta, and their delicious large pita breads.

chill.

Words are powerful, so add visually descriptive adjectives to the story. For example, if you're talking about a fruit you had for lunch, you could say, "Today I had the most delicious strawberries. As I bit into one, I could feel the juices squirting out," or

The lunch menu consisted of a seafood appetizer, creamy chicken in a pastry shell, and a green salad--none of which was really kids’ food. Patrick and Caroline toyed silently with their seafood and managed a few obligatory bites. I noticed Diana’s eyes twinkling with amusement as she watched them. I had to admit “Patrick and Caroline aren’t especially fond of shellfish.” When the chicken was served, Caroline didn’t know how to serve herself and cast an imploring look at me that said, “Oh, help! What do I do, Mom?” Before I could react, Diana, so attuned to children, jumped up and came over to serve Caroline and cut up her chicken. I was speechless at her rapid, sympathetic response. Caroline thanked her, then gazed at her in adoration for the rest of the meal. She was in heaven! Dessert was tricky and delicious--ice cream in a slippery chocolate shell. This time two people served all of us, so my children would not have to struggle for themselves. During lunch, Diana made a point of asking Patrick and Caroline about their travels, their schools, and their hobbies. Patrick’s responses were very polite, but tended to be rather subdued and brief. I wanted him to sound a bit more animated. I resisted the urge to give him a sharp kick under the table. Caroline was more talkative. Diana seemed to enjoy my lively, spunky daughter. My children behaved themselves beautifully amidst the unaccustomed formality and luxury. My years of daily training paid off. They answered questions politely, sat up straight in their chairs, and even chewed with their mouths closed. I thought of my mother-in-law’s claim, “You can take those children anywhere.” Their lunch with the Princess of Wales certainly proved her point. I was very proud of them.

All of a sudden the burlap bag in her hands started to squawk and bulge wildly. “What is this?” Caleb’s good humor was apparently restored. “It’s a chicken, sodbuster. After you chop off his head, gut him, and pluck out all his feathers, he’ll fry up real nice.” Lily felt her lunch boil up into her throat. She’d fed plenty of chickens in her time, and certainly fried a few, but Rupert had usually been the one to kill them. “He looks delicious,” she said in a small voice. Caleb, who had been about to lead his horse back to his grazing place, stopped in midstride and grinned at her. Not for another three sections of land would Lily have let him know she dreaded the task. “Was there something you wanted?” she asked a little stiffly. He shrugged. “Just a chicken dinner.” After

He opens a lower cabinet to reveal that it is a mini fridge, and brings over two plates that each have a slice of what looks like flan, dark at the top from being baked with caramel. He hands me a plate and fork, and pours me a glass of wine. I take a bite. And my eyes snap open. "Gateau de semoule?" I say in disbelief. "Mais oui, mademoiselle, bien sur." He smiles. "I thought you might like it." "I adore it. And I haven't had it in years." The very French dessert is essentially baked creme caramel-type custard, thickened with semolina for an amazing texture and added nuttiness. There are juicy golden raisins, which I believe he has soaked in rum, and the caramel you make for the bottom of the baking dish turns itself into a light sauce when you unmold it. It is the kind of dessert that any French maman would make on a weeknight for dessert. Unfunny, unfussy, and completely comforting and delicious.

On the coffee table is a bottle of Madeira, a plate of dark chocolates, a bowl of tiny tangerines. He opens a lower cabinet to reveal that it is a mini fridge, and brings over two plates that each have a slice of what looks like flan, dark at the top from being baked with caramel. He hands me a plate and fork, and pours me a glass of wine. I take a bite. And my eyes snap open. "Gateau de semoule?" I say in disbelief. "Mais oui, mademoiselle, bien sur." He smiles. "I thought you might like it." "I adore it. And I haven't had it in years." The very French dessert is essentially baked creme caramel-type custard, thickened with semolina for an amazing texture and added nuttiness. There are juicy golden raisins, which I believe he has soaked in rum, and the caramel you make for the bottom of the baking dish turns itself into a light sauce when you unmold it. It is the kind of dessert that any French maman would make on a weeknight for dessert. Unfancy, unfussy, and completely comforting and delicious.

Phase 5: The Perfect Day Knowing what you want your life to look like three years from now, what do you need to do today to make this happen? This phase brings you to your perfect day—today—and you can see how you’d like your day to unfold: starting your morning alert and excited, having a great meeting with amazing colleagues, feeling full of ideas, nailing that presentation, meeting up with friends after work, having a delicious dinner with your mate, playing with your kid before bed. When you see your perfect day unfolding, you’re priming your brain’s reticular activating system (RAS) to notice the positives. The RAS is that component of your brain that helps you notice patterns. In a common example, when you buy a new car, say, a white Tesla Model S, all of a sudden you start to notice more Model S cars on the roads. The same effect happens here. So, let’s say you imagine your lunch meeting today going well—great ideas, wonderful food, amazing ambiance. A few hours later, you’re actually at that meeting—and the waiter screws up your order. Because you’ve imagined a beautiful reality, your RAS is more likely to pay attention to the ambiance, the company, and the food than to the screw-up, because you told it to. You see? You’re training your brain to ignore the negative and embrace the positive. You don’t have to change the world. You just have to change what you pay attention to in the world. And that, it turns out, is hugely powerful.

I don’t see the problem with genetically modified food. I’ve just finished my lunch and that leg of Salmon was delicious!

I looked over my right shoulder as he scooted in next to me on the long bench and settled in with his soda and a Greek yogurt. I frowned at his lunch choice. “Are you bipolar or something?” “What is that supposed to mean?” I made my point using my hands as scales. “On my left hand here is your high-calorie, rot-your-teeth, sugary soda, and on my right hand is a cup of healthy, delicious Greek yogurt. Notice how my left hand gets lower and lower and my right hand goes higher?

Rob ordered my aunt's signature mixed adobo lunch platter, while Sana echoed my order for shrimp sinigang, a delicious, tangy soup that managed to be both comforting and refreshing. Valerie went with one of our breakfast platters, available all day due to their popularity. She couldn't decide which meat to choose---I kept pushing her toward longganisa, the most delicious sausage ever---so Joy told her she could get a sampler platter with small portions of the sweet, garlicky longganisa, sweet, cured tocino, and salty, lightly dried tapa.

Help…” The pups would have to be patient. He sensed their meal wasn’t ready, not quite. But his lunch was cooling. He studied the plate and the choices before him. A chicken wing, perhaps. Or some of those ribs. He sunk his teeth into a sausage and moaned as he chewed. Yes, it was delicious, more flavorful than he imagined, each bite better than the last.

Ingredients for the sauce: 1/3 cup of tamarind concentrate 2 teaspoons + 1 tablespoon of Thai red chili sauce 5 tablespoons of fish sauce 3 tablespoons of oyster sauce 6 tablespoons of coconut sugar 1 tablespoon of cornstarch 2 teaspoons of tomato paste Ingredients for the Pad Thai: 8 ounces of rice noodles, uncooked 2 tablespoons of avocado oil 1 chicken breast, thinly sliced 2 cloves of garlic, minced 1 teaspoon of ginger, grated 1 shallot, chopped 1/3 cup of carrots, grated 1 red bell pepper, thinly sliced 1 egg, beaten 1 lime wedge A dash of salt and black pepper, for seasoning according to personal preference A dash of fish sauce, for taste 1 ½ tablespoons of tomato sauce Ingredients for garnish: Cilantro, chopped Bean sprouts Green onions, thinly sliced Lime wedges, fresh HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH Methods: a)    Prepare the rice noodles according to the directions on the package. Once they have cooked, drain the noodles and set them aside. b)    In a medium bowl, add in all of the ingredients for the sauce. Whisk them until they have been evenly mixed. Set the sauce aside. c)     In a large wok set over a high heat setting. Add in the oil and once it is hot enough, add in the chicken strips. Cook them for a period of 8 to 10 minutes or until the chicken strips have fully cooked. d)    Add in the grated ginger, minced garlic, and shallots. Stir well to mix them together. Cook this for a period of 30 seconds before adding in the grated carrots and chopped bell pepper. Continue to cook the ingredients for a period of 5 minutes or until they become soft to the touch. Push these ingredients to one side of the wok. e)    On the free side of the wok, add in the beaten egg. Cook it for a period of 1 to 2 minutes or until the egg has scrambled. f)      Add in the cooked noodles and pour the sauce over the top. Toss to mix the noodles with the remaining ingredients. Cook everything for a period of 1 to 2 minutes or until the sauce is thick in consistency. Remove the noodles from the heat.

out on the grass. The four girls sat around Lise’s picnic basket. They unpacked their lunch. The basket was full of sandwiches and delicious tarts. For dessert, Anna had brought flangendorfers. “So, Anna, what’s it like to live in the castle?” Sigrid asked. She lived on a dairy farm. Every morning she got up early and milked the cows. Then she helped her

Frittatas are one of those dishes that are perfect for any meal—we make them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, or serve them thinly sliced as an appetizer when entertaining. They taste just as good at room temperature as they do hot out of the oven. They are so easy to prepare—you need just one skillet, and the filling options are endless. Most important tip: For the filling, stick to ingredients that are already cooked—too much moisture will make the frittata soggy.

about snacks is to not eat too much so that you lose appetite during the main meals. Snacks are only meant to compliment what you eat during your meals, so they should not be too heavy or timed too close to lunch

I was so cross that I couldn’t enjoy my lunch of pumpkin pie. What? Just because snow golem heads look like pumpkins, doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy that delicious orange goodness. Eventually I tossed my pie away unfinished. I’d lost my appetite.

We passed an array of stalls selling Belgian chocolates, German sweets, and then French pastries. "The yogashi are the Western-style confections like cakes and pastries. Some of the biggest names from all over the world have stalls here, like Ladurée from France and Wittamer from Belgium. I love going to the depachika for treats. It can be like a cheat weekend trip to Paris or Brussels." "What do the Ex-Brats have when they eat here?" "Hard to say because the Ex-Brats rotation changes all the time. I'm the only girl in our class who has been at ICS-Tokyo for more than five years. People are always moving away. Of the current crew, I never take Ntombi or Jhanvi here. They're always on a diet. So lame. When Arabella was here, we'd come to eat in the Din Tai Fung restaurant one level down. They make these dumplings with purple yams or sweet red bean paste that are just sick they're so delicious." Yams sounded great. I found a food stall I liked and picked out a grilled yam and some fried tempura for lunch. I didn't need Imogen to help me translate. I just pointed at the items I wanted, the counter worker smiled and packaged everything, then showed me a calculator with the amount I owed. I placed my Amex card on the tray the worker handed me, relieved to have had my morning 7-Eleven experience so I was able to observe the proper paying etiquette in front of Imogen. She bought an egg salad sandwich, which was packaged so beautifully you'd think it was jewelry from Tiffany's. It was in a cardboard box that had a flower print on its sides and was wrapped in tight, clear plastic at the top so you could see the sandwich inside. The sandwich had the crusts removed and was cut into two square pieces standing upright in the box, with pieces of perfectly cut fruit arrayed on the side.

If I'm lunching with tolerant friends I eat green onions, and I like to nibble on raw carrot sticks. I certainly prefer them to fancy hors d'oeuvres. Fish is a wonderful beauty food. […] I like it best straight out of the sea, when I'm in the Islands, but even frozen fish can be prepared deliciously.

When I'm filming, I get up at 5 A.M. and have a piece of fruit and a cup of tea. At 6:30, I eat an egg and bacon or sausage. […] I eat a light lunch. Sometimes a small minute steak with two small cherry tomatoes. Sometimes chicken—boiled, not broiled. I've always found roasted or barbecued chicken incredibly dry. My chicken is boiled with carrots, celery, onions, kosher salt and pepper, and bay leaf, and it's always moist and delicious. Sometimes I'll have some more bacon late in the afternoon. […] I eat for energy, and that means plenty of protein.

We have seventy of Chicago's most passionate foodies descending on us in an hour, the maximum our space can handle. Lois and Eloise and Benji have been cooking from the book all week in preparation, making everything from homemade marshmallows and chewy pâtés de fruit, to homemade Oreos and Better than Nutter Butters. Caramels, macarons, miniparfaits filled with apple compote and vanilla custard and olive oil cake. Insane little chocolate tarts. Shortbreads and chocolates and my personal favorite, the Chocolate Bouchon, essentially a cork-shaped brownie that is one of the most delicious things I have ever tasted.

Les Oeufs Jeannette (EGGS JEANNETTE) YIELD: 4 SERVINGS WHEN WE WERE KIDS, eggs were a staple on our table. Meat or poultry showed up there once a week at the most, and more often than not, our “meat” dinners consisted of a delicious ragout of potatoes or cabbage containing bits of salt pork or leftover roast. Eggs were always a welcome main dish, especially in a gratin with béchamel sauce and cheese, and we loved them in omelets with herbs and potatoes that Maman would serve hot or cold with a garlicky salad. Our favorite egg recipe, however, was my mother’s creation of stuffed eggs, which I baptized “eggs Jeannette.” To this day, I have never seen a recipe similar to hers, and we still enjoy it often at our house. Serve with crusty bread as a first course or as a main course for lunch. 6 jumbo eggs (preferably organic) 1 teaspoon chopped garlic 2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley 2 to 3 tablespoons whole milk ¼ teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 2 tablespoons vegetable oil (preferably peanut oil) DRESSING 2 to 3 tablespoons leftover egg stuffing (from above) 4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil 1 tablespoon Dijon-style mustard 2 to 3 tablespoons water Dash of salt and freshly ground black pepper FOR THE HARD-COOKED EGGS: Put the eggs in a small saucepan, and cover with boiling water. Bring to a very gentle boil, and let boil for 9 to 10 minutes. Drain off the water, and shake the eggs in the saucepan to crack the shells. (This will help in their removal later on.) Fill the saucepan with cold water and ice, and let the eggs cool for 15 minutes. Shell the eggs under cold running water, and split them lengthwise. Remove the yolks carefully, put them in a bowl, and add the garlic, parsley, milk, salt, and pepper. Crush with a fork to create a coarse paste. Spoon the mixture back into the hollows of the egg whites, reserving 2 to 3 tablespoons of the filling to use in the dressing. Heat the vegetable oil in a nonstick skillet, and place the eggs, stuffed side down, in the skillet. Cook over medium heat for 2 to 3 minutes, until the eggs are beautifully browned on the stuffed side. Remove and arrange, stuffed side up, on a platter. FOR THE DRESSING: Mix all of the dressing ingredients in a small bowl with a whisk or a spoon until well combined. Coat the warm eggs with the dressing, and serve lukewarm.

It’s like an endless buffet, all delicious—and free.” Rachael shot Joshua a cautionary glance. “Nothing is free. There’s always a trade-off.” “Don’t know what that might be here on New Eden. It’s as close to the proverbial free lunch as you can get.

The story here is not the old chestnut of living in a connected age where information flows more quickly than ever before. The information is not simply flowing in this system; it’s being recycled and put to new uses, transformed by a diverse network of other species in the ecosystem, each with its own distinct function. You write a tweet about what you had for lunch—the original sin of Twitter banality—and within minutes that information is being harnessed to assist a staggering number of different tasks: neighbors forging new personal connections, foodies seeking a delicious cup of potato and leek soup, restaurant owners getting unvarnished feedback from their patrons, Google organizing all the world’s information, newspapers improving their neighborhood coverage at lower cost, and local businesses seeking the attention of the people in their immediate community.

head sadly. ‘Way too late.’ Then the conversation drifted into generalised, Sunday social chit-chat that was pleasant and comfortable. Thirty minutes later, Clara looked at her watch. ‘It doesn’t look like she is coming. Perhaps we should ring her?’ Adam shrugged, and then reached for his phone, dialled her number, waited a few seconds, closed it and put it away. ‘Straight to an answering service.’ I got up and removed lids and covers from the plates and dishes I had arranged on a side table. ‘I think we’ll go ahead. Ann may have been caught up in something she couldn’t get out of, you know. These things happen.’ Nobody argued the unlikelihood of this. She had changed her mind. Simple as that. We got on with lunch without further mention of her, everyone helping themselves from the array of dishes I had ordered. ‘This is an amazing spread, Jake,’ Jane said, spooning some couscous on to her plate. ‘I love baked salmon.’ ‘Absolutely delicious,’ Clara agreed, ‘you’ve gone to so much trouble.’ ‘It’s no trouble, Clara,’ I told her laughing, ‘Everything was done for me, delivered this morning. The only trouble I had was about the jug.’ Expectant eyes rose from the food, and looked at me. ‘The jug?’ Jane asked. So, I told them, in exaggerated detail, the story of my careering around the city that morning looking for a jug.

I was now enjoying the incredibly generous spread between the editor and me: a thick Belgian waffle obscured by a mountain of fresh cream and berries; crepes stuffed with thick, stick-to-the-roof-of-your-mouth Nutella and daintily folded into quarters; and the tarte tatin, traditionally served as dessert after lunch or dinner but the juicy, caramelized hunks of apple baked beneath buttery puff pastry and topped with slightly sour crème fraîche seemed totally appropriate to be on the table before us at 9:00 a.m. If only every day could start this way.

Sesame-free Hummus GF P SERVES 6; PREPARATION TIME 10 MINUTES (IF COOKING THE CHICKPEAS THERE IS ADDITIONAL SOAKING AND COOKING TIME) This delicious hummus can be used to accompany crackers and vegie sticks; use a dollop on salads or spread it onto sandwiches or toast for a protein-rich snack, breakfast or lunch. See Notes on following page. 1 1/2 cups cooked chickpeas (garbanzo beans)—see section entitled “Cooking guide for legumes P” for cooking instructions (or use 1x400g/14oz can organic chickpeas, drained and rinsed) 1 small clove garlic, minced 1 tablespoon rice bran oil 4–5 tablespoons filtered water 1/4 teaspoon ascorbic acid or citric acid (see ‘Soaking acids’) 1/4 teaspoon Celtic sea salt 1/2 handful or less of chopped spring onions (scallions), green parts only Place all the ingredients into a food processor and blend until smooth. Taste and adjust if necessary. Add a splash of water if a thinner consistency is desired. Hummus will last for 4–5 days in the refrigerator if stored in a sealed container. NOTES This dip is wonderfully garlicky so you may want to reduce the garlic and add more after sampling.

Yes, sir,” the butler agreed as he handed me my boots and a fresh set of clothes. “Lunch is ready in the dining hall.” I nodded shakily before I followed the man down the hall, and I could already tell by the delicious smell that he’d nailed the burger endeavor. The scent of grilled onions and melted cheese wafted through the mansion like a beacon of hope, and I took deep, mouthwatering breaths until I made it to the table. Then I clutched my clothes against my chest as I took in the sight of over a dozen burgers with glistening, buttered buns, two-inch thick patties, and all the fixings packed in so tight, they dripped down the sides. Extra toppings were neatly lined on platters while little bowls of what looked a lot like ketchup and mustard dotted the table, and there was even a frothing mug of ale waiting beside my place setting. “Alfred, how much do I pay you?” I asked. “An exorbitant amount, sir,” the butler assured me. I clapped him on the shoulder. “Double it.” “Certainly, sir.

Broccoli and Potato Soup Serves 6 Ingredients: 2 lbs broccoli, cut into florets 2 potatoes, chopped 1 big onion, chopped 3 garlic cloves, crushed 4 cups water 1 tbsp olive oil 1/4 tsp ground nutmeg Directions: Heat oil in a large saucepan over medium-high heat. Add onion and garlic and sauté, stirring, for 3 minutes or until soft. Add broccoli, potato and four cups of cold water. Cover and bring to the boil then reduce heat to low. Simmer, stirring, for 10 to 15 minutes or until potato is tender. Remove from heat. Blend until smooth. Return to pan. Cook for five minutes or until heated through. Season with nutmeg and pepper before serving.

Phone, notepad, pen—it sounds like you guys wear a lot of hats. GEORGE: Did you say rats? MARTHA: No, no, he said hats. Because we do a lot of different things, we wear a lot of different hats. GEORGE: Rats are delicious. MARTHA: Not rats with an R, HATS with an— GEORGE: All this talk about rats is making me hungry. Let’s go get lunch.