Medium Rare Quotes

Asshole.” “Just for that, I expect you to wrap that dirty mouth of yours around my cock tonight.” He narrowed his eyes on me. I couldn’t believe he’d just said that to me in a fancy restaurant where anyone might overhear. “Are you kidding?” “Babe,” he gave me a look that suggested I was missing the obvious, “I never kid about blowjobs.” Our waiter had descended on us just in time to hear those romantic words and his rosy cheeks betrayed his embarrassment. “Ready to order?” he croaked out.“Yes,” Braden answered, obviously uncaring he’d been overhead. “I’ll have the steak, medium-rare.” He smiled softly at me. “What are you having?” He took a swig of water. He thought he was so cool and funny. “Apparently sausage.” Braden choked on the water, coughing into his fists, his eyes bright with mirth as he put his glass back on the table. “Are you okay, sir?” The waiter asked anxiously. “I’m fine, I’m fine.

And then as always, I saw the prayer coming at me. And, as always, Number 1 killed me! Set me on fire, cooked me to medium rare and then ate me! I really, really, really hope I haven't just given away the ending of this story.

Sapnap, I will eat your children. Each and every single one, that you'll ever have. I will actually fork and knife, medium rare eat every single one of your own children.

The poet, the artist, the sleuth - whoever sharpens our perception tends to be antisocial; rarely "well-adjusted", he cannot go along with currents and trends. A strange bond often exists between antisocial types in their power to see environments as they really are. This need to interface, to confront environments with a certain antisocial power is manifest in the famous story "The Emperor's New Clothes".

So it's back once more, back up the slope. Why do they always ruin my rope with their cuts? I felt so ready the other day, Had a real foretaste of eternity In my guts. Spoonfeeding me yet another sip from life's cup. I don't want it, won't take any more of it. Let me throw up. Life is medium rare and good, I see, And the world full of soup and bread, But it won't pass into the blood for me, Just goes to my head. It makes me ill, though others it feeds; Do see that I must deny it! For a thousand years from now at least I'm keeping a diet.

It’s very rarely a good career move to have a conscience.

At the age of 40, having ordered meat very rare in restaurants all his life, he realized he actually liked it medium and not at all rare.

What?” he asked, finishing the second of his nine-ounce steaks, medium rare. “Why are you looking at me that way?” [...] I sighed theatrically, resting my chin on my cupped hands and bracing my elbows on the table. “You are too gorgeous, you know?” I said it just loud enough that the people who’d been watching us surreptitiously could hear me. Unholy laughter lit his eyes—telling me he’d been noticing the looks we’d been getting. But his face was completely serious, as he purred, “So. Am I worth what you paid for me, baby?” I loved it when he played along with me. I sighed again, a sound that I drew up from my toes, a contented, happy sound. I’d get him back for that “baby.” Just see if I didn’t. “Oh, yes,” I told our audience. “I’ll tell Jesse that she was right. Go for the sexy beast, she told me. If you’re going to shell out the money, don’t settle.” He threw back his head and laughed until he had to wipe tears of hilarity off his face. “Jeez, Mercy,” he said. “The things you say.” Then he leaned across the table and kissed me. A while later he pulled back, grinned at me, and sat back in his chair. I had to catch my breath before I spoke. “Best five bucks I ever spent,” I told him fervently.

Then you can investigate me over dinner." He took her arm, lifting a brow as she stiffened. "I'd think a woman who'd fight for a candy bar would appreciate a two-inch fillet, medium rare." "Steak?" She struggled not to drool. "Real steak, from a cow?" A smile curved his lips. "Just flown in from Montana. The steak, not the cow.

The butcher died, and he requested to be cremated. But I don’t want to burn him, because I like my meat medium rare.

Never trust girls who let themselves be touched right away. But even less those who need a priest for approval. Good sirloin steak – if you’ll excuse the comparison – needs to be cooked until it’s medium rare. Of course, if the opportunity arises, don’t be prudish, and go for the kill

Radio is called a medium because it is rare that anything is well done.

He’d asked for his to be cooked medium rare, which in Mirkarvian cuisine meant it had been shown a picture of an oven for a moment and then served. A very brief moment, mind.

She squeezed her eyes shut. “No.” “Excuse me?” She sniffed, opened her eyes then looked up. “No. I don’t wish you to leave.” His eyes changed from lukewarm to hot. The iron of the seat met her back. Oh yes, definitely she was the keeper at the zoo and she’d just offered her own leg, medium-rare, to the lion.

Television – a medium. So called because it is neither rare nor well done.

What’s that?” "It’s a book.” "What’s that, then?” "A non-volatile storage medium. It’s very rare, you should have one.

I’d forgotten that the generally accepted norm of well done, medium and rare was translated to pink, bloody, and still mooing by a French chef.

Television is often called a medium because it’s neither rare, nor well done.

Television – a medium. So called because it is neither rare not well done.

Lots of ways to have your steak "Well done, medium rare, rare, bloody or fetch me a club".

A brick could be used as a substitute for the steak my mother-in-law just cooked me. And I asked for medium rare. I wonder what well done would taste and chew like.


Why didn’t the skeleton cross the road? Because he had no guts. A good steak pun is a rare medium well done. A horse walks into a bar. The bartender says, “Hey.” The horse says, “Sure.

I’d never own a Hooters, because while I may be the face of the franchise, people only ever look at the breasts. Makes me feel like a piece of meat—medium rare, with melted cheese on top.

Family tradition and genealogical history, upon which much of Sir Everard's discourse turned, is the very reverse of amber, which, itself a valuable substance, usually includes flies, straws, and other trifles; whereas these studies, being themselves very insignificant and trifling, do nevertheless serve to perpetuate a great deal of what is rare and valuable in ancient manners, and to record many curious and minute facts which could have been preserved and conveyed through no other medium.

I am, apparently, of that rare breed that likes to write. The demands of a chapter pull me from bed in the morning, and regardless of how well I think I know the day's road ahead, there are always surprises. But the pleasures that come from writing about the American past, of discovering what I hope no one has seen before, are of course balanced by rough, often tedious stretches. Writing does not come easily for me; I work slowly, much like a sculptor with a chisel, only words rather than stone or wood are my medium. But when at the end of the day I have a page or two that seem right, I pull away from the desk certain that all is right in the world, regardless of what the evening news might tell me later.

You're having a large disappointment," she drawled, "with a side of rare pissed-offedness." I thought about lying outright. But as it was medium disappointment with a side of self-pity, I just shrugged.

They are love, those rare blinding early friendships. Not everyone has them, and almost no one gets more than one. The others, the later ones, are not the same. These first grow in a soil found only in the country of the young and are possible only there, because their medium is unbroken time and proximity and discovery. Later, there is not enough of any of those for the total, ongoing immersions that these friendships are...These friendships may continue past first youth, but I don't think they often do. Their primary strength is that fire of exploration and validation. The friend becomes a cicerone, to go with you down to the bottom of your deepest depths and out to the farthest crannies of your being. All your senses are open, all your reservoirs fill up at a prodigious rate, all your motors hum.

Leaving controversial issues aside, the first and main purpose of this book may be summed up by a phrase of Laplace: “If we were able to make an exact catalogue of all particles and forces which are active in a speck of dust, the laws of the universe at large would hold no more mysteries for us”. On a medium-sized school globe the State of Israel occupies not much more space than a speck of dust; and yet there is hardly a political, social or cultural problem whose prototype cannot be found in it, and found in a rare concentration and intensity. The very smallness of this country of about three-quarters of a million souls makes it easy to survey trends which in other nations appear confused and diluted by size. The fact that it so often was in the past, and is again in the present, in the focus of global conflicts and passions, makes the speck of dust glow in a phosphorescent light. The fact that it is a State of Jews, and of Jews of the most conscious and intense type, makes the microscopic processes in this microscopic country reflect laws of universal validity: for Jewry is not a question of race—“it is the human condition carried to its extreme”.

Babe"-he gave me a look that suggested I was missing the obvious-"I never kid about blowjobs." The sound of someone choking brought my head up. Our waiter had descended on us just in time to hear those romantic words, and his rosy cheeks betrayed his embarrassement. "Ready to order?" he croaked out. "Yes," Braden answered, obviously not caring that he had been overheard. "I'll have the steak, medium rare." He smiled softly at me. "What are you having?" He took a swig of water. He thought he was so cool and funny. "Apparently sausage." Braden choked on the water, coughing into his fist, his eyes bright with mirth as he put his glass back on the table. "Are you okay sir?" the waiter asked.

Molar pregnancies like Janet’s are indeed rare, but they do happen. Over the last decade, frustrated and worried women have emailed me, asking why their doctors won’t pay attention to their symptoms, telling them to just “wait it out.” I think this happens because obstetricians see so many situations, and most of the time, it works out the way they expect—the recovery may be short, medium, or long, but will not require intervention. But statistics like one in five hundred are meaningless if you are the one. I always tell women who can’t get through to their doctors to start looking for one whose office responsiveness matches her needs. Not every doctor and every patient are going to be a good fit.

Our ideas – all these clean Platonic vertices and tidy Euclidean planes – originate from squelching glands, tendrils of synapse, all using inelegant, asymmetrical squirming proteins as a medium of communication for what is ultimately energy. Chaos talking to itself, emerging through us, although through an aspect of us we rarely recognize and quite advisingly refute.

Biography is the medium through which the remaining secrets of the famous dead are taken from them and dumped out in full view of the world. The biographer at work, indeed, is like the professional burglar, breaking into a house, rifling through certain drawers that he has good reason to think contain the jewelry and money, and triumphantly bearing his loot away. The voyeurism and busybodyism that impel writers and readers of biography alike are obscured by an apparatus of scholarship designed to give the enterprise an appearance of banklike blandness and solidity. The biographer is portrayed almost as a kind of benefactor. He is seen as sacrificing years of his life to his task, tirelessly sitting in archives and libraries and patiently conducting interviews with witnesses. There is no length he will not go to, and the more his book reflects his industry the more the reader believes that he is having an elevating literary experience, rather than simply listening to backstairs gossip and reading other people’s mail. The transgressive nature of biography is rarely acknowledged, but it is the only explanation for biography’s status as a popular genre. The reader’s amazing tolerance (which he would extend to no novel written half as badly as most biographies) makes sense only when seen as a kind of collusion between him and the biographer in an excitingly forbidden undertaking: tiptoeing down the corridor together, to stand in front of the bedroom door and try to peep through the keyhole.

To date we know only two real media that offer almost no resistance to moving bodies. One such medium was discovered in the 1930s: If we cool down helium, a noble gas, to temperatures close to absolute zero, it will flow through the thinnest of tubes with almost no friction. This phenomenon is called superfluidity. Another substance that shows superfluidity is a rare isotope of the same element, called helium-3. It takes experience to explore all the facets nature offers us. No form of logic can replace it.

Body parts really don’t like to be cut, stabbed or hacked into sections, and they express their anger by leaking all over the fuck. Jesus, we’re, like, seventy percent water or something? And you learn that’s so fucking true when you go to a fresh scene. Pools of it. Drips of it. Speckles of it. Then you got the stained clothes, rugs, bedsheets, walls, flooring—or if it’s outside, the ground cover, the concrete, the asphalt. And then there’s the smell. Blood, sweat, urine, other shit. That juicy bouquet will get in your sinuses and stay there for hours afterward.” He shook his head again. “The older cases . . . the smell is worse than the mess. Water deaths, with the bloating, are just ugly—and if that gas that’s built up gets out? The stench will knock you on your ass. And I don’t know, I wasn’t too crazy for the burn deaths either. I mean, you’d think we’d realize we’re not different than any other mammal—cooked meat is cooked meat, period. But I’ve never seen a grown man puke up his coffee and donuts over a medium rare T-bone.

As a waiter served their medium-rare steaks and, on multicolored rice, cooked into fetal positions, eight medium-large shrimp, Paul realized with some confusion that he might have overreacted. Staring at the herbed butter, flecked and large as a soap sample, on his steak, he was unsure what, if he had overreacted, had been the cause. It occurred to him that, in the past, in college, he would have later analyzed this, in bed, with eyes closed, studying the chronology of images—memories, he’d realized at some point, were images, which one could crudely arrange into slideshows or, with effort, sort of GIFs, maybe—but now, unless he wrote about it, storing the information where his brain couldn’t erase it, place it behind a toll, or inadvertently scramble its organization, or change it gradually, by increments smaller than he could discern, without his knowledge, so it became both lost and unrecognizable, he probably wouldn’t remember most of this in a few days and, after weeks or months, he wouldn’t know it had been forgotten, like a barn seen from inside a moving train that is later torn down, its wood carried elsewhere on trucks.

Energy is a science-y term that psychics like to use a lot, though I’m not sure many of us would say we missed our calling as professors or technology gurus. I’ve met my share of mediums, and I’ve never heard any of them confide, “Gosh, I really wanted to be a physicist, but I knew talking to dead people would make me more popular at parties.” Are you out of your mind? If you handed me a radiometer, I’d probably use it as a paperweight. Even when the kids needed help with their science fair projects growing up, it was a group effort at our house—me, Larry, my parents, we’d all pitch in. And believe me when I say that I was rarely the one steering the rocket ship.

HENRY MORGAN, the New York radio comedian, intellectual, sophisticate, “liberal” and whatnot, although being a very intelligent, clever and amusing person in himself, has more or less made his decadent views known on a variety of subjects through the medium of his radio work; and on the subject of family I gather this: A skit relates the horror of having to look through a family album of pictures, very well done, especially in delineating the horror which city men of the higher cognitive order have when they go through this routine. I have my sympathies with these high cognizers, but let us see how high it really is: I went through a family album tonight, with a magnifying glass, and heard my aunt relate histories, events, legends connected with the old forebears, and never before have I seen such glimpses into society, changing times, the law of families, lineal heritage and such; in no book have I ever seen so much, learned so much about human beings (if I may be permitted the phrase, Mr. Morgan and all ye sycophants). What does this mean, if it doesn’t mean that the so-called high consciousness, or complex understanding, or sensitive enlightenment, or whatnot of the city intellectual, is not high enough, or conscious enough, or complex enough, or understanding enough, or sensitive enough, or enlightened enough, or whatnot enough, if it is going to deny its vaunted intellectual powers a thorough and earnest study of the family album, with all the illuminative wonders and secrets therein, and all for the sake of fashionably shrinking back from the “Bourgeois horror” of such an album.

Music is an art form whose medium is sound and silence. Its common elements are pitch (which governs melody and harmony), rhythm (and its associated concepts tempo, meter, and articulation), dynamics, and the sonic qualities of timbre and texture. The word derives from Greek μουσική (mousike; "art of the Muses"). The creation, performance, significance, and even the definition of music vary according to culture and social context. Music ranges from strictly organized compositions (and their recreation in performance), through improvisational music to aleatoric forms. Music can be divided into genres and subgenres, although the dividing lines and relationships between music genres are often subtle, sometimes open to personal interpretation, and occasionally controversial. Within the arts, music may be classified as a performing art, a fine art, and auditory art. It may also be divided among art music and folk music. There is also a strong connection between music and mathematics. Music may be played and heard live, may be part of a dramatic work or film, or may be recorded. To many people in many cultures, music is an important part of their way of life. Ancient Greek and Indian philosophers defined music as tones ordered horizontally as melodies and vertically as harmonies. Common sayings such as "the harmony of the spheres" and "it is music to my ears" point to the notion that music is often ordered and pleasant to listen to. However, 20th-century composer John Cage thought that any sound can be music, saying, for example, "There is no noise, only sound. Musicologist Jean-Jacques Nattiez summarizes the relativist, post-modern viewpoint: "The border between music and noise is always culturally defined—which implies that, even within a single society, this border does not always pass through the same place; in short, there is rarely a consensus ... By all accounts there is no single and intercultural universal concept defining what music might be.

Every Sorcerer on the continent of Kiesalhima — regardless of how skilled they might be — had to chant spells in order to use their sorcery. In other words, their voice was the medium through which they channeled their mana in order to produce all sorts of effects. However, since their medium was their own voice, this also meant that their spells were only effective for as far as their voice could carry. Places where their voice couldn’t reach would remain unaffected by their sorcery, no matter how powerful, and they could likewise only keep the effects of the spell alive for as long as their voice continued to carry through their surroundings. Spells were transient by their very nature, because any Sorcerer’s voice would be lost to the winds eventually. It was said that there only existed two types of human Sorcerers: Black Sorcerers, and White Sorcerers. Black Sorcerers like Orphen specialized in spells dealing with heat or light, various types of energy, or even the body itself. They were those with a degree of control over the physical realm. White Sorcerers, on the other hand, specialized in spells that could manipulate time, the mind, or the spirit. They were those with a degree of control over the mental or spiritual realms. White Sorcery was much more difficult by far, and those with an aptitude for it were extremely rare to the point where keeping count of them was of trivial difficulty...

Still, I think that one of the most fundamental problems is want of discipline. Homes that severely restrict viewing hours, insist on family reading, encourage debate on good books, talk about the quality and the morality of television programs they do see, rarely or never allow children to watch television without an adult being present (in other words, refusing to let the TV become an unpaid nanny), and generally develop a host of other interests, are not likely to be greatly contaminated by the medium, while still enjoying its numerous benefits. But what will produce such families, if not godly parents and the power of the Holy Spirit in and through biblical preaching, teaching, example, and witness? The sad fact is that unless families have a tremendously strong moral base, they will not perceive the dangers in the popular culture; or, if they perceive them, they will not have the stamina to oppose them. There is little point in preachers disgorging all the sad statistics about how many hours of television the average American watches per week, or how many murders a child has witnessed on television by the age of six, or how a teenager has failed to think linearly because of the twenty thousand hours of flickering images he or she has watched, unless the preacher, by the grace of God, is establishing a radically different lifestyle, and serving as a vehicle of grace to enable the people in his congregation to pursue it with determination, joy, and a sense of adventurous, God-pleasing freedom. Meanwhile, the harsh reality is that most Americans, including most of those in our churches, have been so shaped by the popular culture that no thoughtful preacher can afford to ignore the impact. The combination of music and visual presentation, often highly suggestive, is no longer novel. Casual sexual liaisons are everywhere, not least in many of our churches, often with little shame. “Get even” is a common dramatic theme. Strength is commonly confused with lawless brutality. Most advertising titillates our sin of covetousness. This is the air we breathe; this is our culture.

It’s so weird that it’s Christmas Eve,” I said, clinking my glass to his. It was the first time I’d spent the occasion apart from my parents. “I know,” he said. “I was just thinking that.” We both dug into our steaks. I wished I’d made myself two. The meat was tender and flavorful, and perfectly medium-rare. I felt like Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby, when she barely seared a steak in the middle of the afternoon and devoured it like a wolf. Except I didn’t have a pixie cut. And I wasn’t harboring Satan’s spawn. “Hey,” I began, looking into his eyes. “I’m sorry I’ve been so…so pathetic since, like, the day we got married.” He smiled and took a swig of Dr Pepper. “You haven’t been pathetic,” he said. He was a terrible liar. “I haven’t?” I asked, incredulous, savoring the scrumptious red meat. “No,” he answered, taking another bite of steak and looking me squarely in the eye. “You haven’t.” I was feeling argumentative. “Have you forgotten about my inner ear disturbance, which caused me to vomit all across Australia?” He paused, then countered, “Have you forgotten about the car I rented us?” I laughed, then struck back. “Have you forgotten about the poisonous lobster I ordered us?” Then he pulled out all the stops. “Have you forgotten all the money we lost?” I refused to be thwarted. “Have you forgotten that I found out I was pregnant after we got back from our honeymoon and I called my parents to tell them and I didn’t get a chance because my mom left my dad and I went on to have a nervous breakdown and had morning sickness for six weeks and now my jeans don’t fit?” I was the clear winner here. “Have you forgotten that I got you pregnant?” he said, grinning. I smiled and took the last bite of my steak. Marlboro Man looked down at my plate. “Want some of mine?” he asked. He’d only eaten half of his. “Sure,” I said, ravenously and unabashedly sticking my fork into a big chuck of his rib eye. I was so grateful for so many things: Marlboro Man, his outward displays of love, the new life we shared together, the child growing inside my body. But at that moment, at that meal, I was so grateful to be a carnivore again.

So,” Marlboro Man began over dinner one night. “How many kids do you want to have?” I almost choked on my medium-rare T-bone, the one he’d grilled for me so expertly with his own two hands. “Oh my word,” I replied, swallowing hard. I didn’t feel so hungry anymore. “I don’t know…how many kids do you want to have?” “Oh, I don’t know,” he said with a mischievous grin. “Six or so. Maybe seven.” I felt downright nauseated. Maybe it was a defense mechanism, my body preparing me for the dreaded morning sickness that, I didn’t know at the time, awaited me. Six or seven kids? Righty-oh, Marlboro Man. Righty…no. “Ha-ha ha-ha ha. Ha.” I laughed, tossing my long hair over my shoulder and acting like he’d made a big joke. “Yeah, right! Ha-ha. Six kids…can you imagine?” Ha-ha. Ha. Ha.” The laughter was part humor, part nervousness, part terror. We’d never had a serious discussion about children before. “Why?” He looked a little more serious this time. “How many kids do you think we should have?” I smeared my mashed potatoes around on my plate and felt my ovaries leap inside my body. This was not a positive development. Stop that! I ordered, silently. Settle down! Go back to sleep! I blinked and took a swig of the wine Marlboro Man had bought me earlier in the day. “Let’s see…,” I answered, drumming my fingernails on the table. “How ’bout one? Or maybe…one and a half?” I sucked in my stomach--another defensive move in an attempt to deny what I didn’t realize at the time was an inevitable, and jiggly, future. “One?” he replied. “Aw, that’s not nearly enough of a work crew for me. I’ll need a lot more help than that!” Then he chuckled, standing up to clear our plates as I sat there in a daze, having no idea whether or not he was kidding. It was the strangest conversation I’d ever had. I felt like the roller coaster had just pulled away from the gate, and the entire amusement park was pitch-black. I had no idea what was in front of me; I was entering a foreign land. My ovaries, on the other hand, were doing backflips, as if they’d been wandering, parched, in a barren wasteland and finally, miraculously, happened upon a roaring waterfall. And that waterfall was about six feet tall, with gray hair and bulging biceps. They never knew they could experience such hope.

The only thing this guy responded to was a firm line drawn in the sand. I just looked at him and said, “Cross this and we'll be having radio person medium rare for dinner.

In the Fortune Cookie of Life, I don't want to be known as anonymous.

1. Place all filling ingredients except fish in a blender and puree smooth. 2. Evenly coat the fish filets with achiote mixture; cover and allow to marinate at room temperature for 20 to 30 minutes. 3. (ook fish on a charcoal or gas grill or in the oven broiler for approximately 3 minutes per side, depending on thickness of filets. (We think fish tastes best when cooked medium rare to medium, especially when it is very fresh.) 4. Allow to cool for a few minutes and slice for tacos. 5. Serve in soft corn or flour tortillas. Serving suggestions: Garnish with a fresh fruit or tomato-habanero salsa

The living have love for the dead, but the dead have no love for the living. I ought to know, because I’d like the steak—medium rare—mashed potatoes, green beans, and a salad on the side. And some rolls and butter would be great, thanks. Separate checks, by the way.

I’d pulled my unruly blond hair out of its usual ponytail for the occasion, loaded on some makeup to play up my teal eyes, and poured myself into a little black skirt, short enough to show off my legs while not offending Lafitte’s nineteenth-century sensibilities. It must have worked, because the pirate was giving me that head-to-toe appraisal guys do on instinct, like they’re assessing a juicy slab of beef and deciding whether they want it rare, medium, or well-done. “You really are lovely, Drusilla.” The timbre of Lafitte’s voice shivered down my spine, and I fought the urge to check out the biceps underneath that linen shirt. Holy crap. This was just wrong. I should not be absorbing his lust.

If you’re a Cabernet Sauvignon loyalist, you might want to consider ordering your steaks rare or medium-rare.

What troubles me most about my vegetarianism is the subtle way it alienates me from other people and, odd as this might sound, from a whole dimension of human experience. Other people now have to accommodate me, and I find this uncomfortable: My new dietary restrictions throw a big wrench into the basic host-guest relationship. As a guest, if I neglect to tell my host in advance that I don’t eat meat, she feels bad, and if I do tell her, she’ll make something special for me, in which case I’ll feel bad. On this matter I’m inclined to agree with the French, who gaze upon any personal dietary prohibition as bad manners. Even if the vegetarian is a more highly evolved human being, it seems to me he has lost something along the way, something I’m not prepared to dismiss as trivial. Healthy and virtuous as I may feel these days, I also feel alienated from traditions I value: cultural traditions like the Thanksgiving turkey, or even franks at the ballpark, and family traditions like my mother’s beef brisket at Passover. These ritual meals link us to our history along multiple lines—family, religion, landscape, nation, and, if you want to go back much further, biology. For although humans no longer need meat in order to survive (now that we can get our B-12 from fermented foods or supplements), we have been meat eaters for most of our time on earth. This fact of evolutionary history is reflected in the design of our teeth, the structure of our digestion, and, quite possibly, in the way my mouth still waters at the sight of a steak cooked medium rare. Meat eating helped make us what we are in a physical as well as a social sense. Under the pressure of the hunt, anthropologists tell us, the human brain grew in size and complexity, and around the hearth where the spoils of the hunt were cooked and then apportioned, human culture first flourished. This isn’t to say we can’t or shouldn’t transcend our inheritance, only that it is our inheritance; whatever else may be gained by giving up meat, this much at least is lost. The notion of granting rights to animals may lift us up from the brutal, amoral world of eater and eaten—of predation—but along the way it will entail the sacrifice, or sublimation, of part of our identity—of our own animality. (This is one of the odder ironies of animal rights: It asks us to acknowledge all we share with animals, and then to act toward them in a most unanimalistic way.) Not that the sacrifice of our animality is necessarily regrettable; no one regrets our giving up raping and pillaging, also part of our inheritance. But we should at least acknowledge that the human desire to eat meat is not, as the animal rightists would have it, a trivial matter, a mere gastronomic preference. By the same token we might call sex—also now technically unnecessary for reproduction—a mere recreational preference. Rather, our meat eating is something very deep indeed.

Now it’s becoming clear that even the saturated fat found in a medium-rare steak or a slab of butter—

I’m not sure why I thought it would be a good idea to bring Kanish to Mel Odious Sound yesterday. Bringing a Billionheir to a large recording complex full of Producers is like opening a bag of chips at a seagull convention. It wouldn’t be long before every Producer within earshot swooped in to aggressively pitch his latest and greatest pet project, most of which would likely prove unprofitable. Rev is obviously going to pitch a project, and it very well may be something amazing. But as I’ve pointed out, in order for Kanish to make a profit, he would have to pick up half the Publishing—a non-starter for the Rev. He’s not a Songwriting Producer, so he likely doesn’t have a sufficient portion of the Publishing to share. And even if he did, no seasoned Producer is going to give half of their equity in a song in order to basically secure a small loan from an outside investor. There’s no upside. For starters, Kanish has no channels of Distribution beyond Streaming, which is already available to anyone and everyone who wants it, and which is currently only profitable for the Major Labels and the stockholders of the Streaming services themselves. Everyone else is getting screwed. And please don’t quote me the Douchebag Big Tech Billionaires running big Streaming Corporations. They are literally lining their pockets with the would-be earnings of Artists and Songwriters alike. What they claim as fair is anything but. Frankly, I don’t think we should be comfortable with Spotify taking a 30 percent margin off the top, and then disbursing the Tiger’s Share of the remaining 70 percent to the Major Labels who have already negotiated top dollar for access to their catalog. This has resulted in nothing but some remaining scraps trickling down to the tens of thousands of Independent Artists out there who just want to make a living. You can’t make a living off scraps, or even a trickle, for that matter. Mark my words, we are currently witnessing the greatest heist in the annals of the Music Business, and that’s saying something given its history. Can you say Napster? Stunningly, the only place that Songwriters can make sufficient Performance Royalties is radio—a medium that is coming up on its hundred-year anniversary. To make matters worse, the Major Distributors still have radio all locked up, and without airplay, there’s no hit. So even now, more than twenty years into the Internet revolution, the odds of breaking through the artistic cacophony without Major-Label Distribution are impossibly low. So much for the Internet leveling the playing field. At this point, only Congress can solve the problem. And despite the fact that Streaming has been around since the mid-aughts, Congress has done nothing to deal with the issue. Why? Because it’s far cheaper for Big Tech to line the pockets of lobbyists and fund the campaigns of politicians who gladly ignore the issue than it is to pay Artists and Songwriters a fair rate for their work, my friends. Same is it ever was. Just so I’m clear, there is a debate to be had as to how much Songwriters and Artists should be paid for Streaming. A radio Spin can reach millions. A Stream rarely reaches more than a few listeners. Clearly, a new method of calculation is required. But that doesn’t mean that we should just sit by as the Big Tech Douchebags rob an entire generation of royalties all so they can sell their Streaming Corporation for billions down the line. I mean, that is the end game, after all. At which point, profit for the new majority stockholder will be all but impossible. How will anyone get paid then?

If the tactic of occupation, for example, is employed in order to create exemplars and temporary spaces of non-capitalist social relations, it will inevitably fail to achieve substantial change. If, on the other hand, it is understood as a mechanism to produce solidarity networks and mobilise them for further action, then it may still have use within broader counter-hegemonic strategies. But this sort of strategic reflection about the virtues and limits of any particular action is what is absent from too much of the left today. The numerous protests and marches and occupations typically operate without any sense of strategy, simply acting as dispersed and independent blips of resistance. There is far too little thought given to how to combine these various actions, and how they might function together to collectively build a better world. Instead we are left with actions that sometimes succeed but which rarely have an overarching eye to how this contributes to medium-and long-term goals.105

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It's a book. It's a non-volatile storage medium. It's very rare. You should have one.

Primer of Love [Lesson 54] La glorie ne va qu'aux hommes specieux. In our complex times, when human knowledge splits up, glory comes only to specialists. ~ G. Lachaud, 1846 Lesson 54) Become experts on each other's pleasures -- and things will be glorious. There's just too much useless, distracting stuff out there to derail youfrom your glorifying love. With the stakes so high, learn more and more about your lover's turn ons and turn offs through communication (rare), light conversation (medium) and trial and tortuous trial and egregious error (burnt to a crisp). Know important dates, their favorite things and dislikes. These details can express the uniqueness of your love in a world besieged by anonymity. Don't tell them everything -- leave a little to mystery. Let the private investigator earn their fee.

Englezul râde, avem umor noi, românii, și comandă spare ribs. Șefa mea încremenește atunci când ne trezim la masă cu un platou pe care tronează un morman de coaste de porc. Traduc "Păi oase!? Am venit la Londra să mâncăm tot oase?" Englezul e năuc. Îl lămuresc că doamna vrea friptură. Ok. Chelnerul vrea să știe cum o vrem. Traduc: la grătar. El insistă, cum să fie: rare, medium, done, well done? Mă trece transpirația. Habar n-am ce zice. Într-un final mă prind: întreabă cât să fie de mare friptura și zic medium, vorba patroanei, "ca să nu creadă ăștia că suntem nemâncate.

And she turned and made her way back through to the bar and out to the elevators, leaving Geller sitting on his own, a forlorn figure with a medium rare steak in front of him, a piece of roast salmon on the plate opposite, and a very empty feeling inside.

Pinky Pig by Maisie Aletha Smikle Pinky pig is big Pinky wears no wig Pinky likes to wallow Pinky’s wallow makes her cotton white hair butter yellow The butcher comes calling Pinky started bawling I ain't your bacon I ain't your ham I ain't no steak I ain't no loin called Sir Am just a pig Called Pinky Don't use me for steak I take too long to bake Am not fit for a cake My life is at stake But all you need is steak Steak rare Steak medium Steak well done See I ain't none I ain't rare I ain't medium I ain't well done It's the season To be butchered and eaten But I ain't your steak to bake Am just Pinky the pink pig

Hang on there,” the man cautioned, “you’re still medium rare. I’m gonna cook you until you’re charbroiled.

TOPPING 1 cup (lightly packed) fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves 2 garlic cloves, peeled and coarsely crushed 2 shallots, peeled and thinly sliced 4 slices good white bread (4 ounces) 2 tablespoons good olive oil About ⅓ cup water Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Rub the leg of lamb with the butter, and sprinkle it with the salt and pepper. Place in a roasting pan top side up, and bake for 20 minutes. FOR THE TOPPING: Meanwhile, put the parsley, garlic, shallots, and bread into a food processor, and process just enough to finely chop all the ingredients, or chop them by hand. Transfer to a bowl, and mix in the olive oil, gently tossing it with the other topping ingredients until the bread mixture is coated. (This will help hold the topping together on the roast, and the oil makes the bread crumbs brown beautifully.) After the lamb has baked for 20 minutes, tilt the pan, and use the fat that collects on one side to baste the lamb. Pat the crumb mixture gently but firmly over the top and sides of the lamb to make it adhere. Return the lamb to the oven, and reduce the heat to 400 degrees. Cook for another 30 minutes or so, or until the internal temperature registers 125 to 130 degrees for medium-rare meat. Transfer the lamb to an ovenproof platter, and keep it warm in a 150-degree oven. It should rest for 15 to 20 minutes before carving. Meanwhile, pour the water into the pan, and stir well with a wooden spatula to melt the solidified juices and mix the water with the drippings. Slice the lamb and serve it with these natural juices.

As I said, there are many examples of Hollywood openly and gleefully mocking Christianity. But it’s not the open and gleeful mocking that’s really a problem. It’s easy enough to avoid watching a show where Satan is a crime fighter. What’s far more dangerous is the show or film that embeds nihilistic and hedonistic themes in a story line that never directly touches on anything religious or spiritual. And this describes the vast majority of the content churned out by Hollywood on a weekly basis. We Christians sit and absorb it into our minds and souls, rarely stopping to question the messages we are receiving. We tell ourselves that all the time spent watching TV or binging Netflix is just an “escape,” an opportunity to “turn our brains off” and “relax” for a while. The problem is that we are always escaping. Our brains spend most of the day in the “off” position. And in this submissive, malleable state, we are utterly susceptible to whatever ideas or messages Hollywood wants to feed us. Television is a passive experience, which makes it the perfect medium for shaping minds. The unresisting mind is most easily shaped. Especially an unresisting mind that does not realize it is being shaped. We begin to act like the people we see on TV, dress like them, speak like them, think like them; we adopt their viewpoints and priorities. We do all of this without noticing it. Five or six or seven hours a day watching TV, thirty-five or forty hours a week, two thousand hours a year, year after year—after a while, we cannot distinguish our real lives from the fantasy world we enter through the screen.

To be completely honest, I didn’t feel so great. I had molten wax oozing out of my ears. I’d been charbroiled medium rare. My face felt like it had just been rammed into a brick wall…because it had. I had the coppery taste of blood in my mouth, and I was really starting to hate music. And quails.

It was my father and I that were inseparable. His darling girl; that's what he called me. He understood me- his bright, easily bored, passionate, underdog-defending, in-need-of-large-doses-of-physical-activity-and-changes-of-scenery daughter. And more important than understanding me, he liked me. He was most proud when I took the road less traveled by. It wouldn't be exaggerating to say I lived for the look of delight and surprise in his eyes when I accomplished something out of the ordinary. Beating him at chess. Reading the unabridged version of Anna Karenina when I was ten. Starting a campfire with nothing but a flint and a knife. But now it seemed our father and daughter skins were growing too small. I still craved his attention and approval, but he gave it more sparingly. Our long, rambling conversations about everything and anything- the speed of light, the Cuban missile crisis, how many minutes on each side to grill a perfect medium-rare steak- had petered out, replaced with the most quotidian of inquiries: Is Gunsmoke on tonight? Is it supposed to snow tomorrow? When's the last time the grass was cut?

I had a dream where I was in a place that served steak and mashed potatoes and the soup! The pasta soup was heavenly even better than my mother’s homemade recipe. Every spoonful of the soup reminded me of the sun. The mashed potatoes were so smooth that they could slide down my gullet. The steak was medium-rare, my favorite, and every bite reminded me of the steak my mom made but it was one hundred and one times better.  And there was also iced tea and every sip of it felt refreshing like a cold, winter morning with the sun shining merrily and my mom and I throwing snowballs at each other. I  ate and drank until I could eat no more. I felt as if my stomach was about to combust. But then in came the tiramisu. It was better than anything I had ever tasted. The rich smell of coffee wafted up from it. It reminded me of the coffee shop my mom went to when I was little. Despite the fact that my stomach was about to explode I managed to fit in three more slices of tiramisu before I could eat no more. But then came the Ice cream. It was my favorite flavor, mango. The ice cream was silky and sweet. It was like I was on a sunny June morning, a ray of sunlight shining in my face. The sensation intensified as mango juice dribbled down my chin like sunlight itself. I managed six scoops before I was sure my belly would explode. Every moment of eating the ice cream was sunsational. Finally came the float. It was vanilla ice cream on top of some Fanta even though my mom insisted root beer was one hundred times better. It tasted amazing. It was like the early spring making our ice crack in the pond on which my mother and I go ice skating every winter. It was happy but also sad at the same time as if my old life called back for me.

ronaldbuckingham354@btinternet.com

By the time Columbus discovered America, the Indians were already using beads for decoration. Beads were made from shells, bones, claws, stones, and minerals. The Algonquin and Iroquois tribes of the eastern coast made beads from clam, conch, periwinkle, and other seashells. These beads were used as a medium of exchange by the early Dutch and English colonists. They were called “wampum,” a contraction of the Algonquin “wampumpeak” or “wamponeage,” meaning string of shell beads. The purple beads had twice the value of the white ones. The explorer, followed by the trader, missionary and settler, soon discovered that he had a very good trade item in glass beads brought from Europe. The early beads that were used were about 1/8 inch in diameter, nearly twice as large as beads in the mid-1800’s. They were called pony beads and were quite irregular in shape and size. The colors most commonly used were sky-blue, white, and black. Other less widely used colors were deep bluff, light red, dark red, and dark blue. The small, round seed beads, as they are called, are the most generally used for sewed beadwork. They come in a variety of colors. Those most commonly used by the Indians are red, orange, yellow, light blue, dark blue, green, lavender, and black. The missionaries’ floral embroidered vestments influenced the Woodland tribes of the Great Lakes to apply beads in flower designs. Many other tribes, however, are now using flower designs. There are four main design styles used in the modern period. Three of the styles are largely restricted to particular tribes. The fourth style is common to all groups. It is very simple in pattern. The motifs generally used are solid triangles, hourglasses, crosses, and oblongs. This style is usually used in narrow strips on leggings, robes, or blankets. Sioux beadwork usually is quite open with a solid background in a light color. White is used almost exclusively, although medium or light blue is sometimes seen. The design colors are dominated by red and blue with yellow and green used sparingly. The lazy stitch is used as an application. The Crow and Shoshoni usually beaded on red trade or blanket cloth, using the cloth itself for a background. White was rarely used, except as a thin line outlining other design elements. The most common colors used for designs are pale lavender, pale blue, green, and yellow. On rare occasions, dark blue was used. Red beads were not used very often because they blended with the background color of the cloth and could not be seen. The applique stitch was used. Blackfoot beadwork can be identified by the myriad of little squares or oblongs massed together to make up a larger unit of design such as triangles, squares, diamonds, terraces, and crosses. The large figure is usually of one color and the little units edging it of many colors. The background color is usually white, although other light colors such as light blue and green have been used. The smallness of the pattern in Blackfoot designs would indicate this style is quite modern, as pony trading beads would be too large to work into these designs. Beadwork made in this style seems to imitate the designs of the woven quill work of some of the northwestern tribes with whom the Blackfoot came in contact.

Publishing carries forward our sciences and powers our culture. Publishing isn’t a passive medium; it is a part of our lives and societies, shaping them, guiding them, sometimes even controlling them. Rarely

RJ gets to work in the kitchen on the dinner he is preparing, allowing me to sous chef. He seasons duck breasts with salt, pepper, coriander, and orange zest. Puts a pot of wild rice on to cook, asks me to top and tail some green beans. We open a bottle of Riesling, sipping while we cook, and I light a fire. The place gets cozy, full of delicious smells and the crackling fire. We ignore the dining table in favor of sitting on the floor in front of the fire, and tuck in. "This is amazing," I tell him, blown away by the duck, perfectly medium-rare and succulent, with crispy, fully rendered skin. "Really, honey, it couldn't be better." "Thank you, baby. That's a major compliment. And I have to say, I love cooking with you." "I love cooking with you." And I did. I never once felt like I wanted to jump in or make a change, or suggest a different choice. I followed him as I would have followed any chef, and the results of trusting him are completely delicious, literally and figuratively.

I look at the spread on the counter. I took Jacob's advice and went all out on the classic Southern good luck New Year's foods. In addition to my medium-rare porterhouse, there is hoppin' John over buttered Carolina gold rice, slow-cooked collard greens, corn pudding. The black-eyed peas are good luck in the Southern tradition but also in the Jewish, albeit not usually cooked with bacon the way these are. The greens are supposed to represent money, the corn represents gold. We're closing on the house this week, and I'll take whatever good luck I can find to start the New Year, hoping for a career resurrection and some personal clarity. There is a pan of three-layer slutty brownies sitting on the counter, chocolate chip cookie on the bottom, a layer of Oreos in the middle, brownie batter on top with swirls of cream cheese.

She decided to start them off with a Sweet Corn Bisque with Crab "Souffle." The pureed texture of this deeply penetrating soup gave it a rich, suede-smooth mouth-feel, and the stack of jumbo lump crabmeat mounded in the center, warm and bound together with a whisper of mayonnaise and coriander, told someone immediately that you were excited they came. The main course would be center-cut Filet Mignon in a Grand Marnier Reduction, with Chestnut Mashed Potatoes and Green Beans Amandine. Romantic encounters had been preceded by bold yet classically inspired meals like this since Casanova's day. She advised Pettibone in no uncertain terms that the steaks needed to be done just to the brink of medium-rare, then finished with butter and allowed to carry-over cook their last five minutes for the best results. Dessert would be a delicate Flan with Sauternes Caramel, a velvety, infused custard that finished with a rapturous, dulcet swirl of caramel on the tongue.

Writing is not what follows research, learning or studying, it is the medium of all this work. And maybe that is the reason why we rarely think about this writing, the everyday writing, the note-taking and draft-making. Like breathing, it is vital to what we do, but because we do it constantly, it escapes our attention.

The dinner is delicious- the poivre sauce is perfect with the medium-rare duck, which cuts like butter. The potatoes are creamy, well seasoned, and cheesy, the rabe bright green, croquant and garlicky. Gustav has brought along a bottle of Cru Bourgeois, and I'm drinking it like grape juice. Dessert is an assortment of small tarts- vanilla crème brûlée with a chocolate crust, key lime, and pear.

He orders an expensive bottle of Rioja and we begin our tapas extravaganza with plates of dates wrapped in bacon, langoustines in garlic and butter, chorizo in a tomatoey sauce, and a miniature Spanish tortilla (potato, egg, and onion). Our medium-rare steaks are set before us along with a basket of thinly sliced, golden crisped fries. I'm happy to see that Frank enjoys food- with no mention of any weird hang-ups or allergies. "I was hoping they'd have sweetbreads on the menu," Frank says. "You like sweetbreads?" I ask, my heart expanding at the mention of calf thymus. "I'm an organ man," Frank says, taking a sip of wine. "I know a place where they make great sautéed sweetbreads," I say. "You?" he asks, a look of pleased astonishment spreading across his face. "Love 'em," I say. This mutual infatuation with organs bodes well. Cutting into the steaks with sharp knives, we put morsels in our mouths, close our eyes as if we've died and gone to heaven, chew, and groan, the salty, bloody juices trickling down the backs of our throats.

That’s when it happened. I began to feel that I needed more of a rush. I thought to myself, I want more. I wanted to keep this one, but I wanted him in me. I wanted him to become part of me. That’s when the idea of eating part of his body occurred to me. So, I severed his biceps, which were beautiful. I also took his thigh and his heart.” Dahmer said that he ate the heart first. “It tasted spongy.” He then took a bite of the thigh, but it was so tough that he could hardly chew it. He bought some meat tenderizer to use on the biceps. I could hardly contain myself. “Meat tenderizer? How did you prepare it?” Dahmer drew another cigarette from the pack and matter-of-factly described how he placed a little cooking oil in a skillet and lightly fried the body parts until medium rare. Sometimes he would add onions and mushrooms for flavor. Murphy interrupted. “What did it taste like?” Dahmer exhaled as he answered. “It tasted like a fine cut of meat, like a filet mignon.

Manusia yang serbakurang, nggak bisa mengisi manusia lain sampai ke relung-relung terdalam... Belajar memuaskan diri dengan kehadiran-Nya adalah cara paling mujarab untuk puas dan bahagia dengan yang kupunya apa adanya

It is triste to contemplate the winding down of the Universe into a cold, dark, lonely place, but we are a young species in a young Universe, with vast reaches of time before us. It is certainly true that there are countless worlds out there that could support life as we know it, and probably countless more that could support life as we don’t know it. It may be that the Universe is teeming with life waiting to make our acquaintance. Or, we may well be the first ones in our galaxy to make the leap to sentience. The vast distance between stars poses a severe barrier to individuals or even societies making the journey. Protoplasm is just too fragile and short-lived a medium to be up to the task of such voyaging. However, at a tenth the speed of light, the whole galaxy can be traversed in a million years. That’s a long time for protoplasm, but it is not a stretch to think of the data that makes us what we are—embodied perhaps in silicon or some other sturdy information-bearing material and reconstituted at destination—spreading throughout the galaxy, hopping from planet to planet along the way like Pacific Islanders in their canoes. If life—or complex life—is rare, it may well be our destiny to seed the Universe with an expanding wave of consciousness. But it is to be hoped that we will leave abundant worlds alone to develop their own destinies. There are worlds enough, and time.

In the spread of gender-identity ideology, developments in academia played a crucial role. This is not the place for an extended critique of the thinking that evolved on American campuses out of the 1960s French philosophy and literary criticism into gender studies, queer theory, critical race theory and the like. I will merely focus on what some have dubbed 'applied postmodernism' and the form of activism, known as 'social justice', that seeks to remake humanity along ideological lines. And I will lay out the key elements that have enable transsexuality, once understood as a rare anomaly, to be converted into an all-encompassing theory of sex and gender, and body and mind. Within applied postmodernism, objectivity is essentially impossible. Logic and reason are not ideals to be striven for, but attempts to shore up privilege. Language is taken to shape reality, not describe it. Oppression is brought into existence by discourse. Equality is no longer achieved by replacing unjust laws and practices with new ones that give everyone the chance to thrive, but by individuals defining their own identities, and 'troubling' or 'queering' the definitions of oppressed groups. A dualistic ideology can easily be accommodated within such a framework. Being a man or woman – or indeed non-binary or gender-fluid - becomes a matter of finding your own gender identity and revealing it to the world by the medium of preferred pronouns. It is a feeble form of dualism to be sure: the grandeur of Descartes' 'I think, therefore I am' replaced by 'they/them' on a pronoun badge.

Even though this waitress likely lived in Silver Lake, drove a shit car, and roomed with busboys, she was gorgeous. More exotic, shorter, and sloppier than a model. Gorgeous, medium rare.

It’s a perspective on story that may also shed light on why you and I and everyone else spend a couple of hours each day concocting tales that we rarely remember and more rarely share. By day I mean night, and the tales are those we produce during REM sleep. Well over a century since Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams, there is still no consensus on why we dream. I read Freud’s book for a junior-year high school class called Hygiene (yes, that’s really what it was called), a somewhat bizarre requirement taught by the school’s gym teachers and sports coaches that focused on first aid and common standards of cleanliness. Lacking material to fill an entire semester, the class was padded by mandatory student presentations on topics deemed loosely relevant. I chose sleep and dreams and probably took it all too seriously, reading Freud and spending after-school hours combing through research literature. The wow moment for me, and for the class too, was the work of Michel Jouvet, who in the late 1950s explored the dream world of cats.32 By impairing part of the cat brain (the locus coeruleus, if you like that sort of thing), Jouvet removed a neural block that ordinarily prevents dream thoughts from stimulating bodily action, resulting in sleeping cats who crouched and arched and hissed and pawed, presumably reacting to imaginary predators and prey. If you didn’t know the animals were asleep, you might think they were practicing a feline kata. More recently, studies on rats using more refined neurological probes have shown that their brain patterns when dreaming so closely match those recorded when awake and learning a new maze that researchers can track the progress of the dreaming rat mind as it retraces its earlier steps.33 When cats and rats dream it surely seems they’re rehearsing behaviors relevant to survival. Our common ancestor with cats and rodents lived some seventy or eighty million years ago, so extrapolating a speculative conclusion across species separated by tens of thousands of millennia comes with ample warning labels. But one can imagine that our language-infused minds may produce dreams for a similar purpose: to provide cognitive and emotional workouts that enhance knowledge and exercise intuition—nocturnal sessions on the flight simulator of story. Perhaps that is why in a typical life span we each spend a solid seven years with eyes closed, body mostly paralyzed, consuming our self-authored tales.34 Intrinsically, though, storytelling is not a solitary medium. Storytelling is our most powerful means for inhabiting other minds. And as a deeply social species, the ability to momentarily move into the mind of another may have been essential to our survival and our dominance. This offers a related design rationale for coding story into the human behavioral repertoire—for identifying, that is, the adaptive utility of our storytelling instinct.

more grilled, barbecued, or smoked meats over their lifetimes may have as much as 47 percent higher odds of breast cancer.60 And the Iowa Women’s Health Study found that women who ate their bacon, beefsteak, and burgers “very well done” had nearly five times the odds of getting breast cancer compared with women who preferred these meats served rare or medium.61 To see what was happening inside the breast, researchers asked women undergoing breast-reduction surgery about their meat-cooking methods.

Since there’s no liquor in the house, I concoct for myself a backache, filching a few of the blue valiums Warren rarely takes for his—truly bad—back. They’re for sleep, I tell myself. (My creative skill reaches its zenith at prescription interpretation, i.e., the codeine cough syrup bottle seems to read: Take one or two swigs when you feel like it. I take three.) In February I decide I’m under too much stress to quit booze cold turkey. Full sobriety as a concept recedes with the holidays. I’ll cut down, I think. But all the control schemes that reined me in during past years are now unfathomably failing. Only drink beer. Only drink wine. Only drink weekends. Only drink after five. At home. With others. When I only drink with meals, I cobble together increasingly baroque dinners, always uncorking some medium-shitty vintage at about three in the afternoon while Dev plays on the kitchen floor. The occasional swig is culinary duty, right? Some nights I’m into my second bottle before Warren comes in with frost on his glasses and a book bag a mule should’ve toted. Maybe he doesn’t notice, since I’m a champion at holding my liquor. Nonetheless, by the end of March, I have to unbutton my waistbands.

Thanks for fucking up again, Pierre.” He held a dish of sliced ostrich tenderloin, gesturing with it like it had personally offended him. “Does that look like medium rare to you? It’s fucking charcoal, that’s what it is. I have shoes made of leather softer than this fucking piece of dead bird…

brown hair, bright brown soulful eyes, and one of those trendy barely beards. He had always appreciated the association with the Savior and would hate to give it up, even if only in his own mind, because of a clashing career choice. The server reappeared with a frosty mug in each hand. “Two Fearless beers.” “We’re going to go with large filets,” Tom said with the satisfaction of a man on an unconstrained expense account. “Medium-rare for mine. And a Caesar salad to start.” “Same here,” Lars said. Carla nodded without taking notes, then disappeared. Tom resumed his pitch while Lars relaxed. “You’re an honors graduate from

The barrage of flashes starts again-oh the absurdity of it all. The lady with the largest camera flash comes up to my sail nose and blasts a big, bright one. My nigiris must be writhing, my tempuras scorched in an instant, medium-rare wagyus turned well done.

Like with all the true geniuses---there's rarely a happy ending.

Rosa di Parma, the Rose of Parma, is reserved for special occasions like Christmas or important guests, but it is so easy that you might make it more often. Mama Rosa’s version serves 8 to 10. 2 garlic cloves, finely minced ½ cup extra-virgin olive oil 1 beef tenderloin (3 to 4 pounds), well trimmed 1 pound Prosciutto di Parma, thinly sliced 8 ounces Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, shaved into thin slices with a vegetable peeler 2 tablespoons butter, preferably from Parma 1 tablespoon coarse sea salt 1 teaspoon chopped fresh rosemary 6 sprigs fresh rosemary ½ cup brandy ¼ to ½ cup beef broth Directions – In a small bowl, whisk together the garlic and oil. – With a sharp knife, butterfly the tenderloin by cutting lengthwise almost all the way through, leaving just ¼ to ½ inch of meat before unfolding like a book. Cover with parchment paper and pound with a heavy frying pan until the beef is about ½ inch thick. Brush the beef with the garlic oil. – Cover entire surface of the beef with half the prosciutto, slightly overlapping the slices. Top the prosciutto with the shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano. Top with the remaining prosciutto, again overlapping slices slightly. – Starting at one edge, carefully roll the meat up into a log shape. Mama Rosa sews the edge of the seam closed with a needle and sewing thread. Alternatively, you can tie the roll at close intervals with kitchen twine, but you will not get as good a seal. – Place 1 tablespoon of the butter in a large saucepan over high heat. In a small bowl, mix the salt and chopped rosemary, then rub the herbed salt over the meat log. Add the beef to the pan and sauté, turning occasionally, until all sides are browned, about 10 minutes. – Dot the meat log with the remaining 1 tablespoon butter and scatter the rosemary sprigs in the pan. Pour the brandy over the top. Reduce the heat to low and cook for 30 minutes, adding broth as needed to keep the pan from drying out, until the beef is medium rare and reaches an internal temperature between 130°F and 135°F. – Remove the beef to a cutting board and let rest for 5 to 10 minutes. Slice into spirals and serve. Mangia!

Stories can be incredibly powerful and beautiful devices that form and assist our perception and understanding of the world. However, according to twentieth-century American author Kurt Vonnegut, stories rarely tell the truth. After studying stories from an anthropological standpoint, examining the relationships with various cultures, Vonnegut found that stories and myths across many cultures share consistent similar shapes that can typically be broken down into just a few main categories. These shapes can be found graphing the course of a protagonist’s journey through a story along an axis of good and ill fortune. In all stories, someone or something starts somewhere, either in a good place, bad place, or neutral place. Then things happen related to that person which is conveyed as good or bad, bringing the character up and down the axis of fortune as they traverse forward through the story. Then, the story ends and its shape reveals itself. Vonnegut discovered that many popular stories follow common, consistent curves and spikes up and down the good/ill axis and that most end with the protagonist higher on the axis than where they started. However, what’s perhaps most interesting about Vonnegut’s analysis is this argument that these shapes, and consequently most stories, lie. Vonnegut proposed that a more honest, realistic story shape is simply a straight line. In a story of this shape, things still happen and characters still change, but the story maintains ambiguity around whether or not the events that occur are conclusively good or bad. According to Vonnegut, Hamlet is the closest literary representation of real life. “We are so seldom told the truth. In Hamlet-Shakespeare tells us that we don’t know enough about life to know what the good news is and the bad news is and we respond to that.” One story medium that seems to inadvertently coincide with this idea, is the medium of the television series. The goal of TV series is to keep viewers watching as long as possible. Each episode must be an engaging enough story to keep the viewer watching until the end, but each episode must also be left unresolved enough so the larger season-long and series-long stories continue and the viewer is interested in watching all the following episodes. In order to keep the whole thing going, none of the stories can reach a conclusion, and thus, the main characters can’t find ultimate peace or freedom from the uncertainty between good and ill-fortune. Of course, most shows don’t qualify as the straight-line shape in Vonnegut’s analysis, because most shows attempt to convey conclusively good and bad fortunes within them. However merely by the requirements of the medium TV series are forced to self-impose the same sort of universal truth that Vonnegut suggests. That neither the viewer nor the characters in a series can ever know what anything that’s so-called “good” or “bad” in one episode might cause in the next. And that on a fundamental level, the changes in each episode are futile because they are a part of a never-ending cycle of change through conflict and resolution, for the mere sake of its continuation, with no aim of a final resolution or reveal of what’s ultimately good or bad. Of course, eventually, a show reaches its series end when it stops working or runs its natural course. But the show fights its whole life to stay away from this moment. A good TV series, a series that we don’t want to end, is only a series that we don’t want to end because it can’t seem to resolve itself. In this, the format of Tv series also shows us that there is meaning, engagement, and entertainment within the endless cycle of change, regardless of its potential universal futility. And that perhaps change in life can exist not for the sake of some conclusion or ultimate state of peace, but a continuation of itself for the sake of itself. And perhaps the ability to be in this cycle of continued change for the sake of change is the actual good fortune.

How to eat: “Steak. Medium rare.” How to drink: “Tom Collins, extra lemon, extra ice. Won’t stain if you spill, and won’t get you too drunk.

And then there was the food: saffron-laced butter rice, cooked in a rose-shaped copper pan until seared with a perfect crust, decanted right at the table, and drizzled with a tart cherry sauce; sorshi balls—coconut, cherimoya, and sugar apple—dusted with different-colored powdered sugars; hot-spiced dakerra, served a perfect medium rare, along with herbed sag bread for rolls; and, to crown it all, a delicate kevra sorbet.

It is so easy to demonize free-market and the freedom to outsource and offshore because it is so much easier to see people being laid off in big bunches, which makes headlines, than to see them being hired in fives and tens by small and medium-sized companies, which rarely makes news.

In this moment of clarity, Saul regretted that he had opened the gates of Tartarus to satisfy his hunger. There was an emptiness in his soul, a deep and abiding emptiness, like a pit in Sheol, that drove him. He had believed that greatness and glory might satiate the hunger. But now he realized he had bitten off more than he could eat. He felt nauseous. Nevertheless, he determined to institute a pogrom to root out all mediums, necromancers and sorcerers from Israel’s territories. The Torah already prescribed death as the penalty for such spiritual traitors, but in reality was rarely enforced. Common Israelites in more rural areas, in the absence of contact with king or priest, degenerated into doing exactly what Saul himself had previously done. They sought for validation wherever they could find it. And there was plenty of validation from the gods of Canaan, who only asked for a small amount of recognition in return—a small amount of worship. Thus, many Israelites owned teraphim, little statues of gods or ancestors to whom they could maintain household shrines. Even some of Saul’s family had them.

Cheeseburger medium rare, fries, a Bud.” “You want an angiogram after that?” “Good

I know I’ve been nothing but a pain to you ever since I came here.” “Not true,” I said, kissing her palm. “You’ve helped me and healed me. Fed me more bacon than any one man—or wolf—ought to eat in one sitting…” “Victor…” She laughed at that and I was glad to see the smile on her face. “Come on, it was only three packs.” “But now I got nothing to make BLTs with,” I complained. “So that’s what the lettuce and tomato in the fridge are for,” she said. “I thought maybe they were for salad.” “Salad? No fucking way.” I grinned at her. “I’m a wolf, baby—I can’t live on bunny food.” “How about a steak then?” She looked at the clock on the bedside table. “It’s almost dinnertime and I thought I saw one in there. Let me make you something to eat.” “The only thing I want to eat right now…” I started and saw her creamy cheeks flush red. “Victor…” “Is a big juicy medium rare steak,” I finished. Taylor slapped me on the chest. “Now stop that—you’re making me embarrassed.” “What?” I spread my hands innocently. “I was just saying how hungry I am. So yes, I’d love a steak. Uh, do you know how to cook though?” “I’ve only been a vampire for six years,” she reminded me. “I’m an excellent cook.” “Go to it, then, woman.” I pointed at the door. “Go make me a steak.” “Yes, sir!” She gave me a little salute and giggled, a soft sound that made me want to take her down to the bed and kiss her and tickle her until she made that sound again—as well as a lot of others.

A spark is just a lighted bulb for patient men. The eminent failures of a family man, both in life and in business, is a sign of medium and long term sucess. Current studies show that impatience, sadness and irritation occur through conflicts and adversities that happen behind the scenes. When you decide to be a superhuman in and out of the field of life, be clear and cordial, honest and understanding. Those who so choose, remove the crust from the mountain, while they become rare pearls for God; He wears them with the new and, for impatient men, the mystery continues as an ancient secret.

Kai and I head back into the kitchen, where the platters and trays are set up. Grilled vegetable skewers with a lemon dressing. Beef tenderloin, roasted medium rare, sliced thin, with a grainy mustard sauce. Orzo salad with spinach, red onion, and feta. Filled cucumbers and pickled carrots. White beans with sage. Saffron risotto with artichokes and chicken. Mini pavlovas and poached pears and poppy-seed cookies.

Invest in an instant-read meat thermometer for roasting meats (and use it for smoking meats, too). Check large roasts in multiple spots, because one part can appear done while another is undercooked. An internal temperature variance of just a few degrees can mean the difference between juicy and dry. My rule of thumb for cooking a large roast is once its internal temperature hits 100°F, it’ll start climbing at a rate of about a degree a minute, if not faster. So if you’re aiming for medium-rare, around 118 to 120°F, then know that you’ve got about 15 minutes before it’s time to pull. Large roasts carry over about 15°F, while steaks and chops will carry over about 5°F, so account for this any time you pull meat off the heat.

Perhaps nowhere else, though, was the contribution of the private ‘universal’ library to the progress of the early Enlightenment, moderate and radical, more crucial than in Italy, where the impact of censorship, the unavailability of foreign books, and the decay of the great libraries all conspired to create a situation in which a few medium and large private libraries containing rare foreign works and ‘libri prohibiti’ provided the indispensable channel through which flowed the philosophical ferment of the late seventeenth century, and later. In Naples in the 1680s and 1690s, the library of Giuseppe Valletta served as the headquarters and discussion forum of the philosophical novatores.71 More impressive still, and vital to the nurturing of the Early Enlightenment in Florence, were the 25,000 books and 2,873 manuscripts belonging to Magliabechi, a bibliomaniac who sought, read, wrote about, and discussed books to the point of neglecting everything else, even his personal appearance.72 A bibliographical titan, who influenced many without ever having published a book himself, and in whose honour a celebratory medal was cast, portraying him seated, holding a book, Magliabechi, like Naudé and Leibniz, considered universality—the encompassing of the whole of human thought and knowledge

*cop pulls me over* Cop: Do you realize how fast you were going?  Me: No.. Cop: You were like NEEEEEEAWWW!!  *Cop runs away with imaginary steering wheel* > Ever wonder… Why does your nose run and your feet smell? Dad: “Excuse me waitress, I ordered this fillet medium-rare and this is clearly a peanut butter and jelly sandwich” Mom: ”Did you just call me waitress?” Q: Why is it ok to eat donuts in church? A: Because they’re holy.

Creamy Zucchini Soup Velouté de Courgettes Jean was right, and zucchini is still among my son’s favorite foods. Creamy here refers to texture, rather than ingredients, since there’s not a drop of dairy. Good olive oil gives the soup a rich quality without diluting the bright flavor of the vegetables. As with all recipes that count on one ingredient, buy the best zucchini you can find. ⅓ cup fruity olive oil 1 large onion, coarsely chopped 2½ pounds zucchini, preferably organic, unpeeled 1 chicken or vegetable bouillon cube 3 cups water ¾ cup dry white wine In a stockpot, heat the olive oil, add the onion, and sauté over medium-low heat for 10 minutes, until translucent and just beginning to color. Meanwhile, wash the zucchini (leave the skin on) and cut in half lengthwise. Cut the halves into ¼-inch slices. Add the zucchini to the onions. Stir to coat. Cover the pot, but leave the lid slightly ajar—about an inch or so. Reduce the heat a bit and sauté for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally. Dissolve the bouillon cube in ½ cup boiling water. When the zucchini is tender, add wine, stir, then add the ½ cup of bouillon and the remaining 2½ cups water to the pot. Let simmer for 2 to 3 minutes. Using a hand blender, puree the soup. Leave the flavors to blend for a few minutes before serving. Serves 4 Tip: Every once in a while I get a batch of very bitter zucchini and end up having to throw my whole pot of soup away—very disappointing indeed. It’s rare in commercially produced vegetables, but if you are using zucchini from the garden or the farm stand, always taste an unpeeled slice before you start. If the skin tastes unusually bitter, peel all your zucchini before you proceed with the recipe.

How is the shrimp toast prepared?" "Oh, um," I said, collecting myself. "Brioche is marinated overnight in shrimp stock, then caked with Indian prawn and langoustine mousse." I had read that in Carey's Wiki last night. "Where are the langoustines from?" "Montauk." "And how would you recommend serving the salmon?" "Which salmon?" "Both salmons. The sous-vide and the salad." "The sous-vide should be served well." I remembered reading that sometime between two and three A.M. "Because it stays moist in the pouch no matter what and the greater cooking time allows the flavors to infuse longer. Medium-rare to rare for the salad, to show off the quality of the product." "And where do you put the bone bowl for the frog legs in tarragon gremolata?" "What do you mean?" "Do you put the bowl on the right or left of the guest?" "Neither. The frog legs are deboned. No bowl is necessary.