Mouth Grill Quotes

But Adam lingered for a moment after he cast off the covers and stood. Here he was, waking in the Lynch home, wearing last night’s clothing that still smelled of smoke from the grill, having overslept the weight class he had this morning by a magnitude of hours. His mouth remembered Ronan Lynch’s.

I was on a mission. I had to learn to comfort myself, to see what others saw in me and believe it. I needed to discover what the hell made me happy other than being in love. Mission impossible. When did figuring out what makes you happy become work? How had I let myself get to this point, where I had to learn me..? It was embarrassing. In my college psychology class, I had studied theories of adult development and learned that our twenties are for experimenting, exploring different jobs, and discovering what fulfills us. My professor warned against graduate school, asserting, "You're not fully formed yet. You don't know if it's what you really want to do with your life because you haven't tried enough things." Oh, no, not me.." And if you rush into something you're unsure about, you might awake midlife with a crisis on your hands," he had lectured it. Hi. Try waking up a whole lot sooner with a pre-thirty predicament worm dangling from your early bird mouth. "Well to begin," Phone Therapist responded, "you have to learn to take care of yourself. To nurture and comfort that little girl inside you, to realize you are quite capable of relying on yourself. I want you to try to remember what brought you comfort when you were younger." Bowls of cereal after school, coated in a pool of orange-blossom honey. Dragging my finger along the edge of a plate of mashed potatoes. I knew I should have thought "tea" or "bath," but I didn't. Did she want me to answer aloud? "Grilled cheese?" I said hesitantly. "Okay, good. What else?" I thought of marionette shows where I'd held my mother's hand and looked at her after a funny part to see if she was delighted, of brisket sandwiches with ketchup, like my dad ordered. Sliding barn doors, baskets of brown eggs, steamed windows, doubled socks, cupcake paper, and rolled sweater collars. Cookouts where the fathers handled the meat, licking wobbly batter off wire beaters, Christmas ornaments in their boxes, peanut butter on apple slices, the sounds and light beneath an overturned canoe, the pine needle path to the ocean near my mother's house, the crunch of snow beneath my red winter boots, bedtime stories. "My parents," I said. Damn. I felt like she made me say the secret word and just won extra points on the Psychology Game Network. It always comes down to our parents in therapy.

Jack is somewhere in this city, right now. The thought was like passing by a house where someone was grilling in the back yard. You could smell it, but it wasn't yours, and you couldn't just barge into their home and demand a burger, no matter how your mouth watered.

The voice called his name again and it came through a lot of throat. Steven twisted quickly on his stool. Just a white wall and, down near the floor, the ventilation grille. Then movement behind the grille and Steven was on his knees, peering through it, pressing his face against the mesh. In there, in the shadows beyond the spill of light from the hall, the outline of an anvil-shaped head swayed gently. Two eyes blinked limpidly, insolent in their slowness. A dark mass moved forward into the light. “That Cripps man is going to fuck you up, dude.” It was a cow. Most of the body was below floor level but Steven could tell it was a full grown animal. A sienna Guernsey. He looked closely at the flawless sandy curves of forehead and cheek, at the chocolate darkening of the mouth and nostrils, at the badger rings around the eyes. For an absurd second he thought that if he looked hard enough at it the thing might phase back into his head and disappear. But it was real and it stayed. “What … ?” “Yeah, I’m a cow, man. Touch me.” Steven stuck his fingers through the grille. The cow was a cow, warm and solid.

Thanks,” Jordan said. “Did you say Dad was here, too?” Kyle threw her a you-are-so-busted look. “Why, yes, he is. He’s out in the waiting room, grilling Tall, Dark, and Sarcastic.” Jordan’s mouth formed a silent O. She was busted. “You’ve met Nick?” “Yep, we’ve met, all right. He was kind enough to inform me that I have absolutely no say in whether you two date.” “Well, you don’t.” “You know, you all could at least pretend that my opinion makes a difference.” Kyle shot her a sideways glance. “You like this guy, don’t you?” Jordan couldn’t keep the smile off her face. “Yeah, I like this guy. He rescued me from a crazed man with a gun, he makes me laugh, and he calls his mother Ma. I’d say he’s a keeper.

You’re so cute when you’re jealous,” I say. She looks at me, her resolve melting with my words. I take her face in my hands and gently press my lips to hers. She sighs a quiet, defeated sigh into my mouth and relents, parting her lips for me. I run my hands down her arms and to her waist, then pull her out of the chair and on top of me as I lean back onto the bed. I place one hand on the small of her back, pressing her into me, and my other hand I run through her hair, grabbing the back of her head. I kiss her hard as I roll her onto her back, proving to her that she has absolutely nothing to be jealous of. As soon as I’m on top of her, she places her hands on my cheeks and forces my face apart from hers. “So your lips touched someone else’s lips? After our first kiss?” I fall back onto the bed beside her. “Lake, stop it. Stop thinking about it,” I say. “I can’t, Will.” She turns to me and makes that damn pouty face she knows I can’t refuse. “I need to know. In my head all I can picture is you taking some girl out on this perfect date and making her grilled cheese sandwiches and playing “would you rather” with her and sharing seriously intense moments with her, then kissing the hell out of her at the end of the night.” Her description of our first date causes me to laugh. I lean over and press my lips to her ear and whisper, “Is that what I did to you? I kissed the hell out of you?” She pulls her neck away and shoots me a glare, letting me know she isn’t backing down until she gets her way. “Fine,” I say, pulling back. “If I tell you all about it will you promise to let me kiss the hell out of you again?” “Promise,” she says.

In the beginning, everything was alive. The smallest objects were endowed with beating hearts, and even the clouds had names. Scissors could walk, telephones and teapots were first cousins, eyes and eyeglasses were brothers. The face of the clock was a human face, each pea in your bowl had a different personality, and the grille on the front of your parents’ car was a grinning mouth with many teeth. Pens were airships. Coins were flying saucers. The branches of trees were arms. Stones could think, and God was everywhere.

Charred, blackened, and cooked, the morsel was brought to the mouth and chewed, contemplated, and swallowed with relish. There was no sauce or seasoning and no consideration for aesthetics or art. Yet the combination of meat and fire yielded something revolutionary. Cooked meat made man happy.

was going to drown. Woo had attached him to the drain at the bottom of the pool with his own handcuffs. He looked up. The moon was shining down on him through a filter of water. He stretched his free arm up and out of the water. Hell, the pool was only one meter deep here! Harry crouched and tried to stand up, stretched with all his might. The handcuff cut into his thumb, but still his mouth was twenty centimeters below the surface. He noticed the shadow at the edge of the pool moving away. Shit! Don’t panic, he thought. Panic uses up oxygen. He sank to the bottom and examined the grille with his fingers. It was made of steel and was totally immovable, it didn’t budge even when he grabbed it with both hands and pulled. How long could he hold his breath? One minute? Two? All his muscles ached, his temples throbbed and red stars were dancing in front of his eyes. He tried to jerk himself loose. His mouth was dry with fear, his brain had started producing

Come tae me, she heard from a distance. She shot upright, squinting into the shadows. At the entrance of the cave, warm amber eyes glowed in the darkness. He’d come back! “Ah, you’re excited about my return, then,” he murmured. “Your heart sped up at the verra sound of my voice.” The nerve! “Only because I’m eager to throw you around some more. That’ll never get old.” “You’re cold and still soaked through.” “Nothing escapes you.” “I’ve something for you to eat.” At the thought of more gel packs or green bananas, she almost retched, but then the scent of something cooked, something heavenly, assailed her. “What is that smell?” she asked just as the others awakened one by one. “Food for you, Mariketa,” he answered. “A feast of it.” Beside his spot at the edge of the cave, she spied what looked like grilled fish and crayfish, as well as some kind of roasted meat laid out on a smooth flank of wood. Succulent fruits lay in abundant piles, with not a green banana among them. As her mouth watered, Rydstrom muttered, “Methinks your Lykae is trying to impress you. What he can’t take, he’ll tempt.

Dear Pinterest, When we first started dating, you lured me in with Skittles-flavored vodka and Oreo-filled chocolate chip cookies. You wooed me with cheesy casseroles adjacent to motivational fitness sayings. I loved your inventiveness: Who knew cookies needed a sugary butter dip? You did. You knew, Pinterest. You inspired me, not to make stuff, but to think about one day possibly making stuff if I have time. You took the cake batter, rainbow and bacon trends to levels nobody thought were possible. You made me hungry. The nights I spent pinning and eating nachos were some of the best nights of my life. Pinterest, we can’t see each other anymore. You see, it’s recently come to my attention that some people aren’t just pinning, they are making. This makes me want to make, too. Unfortunately, I’m not good at making, and deep down I like buying way more. Do you see where I’m going with this? I’m starting to feel bad, Pinterest. I don’t enjoy you the way I once did. We need to take a break. I’m going to miss your crazy ideas (rolls made with 7Up? Shut your mouth). This isn’t going to be easy. You’ve been responsible for nearly every 2 a.m. grilled cheese binge I’ve had for the past couple of years, and for that I’ll be eternally grateful. Stay cool, Pinterest. PS. You hurt me. PPS. I’m also poor now. Xo Me 10

I picked up the large lapel button richly worked in purple, green and yellow plastic. 'January 1997,' it announced, 'Day of Visionaries.' Beneath the slogan was a portrait of Dr Martin Luther King Jr. And next to him, sharing the billing as it were, was a same-size picture of our newly elected President. And below was the official logo of the inauguration committee. I’m sorry, but that’s too much. Much too much. I can tune out the Chief Executive when he drivels on about building a bridge to Newt Gingrich. I can be shaking a cocktail or grilling a lobster when he intones that 'nothing big ever came from being small.' I can be receiving a telephone call in a foreign language and still keep up with him when he says that the future lies before us, and the past behind, and that we must light the torch of knowledge from the fountain of wisdom (or whatever). As Orwell once remarked, after a point you stop noticing that you have said things like 'The jackboot is thrown into the melting pot,’ or 'The fascist octopus has sung its swansong.' Motor-mouth and automatic pilot and sheer flatulence and conceit supply their own mediocre, infinitely renewable energy. But this cheap, cheery little button turned the scale. It’s one thing to be bored, or subjected to boredom. It’s another to be insulted. This is a pot of piss flung in the face. What does it take to get people disgusted these days?

The cheek meat is so tender it falls apart in your mouth! Then there's the gummy, chewy tripe and tongue- new textures and flavors to enjoy with every bite! It all hits you so fast it's like a roller coaster!" "This charcoal-grilled skirt steak is particularly amazing. Usually, skirt steak is served thinly sliced. But these are thick cut, taking their juiciness to a whole new level! Not only that, he added a grid pattern of shallow cuts to the meat's surface... ... so that once it was charcoal grilled, it would have a pleasantly springy texture to it. It makes for an excellent accent when dipped in the stew.

When you visit Gindaco, spend some time watching the cooks make takoyaki before ordering, because it's an amazing free show. The shop has an industrial-sized takoyaki griddle with dozens of hot cast iron wells, each one about an inch and a half in diameter. The cook squirts the grill with plenty of vegetable oil. She dunks a pitcher into a barrel of pancake batter and sloshes it over the grill, then strews the whole area with negi, ginger, and huge, tender octopus chunks. Some of Gindaco's purple tentacles are two inches long. This cooks for a little while, then the cook tops off the grill with more batter until it's nearly full. Up to this point, the process looks haphazard, but then she whips out the skewers. Using only the same slender bamboo skewers you'd use for making kebabs, she begins slicing through the batter in a grid pattern and forming a ball in each well. Somehow she herds this ocean of batter into a grid of takoyaki in a minute or two. The takoyaki cost all of 500 yen, and the price includes a wooden serving boat that you can take home and reuse as a bath toy if you haven't gotten too much sauce on it. A Gindaco takoyaki is a brilliant morsel: full of flavor from the negi and ginger, crispy on the outside and juicy within. Takoyaki also stay mouth-searingly hot inside for longer than you can stand to wait, so be careful.

Ember looked up when he walked in, and when he saw her face, he felt like he’d been gut shot. Heavy bruising discolored the right side up to her eye, and she seemed to be in pain. Her mouth was pinched and her eyes squinted. When she realized he wasn’t one of the wait staff, she immediately turned away. “No customers allowed back here,” she called. She moved down the cook line and motioned to a Hispanic man she was working with to take her place at the grill. Zeke prowled down the parallel aisle until he was right behind her. “L-look at me.” She shook her head stubbornly. “You can’t be back here, Zeke.” “Look at me, please.” After a long pause, she turned her body toward him, but kept her face turned away. Bending his knees enough to peer into her eyes, he waited until she looked at him. Fury rolled through him as he realized he could see finger marks within the bruise. “Who d-did this to you?” She shook her head and refused to answer. Tears glinted in her eyes. “It’s no big deal, okay? Accidents happen. I was just in the wrong place at the right time. It happens when you own a bar.” Her eyes slid away and he thought there was something she wasn’t telling him, but he had a feeling if he called her on it she’d clam up completely. He reached out to touch a length of her dark hair that had escaped from her braid. Her eyes flickered and a single tear rolled down her cheek. He groaned. “D-d-don’t cry. I didn’t come in here to…up-upset you. Just had to check on you.” *****

There are food stations around the room, each representing one of the main characters. The Black Widow station is all Russian themed, with a carved ice sculpture that delivers vodka into molded ice shot glasses, buckwheat blini with smoked salmon and caviar, borsht bite skewers, minipita sandwiches filled with grilled Russian sausages, onion salad, and a sour cream sauce. The Captain America station is, naturally, all-American, with cheeseburger sliders, miniwaffles topped with a fried chicken tender and drizzled with Tabasco honey butter, paper cones of French fries, mini-Chicago hot dogs, a mac 'n' cheese bar, and pickled watermelon skewers. The Hulk station is all about duality and green. Green and white tortellini, one filled with cheese, the other with spicy sausage, skewered with artichoke hearts with a brilliant green pesto for dipping. Flatbreads cooked with olive oil and herbs and Parmesan, topped with an arugula salad in a lemon vinaigrette. Mini-espresso cups filled with hot sweet pea soup topped with cold sour cream and chervil. And the dessert buffet is inspired by Loki, the villain of the piece, and Norse god of mischief. There are plenty of dessert options, many of the usual suspects, mini-creme brûlée, eight different cookies, small tarts. But here and there are mischievous and whimsical touches. Rice Krispies treats sprinkled with Pop Rocks for a shocking dining experience. One-bite brownies that have a molten chocolate center that explodes in the mouth. Rice pudding "sushi" topped with Swedish Fish.

Always toast in a single layer, stir often, and pull bits and pieces as they are done. Toast thin slices of bread, to be smeared with chicken liver paste or fava bean purée at medium-low heat (about 350°F) so they don’t burn or dry out, which will result in mouth-damaging shards. Thicker slices of bread, to be topped with poached eggs and greens or tomatoes and ricotta, can be toasted at high heat (up to 450°F), or on a hot grill, so they brown quickly on the surface and remain chewy in the center. At 450°F and above, coconut flakes, pine nuts, and bread crumbs will go from perfect to burnt in the time it takes to sneeze. Knock 50 to 75°F off the temperature, and you’ll buy yourself the luxury of time. If a sneezing fit hits, your toasted foods will be safe. And when you deem the toastiness of these delicate foods sufficient, remove them from their hot trays (not doing so may lead to carryover and your perfectly toasted food will blacken while your back is turned).

the foot of the downhill Eighties lay the Hudson, as dense as mercury. On the points of radio towers in New Jersey red lights like small hearts beat or tingled. In midstreet, on the benches, old people: on faces, on heads, the strong marks of decay: the big legs of women and blotted eyes of men, sunken mouths and inky nostrils. It was the normal hour for bats swooping raggedly (Ludeyville), or pieces of paper (New York) to remind Herzog of bats. An escaped balloon was fleeing like a sperm, black and quick into the orange dust of the west. He crossed the street, making a detour to avoid a fog of grilled chicken and sausage. The crowd was traipsing over the broad sidewalk. Moses took a keen interest in the uptown public, its theatrical spirit, its performers—the transvestite homosexuals painted with great originality, the wigged women, the lesbians looking so male you had to wait for them to pass and see them from behind to determine their true sex, hair dyes of every shade.

Can I make you a cup of tea?” He says that would be wonderful, and she smiles handsomely; then her face darkens in terrible sorrow. “And I am so sorry, Mr. Arthur,” she says, as if imparting the death of a loved one. “You are too early to see the cherry blossoms.” After the tea (which she makes by hand, whisking it into a bitter green foam—“Please eat the sugar cookie before the tea”) he is shown to his room and told it was, in fact, the novelist Kawabata Yasunari’s favorite. A low lacquered table is set on the tatami floor, and the woman slides back paper walls to reveal a moonlit corner garden dripping from a recent rain; Kawabata wrote of this garden in the rain that it was the heart of Kyoto. “Not any garden,” she says pointedly, “but this very garden.” She informs him that the tub in the bathroom is already warm and that an attendant will keep it warm, always, for whenever he needs it. Always. There is a yukata in the closet for him to wear. Would he like dinner in the room? She will bring it personally for him: the first of the four kaiseki meals he will be writing about. The kaiseki meal, he has learned, is an ancient formal meal drawn from both monasteries and the royal court. It is typically seven courses, each course composed of a particular type of food (grilled, simmered, raw) and seasonal ingredients. Tonight, it is butter bean, mugwort, and sea bream. Less is humbled both by the exquisite food and by the graciousness with which she presents it. “I most sincerely apologize I cannot be here tomorrow to see you; I must go to Tokyo.” She says this as if she were missing the most extraordinary of wonders: another day with Arthur Less. He sees, in the lines around her mouth, the shadow of the smile all widows wear in private. She bows and exits, returning with a sake sampler. He tries all three, and when asked which is his favorite, he says the Tonni, though he cannot tell the difference. He asks which is her favorite. She blinks and says: “The Tonni.” If only he could learn to lie so compassionately.

Garnish soft comfort foods with crunchy crumbs, toasted nuts, or crisp bits of bacon to make things interesting. Serve rich meats with bright, acidic sauces and clean-tasting blanched or raw vegetables. Serve mouth-drying starches with mouthwatering sauces, and recognize that a well-dressed, juicy salad can serve as both a side dish and a sauce. On the other hand, pair simply cooked meats, such as grilled steak or poached chicken, with roasted, sautéed, or fried vegetables glazed with Maillard’s dark lacquer. Let the seasons inspire you; foods that are in season together naturally complement one another on the plate. For example, corn, beans, and squash grow as companions in the field, then the three sisters find their way together into succotash. Tomatoes, eggplant, zucchini, and basil become ratatouille, tian, or caponata depending on where you are on the Mediterranean coast. Sage, a hardy winter herb, is a natural complement to winter squash because its leaves—and its flavor—stand up to the cold of winter.

The candy-colored pavillions and exhibit halls, fitted out with Saturn rings, lightning bolts, shark's fins, golden grilles and honeycombs, the Italian pavillion with its entire facade dissolving in a perpetual cascade of water, the gigantic cash register, the austere and sinuous temples of the Detroit gods, the fountains, the pylons and sundials, the statues of George Washington and Freedom of Speech and Truth Showing the Way to Freedom had been peeled, stripped, prized apart, knocked down, bulldozed into piles, loaded onto truck beds, dumped into barges, towed out past the mouth of the harbor, and sent to the bottom of the sea. It made him sad, not because he saw some instructive allegory or harsh sermon on the vanity of all human hopes and Utopian imaginings in this translation of a bright summer dream into an immense mud puddle freezing over at the end of a September afternoon - he was too young to have such inklings - but because he had so loved the Fair, and seeing it this way, he felt in his heart what he had known all along, that, like childhood, the Fair was over, and he would never be able to visit again.

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!

Even though Jasmine was supposed to try Marcella's Stone Plum Soup tonight, she pulled at her baking cupboard. She wanted chocolate. She wanted oozing, rich, creamy, comforting chocolate. She would throw chops on the grill and toss a salad for dinner. Tonight, she was going to concentrate her efforts on dessert. She pulled out her big bowl and mixer. She took down blocks of chocolate, vanilla, sugar. Poked her head into the refrigerator to count the eggs. Ten. Just enough. Her mouth watered, her tongue repeatedly swallowing the swamp that had become her mouth. Cream? A pint poked from behind the mayonnaise. She smelled it. One day to spare. She padded to the liquor cabinet and examined her choices. Brandy, amaretto, Grand Marnier. Mmm, yes. Grand Marnier, a subtle orange swirl. The chocolate and butter wobbled over the heat of the double boiler. Unctuous and smooth. Jasmine beat the eggs and sugar until lemony light. She poured in the chocolate in a long professional sweep. A few deft turns of the spatula turned the mixture into what she really craved. She stood over the bowl tasting slabs of it from the spatula. A good dash of Grand Marnier. Another taste. And another. She had to discard a number of egg whites to fit with the reduced mixture. She finally tipped the glossy beaten whites into the chocolate.

Once upon a time I'd left Los Angeles and been swallowed down the throat of a life in which my sole loyalty was to my tongue. My belly. Myself. My mother called me selfish and so selfish I became. From nineteen to twenty-five I was a mouth, sating. For myself I made three-day braises and chose the most marbled meats, I played loose with butter and cream. My arteries were young, my life pooling before me, and I lapped, luxurious, from it. I drank, smoked, flew cheap red-eyes around Europe, I lived in thrilling shitholes, I found pills that made nights pass in a blink or expanded time to a soap bubble, floating, luminous, warm. Time seemed infinite, then. I begged famous chefs for the chance to learn from them. I entered competitions and placed in a few. I volunteered to work brunch, turn artichokes, clean the grease trap. I flung my body at all of it: the smoke and singe of the grill station, a duck's breast split open like a geode, two hundred oysters shucked in the walk-in, sex in the walk-in, drunken rides around Paris on a rickety motorcycle and no helmet, a white truffle I stole and shaved in secret over a bowl of Kraft mac n' cheese for me, just me, as my body strummed the high taut selfish song of youth. On my twenty-fifth birthday I served black-market fugu to my guests, the neurotoxin stinging sweetly on my lips as I waited to see if I would, by eating, die. At that age I believed I knew what death was: a thrill, like brushing by a friend who might become a lover.

First, we put some shallow cuts in the meat in a grill pattern... then, we pound it until it's thin! Next, we cover both sides of it with minced onions and let it sit." Covering the meat with onions? I think I read about that somewhere... "Okay, now we scrape off the onions and season the meat with salt and pepper. After searing the steak, we melt a dollop of butter in the same frying pan... ... and caramelize the minced onions in the juices left from the meat, melding the two flavors together! After they're done, we cover the whole top of the steak with the caramelized onions... ... and use the back of a knife to put the grill pattern back into the meat. Put it all on top of some cooked rice... and it's done!" "Oh, yeah! Now I remember! This... IS A CHALIAPIN STEAK!" CHALIAPIN STEAK It was created in 1936, specifically for visiting opera singer Feodor Chaliapin. Bothered by a toothache, the singer requested a dish with "tender steak." This was the result. Accordingly, it is a uniquely Japanese steak, unknown to the rest of the world. "Okay you two, taste it!" "A-all right..." It... It's so tender! "Whoa, now this is tender! I can cut it using my chopsticks! And when I take a bite... ...it practically melts in my mouth!" "Onions have an enzyme in them which breaks down protein, just like honey and pineapple do. That's why the steak is so tender." You'd never believe this was a cheap cut of meat. Its savory flavor fills the mouth with each bite... there's no knocking the combination it makes with the rice, either. Who would've thought of using a steak grilling technique... ... on a beef bowl?

I took the stairs two at a time, excited to have company today. When I opened the door I gasped and stood there in shock a moment before saying, “Patti, it’s awesome!” She had decorated with my school colors. Royal blue and gold streamers crisscrossed the ceiling, and balloons were everywhere. I heard her and the twins come up behind me, Patti giggling and Marna oohing. I was about to hug Patti, when a movement on the other side of the room caught my eye through the dangling balloon ribbons. I cursed my stupid body whose first reaction was to scream. Midshriek, I realized it was my dad, but my startled system couldn’t stop its initial reaction. A chain reaction started as Patti, then both the twins screamed, too. Dad parted the balloons and slunk forward, chuckling. We all shut up and caught our breaths. “Do you give all your guests such a warm welcome?” Patti’s hand was on her heart. “Geez, John! A little warning next time?” “I bet you’re wishing you’d never given me that key,” Dad said to Patti with his most charming, frightening grin. He stared at her long enough to make her face redden and her aura sputter. She rolled her eyes and went past him to the kitchen. “We’re about to grill,” she said without looking up from the food prep. “You’re welcome to stay.” Her aura was a strange blend of yellow and light gray annoyance. “Can’t stay long. Just wanted to see my little girl on her graduation day.” Dad nodded a greeting at the twins and they slunk back against the two barstools at the counter. My heart rate was still rapid when he came forward and embraced me. “Thanks for coming,” I whispered into his black T-shirt. I breathed in his clean, zesty scent and didn’t want to let him go. “I came to give you a gift.” I looked up at him with expectancy. “But not yet,” he said. I made a face. Patti came toward the door with a platter of chicken in her hands, a bottle of BBQ sauce and grilling utensils under her arm, and a pack of matches between her teeth. Dad and I both moved to take something from her at the same time. He held up a hand toward me and said, “I got it.” He took the platter and she removed the matches from her mouth. “I can do it,” she insisted. He grinned as I opened the door for them. “Yeah,” he said over his shoulder. “I know you can.” And together they left for the commons area to be domesticated. Weird.

Would the pair of you like to turn your backs so you exclude us more effectively?” Jode asks. “We’re just adding to the list.” I hold up my journal. “Daryn.” Gideon shakes his head, pretending to be disappointed. “It’s our list.” “A list?” Jode leans back, resting his head against his bag. “What’s this list about?” Rather than explain it, I just lean over and give it to him. Gideon puts his hand over his heart and winces. “I hate sharing, Martin.” I lean up, whispering in his ear. “Some things are only for you.” He gives me a long unblinking look that makes my face burn and my body feel light and hot. “This is an outrage,” Jode says dryly. “I’m in here once and Gideon is here … two, three, four times?” “Three,” I say. “The last one doesn’t really count.” “Oh, it counts,” Gideon says. “How many times am I in it?” Marcus asks. “Are you guys making this a competition?” “Of course.” “Yeah.” “Definitely. And I’m dominating.” “For real,” Marcus says. “How many times am I on there?” “Once, like me. For your winning smile.” Jode closes the notebook and tosses it to Marcus. “But don’t let it go to your head. Gideon’s arse has a spot on the list as well.” Gideon looks at me and winks. “Like I said, dominating.” “Dare, you got a pen?” Marcus asks. This catches me by surprise for a moment. “Yes.” I toss it to him, smiling. This is perfect. Whatever he adds, it’s already perfect. As Marcus writes, Jode leans back and gazes up at the trees. “You’re thinking it’ll be five for you after this. Aren’t you, Gideon?” “You know me well, Ellis.” Marcus finishes writing. He sets the pen in the fold and hands the journal to Gideon. I lean in and read. Marcus’s handwriting is elegant cursive—almost astonishingly elegant. And what he wrote is, as expected, perfection. Even better is that Gideon reads it aloud. “‘Twenty-eight. The family you make.’” He looks at Marcus. “Damn right, bro. This is the best one here.” He looks at me. “Tied with fourteen.” “Ah, yes,” Jode says. “Gideon’s Super Lips.” Marcus shakes his head at me. “Why?” “It was a mistake. I wrote it before the list went public. What’s your addition, Jode? It can be anything. Anything that has significance to you.” “Full English breakfast,” he says, without missing a beat. “Bacon, eggs, sausages, baked beans, grilled tomato, mushrooms, toast, marmalade. With tea, of course. One of life’s undeniable pleasures.” My mouth instantly waters. “Well, it’s no trail mix, but all right.” I add “English Breakfast” to the list.

e live in a day and age where manners have been all but forgotten. We can remedy that with our children and grandchildren. When teaching the "M" word, show your children manners can be fun. One way is to have interesting pretend conversations that teach saying "hello," "goodbye," "I'm happy to meet you," and "thank you very much." Make a game of teaching kids how to set a table. Knife here. Fork there. Napkin fluffed in a napkin ring-and a pretty bowl of flowers or other decoration in the middle. Make a date with your grandchildren and take them out to lunch so they can practice their skills. Yes, manners can be used even if they're just ordering grilled cheese sandwiches! Manners will help children have kinder hearts, think of others, and stand them in good stead when they grow up and join the workforce. Love has manners, and emphasize how much they're showing they care when they use their good manners. hat's the greatest gift we can give to our often impersonal and violent society? Our feminine selves! Does that surprise you? Let me share a few simple truths about being a woman of God. Women have always had the ability to transform their surroundings, to make them more comfortable and inviting so friends can find comfort and joy. Let's rejoice in this gift and make the most of it. The beautiful woman is disciplined, modest, discreet, gracious, self-controlled, and organized. Scripture says that as women our worth is far above jewels. Strength and dignity are our clothing. When we open our mouths, wisdom and the teaching of kindness are on our tongues. We are women who fear the Lord. Let's live up to that description and celebrate who we are in Christ.

if you don’t shut your mouth and work with us, then by the Lord Jesus, when we roll out of here in those buses I will personally tie you to the front grill, cover you with A1 sauce, and use you for bait. Look me in the eye and ask me if I’m joking.

So Lisa as your matron of honor and Stephanie as bridesmaid,” Cat was saying. “Do you know who Sean wants as best man?” “No. We haven’t gotten that far yet.” He didn’t hear any tension in Emma’s voice, but he guessed she was feeling it. Planning a wedding that wasn’t going to happen was weird, to say the least. “Maybe we could ask Mike’s oldest son—Joey, right?—to be a groomsman so he can escort Stephanie.” “I don’t know,” Emma said. “I don’t think it’s very fair to ask one of the boys and not the others.” “True. Maybe they could be ushers and then join their parents once everybody’s seated.” Sean had just decided to beat a fast retreat back to the living room, when he heard a chair scrape back. “We can talk about that later, Gram. Right now I should go wake Sean so he’s not still groggy when we ask him to fire up the grill.” He didn’t have time to escape, so he leaned against the counter and twisted the top of his beer. Emma paused when she saw him, and then grabbed his hand and dragged him down the hall to the living room. “Where did you disappear to?” he asked. “What? Oh, a client had an emergency. But—” “There are gardening emergencies?” She blew out an exasperated breath. “Yes. When you’re rich, everything’s an emergency. But did you hear what Gram was saying?” “Yeah. How the hell are guys supposed to pick a best man, anyway? I’ve got three brothers and I like them all. And what about Mikey? Or Kevin or Joe? It seems easier to pick a stranger off the street so you don’t have to play favorites. I guess maybe I’d ask Mitch. He’s the oldest, so most of what the rest of us know about catching a woman we learned from him.” “In case you’ve forgotten, you haven’t actually caught a woman yet. And it doesn’t really matter who you choose, because there is no wedding.” She was wound up like an eight-day clock, so he didn’t dare laugh at her. Her cheeks were bright and she kept spinning her ring around and around on her finger. Since there was nothing he could say to make her feel better about Cat wanting to plan their fake wedding, he slid the hand not holding his beer around her waist and hauled her close. “You worry too much,” he told her. “And you—” He kissed her to shut her up. And because all he’d been able to think about since the last time he’d had his hands on her was getting his hands on her again. And, most of all, because he liked kissing her. A lot. Maybe too much, if he thought about it. So he didn’t think about it. Instead, he lost himself in the taste of her mouth and the softness of her lips and the way her hands slid over his lower back, holding him close. “Oh,” Cat said from behind him. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” “No,” Emma said. “We were just…talking.” “I can see that.

I needed to grab another box of screws, but, when I got to the truck, I realized I’d left my wallet in my tool bucket. When I went back ground the house to get it, she had my plans open and was double-checking all my measurements.” Emma’s cheeks burned when Gram laughed at Sean’s story, but, since she couldn’t deny it, she stuck her last bite of the fabulous steak he’d grilled into her mouth. “That’s my Emma,” Gram said. “I think her first words were ‘If you want something done right, do it yourself.’” “In my defense,” she said when she’d swallowed, pointing her fork at Sean for emphasis, “my name is on the truck, and being able to pound nails doesn’t make you a builder. I have a responsibility to my clients to make sure they get quality work.” “I do quality work.” “I know you build a quality deck, but stairs are tricky.” She smiled sweetly at him. “I had to double-check.” “It’s all done but the seating now and it’s good work, even though I practically had to duct tape you to a tree in order to work in peace.” She might have taken offense at his words if not for the fact he was playing footsie with her under the table. And when he nudged her foot to get her to look at him, he winked in that way that—along with the grin—made it almost impossible for her to be mad at him. “It’s Sean’s turn to wash tonight. Emma, you dry and I’ll put away.” “I’ll wash, Gram. Sean can dry.” “I can wash,” Sean told her. “The world won’t come to an end if I wash the silverware before the cups.” “It makes me twitch.” “I know it does. That’s why I do it.” He leaned over and kissed her before she could protest. “That new undercover-cop show I like is on tonight,” Gram said as they cleared the table. “Maybe Sean won’t snort his way through this episode.” He laughed and started filling the sink with hot, soapy water. “I’m sorry, but if he keeps shoving his gun in his waistband like that, he’s going to shoot his…he’s going to shoot himself in a place men don’t want to be shot.” Emma watched him dump the plates and silverware into the water—while three coffee mugs sat on the counter waiting to be washed—but forced herself to ignore it. “Can’t be worse than the movie the other night.” “That was just stupid,” Sean said while Gram laughed. They’d tried to watch a military-action movie and by the time they were fifteen minutes in, she thought they were going to have to medicate Sean if they wanted to see the end. After a particularly heated lecture about what helicopters could and couldn’t do, Emma had hushed him, but he’d still snorted so often in derision she was surprised he hadn’t done permanent damage to his sinuses. “I don’t want you to think that’s real life,” he told them. “I promise,” Gram said, “if I ever want to use a tank to break somebody out of a federal prison, I’ll ask you how to do it correctly first.” Sean kissed the top of her head. “Thanks, Cat. At least you appreciate me, unlike Emma, who just tells me to shut up.” “I’d appreciate you more if there wasn’t salad dressing floating in the dishwater you’re about to wash my coffee cup in.” “According to the official guy’s handbook, if I keep doing it wrong, you’re supposed to let me watch SportsCenter while you do it yourself.” “Did the official guy’s handbook also tell you that if that happens, you’ll also be free to watch the late-night sports show while I do other things myself?

Pushing sopping strands of hair out of her eyes, she watched as Lucetta swam gracefully toward her, her body rising fluidly over a swell, before she dove under the water, surfacing a second later right in front of Millie. “You just have to keep your feet kicking at all times, and then move your arms in a clockwise motion, turning your head every now and again to get a breath of air,” Lucetta said. “Every time I turn my head to breathe, I get a mouthful of salty water. Honestly, the last time I tried the whole breathing thing, I swear a small fish darted into my mouth.” “You love fish.” “Well, yes, when it’s grilled, baked, or fried, but not when it’s still swimming.” “I

She pulled out a few tortilla chips from a nearby shelf, dipping one deeply and popping it in her mouth, then holding out the jar so Daniel could do the same. She was hit with the summery peach and brown sugar that sweetened the tomatoes, and then the heat built, numbing her tongue from the back to the front. She swallowed, eyes watering, and looked at Daniel, who already had his mouth open trying to cool it off. Most Wisconsinites couldn't hold their heat, so she wouldn't be able to use it straight, but there were some nice flavors in there. "Here." She handed him a yogurt smoothie she kept in the fridge for days when she didn't have time to make a sandwich for herself. "Sorry, G. I thought it would be delicious." He had an easy manner, bordering on shy, but with a strong thoughtful streak. Gina appreciated his amiable company. "Ye of little faith. It has great flavor. It would be a shame to waste it. Have a seat and give me a few minutes." Daniel settled on the overturned five-gallon bucket she used as a chair when it was slow. "Tell me about what you were doing in Texas," she said. "My sister and her family live near Austin. I try to get down and visit her once a winter. It's a nice break from the cold." While he spoke she worked, mixing the salsa into cream cheese to cut the heat. She had some cornbread that she had made herself so it was the right texture to cut into slices- it would be the perfect accompaniment. She warmed up a little slow-cooked pork, tossing it with the peach salsa cream cheese mix, and put it between the cornbread slices with some shredded Monterey Jack, grilling it with butter to give the bread a crisp crunch.

I tried to read the menu, but I kept getting distracted. The aromas from the kitchen filled the room- melting butter, grilling meat, soft and sharp spices. All of them better than any of the restaurant smells I'd had to pass by during my time in the city. My mouth was watering, and my nose was so focused that I could barely skim the first few items. Sablefish with miso glaze Duck, dry-aged and served with pureed butternut squash Wagyu New York strip I had no idea what these things were, except for duck, which I couldn't help but feel sorry for. Dry-aged sounded like an especially bad death for a waterfowl. The waiter returned. "Shall I order for us?" Victoria asked. I nodded, grateful. "Anything you don't eat? Allergies?" I shook my head. Nobody had ever asked me that before. On the island, I'd eaten what I gathered. At the cove, I ate what came to the table. Now I'd eat anything that didn't involve the jar in my backpack. "We'll start with the clam chowder," Victoria said. "We can order more later." The waiter nodded respectfully and disappeared again. "They make it with fresh clams," she told me. "It's exceptional." A young woman with a fancy braid in her hair brought us a basket of French bread, still warm from the oven. I watched as Victoria spread one slice with butter that melted as she applied it, releasing the faintest scent of flowers. "Here," she said, handing it to me. The crust gave way under my teeth with a delicate crunch, the butter soft on my tongue. It tasted even better than it smelled. After almost two weeks of hard mattresses and strangers and failure, I wanted to crawl inside the comfort of this bread and stay there forever.

I volunteered to go down to the market to purchase fresh whitebait the day of the queen's arrival. Mr Angelo cooked a couple of capons to serve cold with a veronique sauce and grapes. And at dinner that night, we joined the French chefs, eating at the kitchen tables. I have to admit it: the bouillabaisse was one of the most delicious things I had ever tasted. The rich broth, tasting of both fish and tomato, and with a spicy tang to it, and the little pieces of fish and seafood coming unexpectedly on to the spoon. And the crusty bread to dip into it? Heaven. "How do you prepare the sauce?" I asked. When I found out they started with twelve cloves of garlic, Mr Angelo shook his head. "The queen wouldn't approve, would she? Nothing that would make her breath smell bad," he said. "You know she's always forbidden garlic." "How would she know?" Chef Lepin asked. "If garlic is cooked well, it does not come on the breath." Then he came over to me. "And I saved you a morsel of the octopus," he said. He stuck his fork into what looked like a piece of brown grilled meat and held it up to my mouth, as one feeds a child. The gesture was somehow so intimate that it startled me. I opened my mouth obediently and felt the explosion of flavor- saffron and garlic and a hint of spiciness and flesh so tender it almost melted.

Write it down. Write it. With ordinary ink on ordinary paper: they weren’t given any food, they all died of hunger. All. How many? It’s a large meadow. How much grass per head? Write down: I don’t know. History rounds off skeletons to zero. A thousand and one is still only a thousand. That one seems never to have existed: a fictitious fetus, an empty cradle, a primer opened for no one, air that laughs, cries and grows, stairs for a void bounding out to the garden, no one’s spot in the ranks. It became flesh right here, on this meadow. But the meadow’s silent, like a witness who’s been bought. Sunny. Green. A forest close at hand, with wood to chew on, drops beneath the bark to drink – a view served round the clock, until you go blind. Above, a bird whose shadow flicked its nourishing wings across their lips. Jaws dropped, teeth clattered. At night a sickle glistened in the sky and reaped the dark for dreamed-of loaves. Hands came flying from blackened icons, each holding an empty chalice. A man swayed on a grill of barbed wire. Some sang, with dirt in their mouths. That lovely song about war hitting you straight in the heart. Write how quiet it is. Yes.

The men fortunately didn’t notice my near heart attack or me.  They were too busy watching something in the parking lot.  Standing shoulder to shoulder, they blocked my view.  I didn’t really care what had them so engrossed; I wanted to go home. I heard Sam behind me, muttered a quick “excuse me,” and moved around the small group.  It took me less than a second to spot the object of their attention.  Once I did, I couldn’t look away. Sam’s truck had exploded.  Ok, maybe not literally, but that’s what it looked like at first glance.  The detached hood leaned against the right front fender.  Dark shapes littered the ground directly in front of the truck.  My mouth popped open when I realized I was looking at scattered pieces of the truck’s guts.  Little pieces, big pieces, some covered in sludge.  Deep inside, I groaned a desperate denial.  Not Sam’s truck.  I needed it. A clanking sound drew my attention from the carnage to the form bent over the front grill.  He did this, the last man I’d met.  He studied the gaping hole that had once lovingly cradled an engine—one with enough life to drive me home. “Gabby, honey,” Sam said from behind me, causing me to jump.  “I don’t think he wants you to go just yet.” My heart sank.  Not only did the man’s actions scream loud and clear “she’s mine” but Sam’s calm statement confirmed my worst fear.  The Elders had noticed.  My stomach clenched with dread for a moment, and I wrestled with my emotions.  No, it didn’t matter who noticed.  I wasn’t giving up or giving in.  I’d told Sam I’d come to the Introductions.  I had never agreed to follow their customs. “There’s more than one vehicle here,” I said. “If we go inside to ask anyone else, we’ll come back to more vehicular murder.” I turned to look at Sam.  He watched the man and his truck.  He was right.  I couldn’t ask anyone else to deal with this guy’s obvious mental disorder.  As soon as that thought entered my mind, I felt a little guilty.  I usually didn’t judge people.  I preferred to avoid them altogether.  But this guy made himself hard to ignore. “Fine.”  I shouldered my bag, turned, and walked toward the main gate, pretending I didn’t hear Sam’s warning. “You won’t get far,” he said softly behind me. The

Union at a decisive moment in 1933. They thoroughly grilled me for several hours; “What is your argument with National Socialism? Why don’t you keep your mouth shut? After all, you endanger the whole Baptist movement . . .” When I drew their attention to the prophetic word, pointing out that this rising power is but a “fading power,” and that the aim of this political movement is the spread of antichristian thinking—the men of the German Baptist movement laughed at me!

Benjamin Hazlit was a fiend from hell. Maggie became convinced of this when after their third pot of tea—he preferred Darjeeling—he was still grilling her about her household, her habits, her schedule on the day her reticule had gone missing. And all the while—when she herself ought to have been focused on how to recover the dratted reticule—Maggie had been hard put not to watch his mouth as it formed question after question. His mouth was neither cold nor stern. It was warm and knowing and even tender… gentle, God help her. Gracious, gracious, gracious. His mouth was… it was a revelation, a window into a side of the man Maggie would never have guessed existed. With the spotty boys and aging knights, she’d endured some pawing and slobbering. She’d been kissed, groped, and otherwise introduced to the nonsense that went on between men and women. They’d given her a rare moment of sympathy for her own mother, those suitors who wanted Maggie’s settlement despite the fact that it came attached to her hand in marriage. Until she’d asked her brother Devlin why men felt compelled to behave in such a fashion, and Dev had gotten that tight, lethal look to him. He’d taught her a few moves then, creative uses of the knee, the fist, the fingers, and the suitors had become more respectful as a result. She wanted to plant her fist in Mr. Hazlit’s gut at that moment, though she suspected her fist would be the worse for it. How could a man kiss so sweetly, so ardently, and yet be so… fiendish? “Show

Bev made sure she served Wilson his standard tomato-and-grilled-cheese-with-french-fries personally, though Bev always called them chips, as if to make Wilson feel right at home. He thanked her and said everything looked absolutely “scrummy.” She giggled just like Chrissy used to do in history class. It was all I could do not to laugh right out loud. “I think Bev has a crush on you, Wilson. I know you're probably used to that by now. Don't you have a fan club at school? The 'I Heart Wilson' club, or something?” “Ha, ha, Blue. I have never been all that popular with the girls.” “Wilson. Don't be an idiot. You were all Manny could talk about the whole first month of school.” “Manny is not a girl,” Wilson remarked mildly. I snickered. “True. But I think I was the only one who wasn't following you around with my tongue hanging out. It was disgusting. Now even Bev has joined the club. I saw a bumper sticker on her car that said British Butts Drive Me Nuts.” Wilson choked on a mouthful of food, laughing, and grabbed at his lemonade to wash it down. I loved making him laugh, even if it was hazardous to his health.

Oh life is like potatoes and oignons; In cooking you find many layers to peel Go deep to really know what's going on. Nevertheless you still have to cook to feel Over the mouth their taste smooth the tongue Not only you appreciate but make it known So they are more than how they look in the grill.

Even annoyed, as she was now, she vibrated the kind of barely restrained energy that made every part of him spark to life. Some parts more enthusiastically than others. He shifted his weight and sidestepped slightly in an effort to keep that reality as unnoticeable as possible. He’d become a master of that particular skill during the last few months she’d been on the station. He needn’t have worried. She didn’t so much as glance at him. Her irritation was focused solely on her big brother. “Did you really just perp walk Cooper down the harbor?” Logan’s eyebrows lifted along with his hands, which he held up at his sides, palms out. “Hold up, I didn’t--” “Save it,” Kerry said. She turned to Cooper. “I apologize. He forgets I’m an adult woman who can handle her own affairs.” She glared at her brother during that last part. “She’s right, you know.” This came from a little spitfire brunette who, given Kerry’s descriptions of her family, must be the middle McCrae sister, Fiona. Fists planted on her hips, managing to somehow look down her cute little nose at her much taller and much bigger brother, she added, “We’re trying to plan my wedding and grill her about Mr. Hot and Aussie here. I’d think by now you’d know that we’ve got this covered.” She made a brief gesture to the other women standing alongside her. “If we thought he was a danger to society, we would have called.” Cooper watched the ricocheting dialogue like a spectator at a cricket match, unable to squelch a grin. It was like watching his own sister, all grown up and in triplicate. As Kerry and Fiona closed in on a somehow now hapless-looking lumberjack of a police chief, Cooper stepped forward and stuck out his hand toward the taller, willowy young woman who stood just behind Fiona. Where Kerry was Amazonian and Fiona a little firebrand, their oldest sister was the epitome of cool, calm, and collected. “Hannah Blue, I presume? I’m Cooper Jax. Sorry for the disruption of your sister’s wedding plans. I didn’t know.” This had Fiona turning his way. “And how could you, given Kerry couldn’t be bothered to so much as send you a postcard?” “Hey,” Kerry said, looking at her sister now. “Whose side are you on?” Fiona looked back at her. “The side that keeps this guy here and you looking all pent up and googly-eyed.” “Googly-eyed?” Kerry shot back. Cooper, grinning unrepentantly now, turned his attention back to Hannah and continued, as if her sisters weren’t getting all up in each other’s personal space. “I understand congratulations are in order on your recent nuptials as well.” Hannah gave him a swift, all-encompassing once-over as only a former defense attorney could. Then, in the face of his unrelenting goodwill, she took his hand, her mouth curving up in the barest hint of a smile as she gave it a firm, quick shake. “You’re a charmer, Mr. Jax, I’ll give you that.” “Go with your strength,” he replied.

These. Are. AMAZING," Caroline says around a mouthful of apple cider zeppole. We're at the Logan Square Farmers Market, and have eaten our way around the square. We started with a couple of meat tacos from Cherubs, simply seasoned small cubes of beef on soft steamed corn tortillas, with a garnish of onion, cilantro and lime. A perfect amuse-bouche. Then we shared an insane grilled cheese sandwich, buttery and crispy and filled with gooey, perfectly melted Wisconsin Butterkase cheese. A pork empanada from Pecking Order, with their homemade banana ketchup. A porchetta sandwich from Publican Quality Meats.

My eye snags on a girl dressed up as a broken doll, sitting on the bench and happily eating a philly cheesesteak sandwich. I nearly groan, the scent of grilled meat making my mouth water. I nudge Daya and point her out. “She’s dressed as a doll.

Pat, you remember I told you about it. I must have gotten too drunk and passed out. I don’t know what happened, but I must have killed him, because when I woke up the next morning, there was blood dripping from his mouth, and his ribs and chest were sunken and looked crushed. There was blood, and marks all over his chest, and my forearms were sore, swollen, and bruised. I already told you how I went back to the mall and bought the suitcase to get him back to Grandma’s. I stored him in the fruit cellar until my family left and Grandma was out of the house. I knew the cool air of the fruit cellar would slow the decomposition of the body and keep it from rotting until I could get to it,” Dahmer remembered. “After this killing, I felt that my conscience was severed. I had tried so hard to forget about the first one back in Bath, but I couldn’t do it. What was the point? I remember feeling that my path was set. I made a conscious decision to give in to this overwhelming, ambiguous, and extreme compulsion. I laid him on the basement floor over the drain. “I severed the flesh from his body with a knife and placed it in plastic garbage bags. I remember being so excited that I masturbated several times while smashing up the bones and disposing of the body. His was the first head I kept. I boiled it in a solution of water and Soilex, then I used straight bleach on it, wrapped it in a blanket, and kept it in the fruit cellar. I remember that I returned to masturbate with it about a week later and noted that the bleach had broken down the bone structure, causing it to become very brittle, so I smashed it up with the sledgehammer and threw it in the trash.” Dahmer sat there and stared into space as if he were reliving his experience.

So for the first course, we have flounder sashimi served with green onions and momiji oroshi, or daikon radish with chili pepper." The fish was delicate and subtle, with a nice, firm texture. What followed after this opening course was an onslaught of fantastic nigiri, small balls of pressed sushi rice with various toppings, served two at a time so I could fully appreciate each perfect morsel. Sea bream was followed by sweet shrimp, tamago, yellowtail, salmon, soy sauce-braised octopus, crab, grilled eel, and the final two pieces were otoro, or tuna belly. The richest, fattest, most melt-in-your-mouth pieces of tuna I'd ever had.

You have to come try these banchan! Or I guess you've probably already tried them with your friend Sandy. But anyway! There's a kimchi made out of cucumbers stuffed with chili and onions and some kind of garlic chives? Whatever it is, it is amazing, and you must put it in your mouth right now!" I still felt bad about not answering the bartender. But when I turned back around to apologize or at least say something, he was off polishing a glass at the other end of the bar, conversing with one of the old men about the K-drama. So I went with her and put it win my mouth right then. And not just the stuffed cucumber kimchi. We ate seaweed salad with sweet vinegar, and crunchy sesame lotus root, and dried shredded squid with a spicy sauce, and steamed eggs, all with sticky white rice, and then we had bulgogi, thin grilled slices of marinated beef. It was all drool-worthy. I imagined I could taste Luke in every one: the extra shake of vinegar that took the seaweed right to the edge of being too tart but stopped just in time; the intentional lack of spice on the steamed eggs, necessary for a palate cleanser between all of the bright and spicy and sour.

She'd make all the ingredients individually for her kimchi-jjigae," he went on. "Anchovy stock. Her own kimchi, which made the cellar smell like garlic and red pepper all the time. The pork shoulder simmering away. And when she'd mix it all together..." He trailed off, tipping his head back against the seat. It was the first movement he'd made over the course of his speaking; his hands rested still by his sides. "It was everything. Salty, sour, briny, rich, and just a tiny bit sweet from the sesame oil. I've been trying to make it for years, and mine has never turned out like hers." My anxiety manifestation popped up out of nowhere, hovering invisibly over one off Luke's shoulders. The boy doesn't know that the secret ingredient in every grandma's dish is love. He needs some more love in his life, said Grandma Ruth, eyeing me beadily. Maybe yours. Is he Jewish? I shook my head, banishing her back to the ether. "I get the feeling," I said. "I can make a mean matzah ball soup, with truffles and homemade broth boiled for hours from the most expensive free-range chickens, and somehow it never tastes as good as the soup my grandma would whip up out of canned broth and frozen vegetables." Damn straight, Grandma Ruth said smugly. Didn't I just banish you? I thought, but it was no use. "So is that the best thing you've ever eaten?" Luke asked. "Your grandma's matzah ball soup?" I shook my head. I opened my mouth, about to tell him about Julie Chee's grilled cheese with kimchi and bacon and how it hadn't just tasted of tart, sour kimchi and crunchy, smoky bacon and rich, melted cheese but also belonging and bedazzlement and all these feelings that didn't have names, like the dizzy, accomplished feeling you'd get after a Saturday night dinner rush when you were a little drunk but not a lot drunk because you had to wake up in time for Sunday brunch service, but then everything that happened with Derek and the Green Onion kind of changed how I felt about it. Painted over it with colors just a tiny bit off. So instead I told him about a meal I'd had in Lima, Peru, after backpacking up and down Machu Picchu. "Olive tofu with octopus, which you wouldn't think to put together, or at least I wouldn't have," I said. The olive tofu had been soft and almost impossibly creamy, tasting cleanly of olives, and the octopus had been meaty and crispy charred on the outside, soft on the inside.

So is this the Grandma's Special?" The grin that bursts on my face almost cracks from the cold air. "Wow. My mom really does like you." Pepper is poised with it in front of her mouth and raises an eyebrow at me. "Do you trust me?" "Not a bit. Take a bite." She does, and I prop my head on my palm and lean in close enough she has to muffle a laugh as she chews. "Well?" I demand. "Finally willing to concede that our grilled cheese is vastly superior?" She looks like she's about to give a begrudging nod, but then her eyes go wide. "The secret ingredient." She peels apart the grilled cheese, staring at it and then up at me, her face so incredulous. "It's sweet bell peppers?

His mouth watered at the scent of grilled meat—two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese—and salty fries.

Cassian said, 'You didn't think you were essential. You saved our asses, yes, but... you didn't think you were essential here.' One-two, one-two, one-two. 'I'm not.' He opened his mouth but I charged ahead, speaking around my gasps for breath. 'You all have a... duty- you're all vital. Yes, I have my own abilities, but... You and Azriel were hurt, my sisters were... you know what happened to them. I did what I could to get us out. I'd rather it was me than any of you. I couldn't have lived with the alternative.' His upraised hands were unfaltering as I pummelled them. 'Anything could have happened to you at the Spring Court.' I stopped again. 'If Rhys isn't grilling me with the overprotective bullshit, then I don't see why you-' 'Don't for one moment think that Rhys wasn't beside himself with worry. Oh, he seems collected enough, Feyre, but I know him. And every moment you were gone, he was in a panic. Yes, he knew- we knew- you could handle yourself. But it doesn't stop us from worrying.' I shook out my sore hands, then rubbed my already-aching arms. 'You were mad at him, too.' 'If I hadn't been healing, I would have kicked his ass from one end of Velaris to the other.' I didn't reply. 'We were all terrified for you.' 'I managed just fine.' 'Of course you did. We knew you would. But...' Cassian crossed his arms. 'Rhys pulled the same shit fifty years ago. When he went to that damned party Amarantha threw.' Oh. Oh. 'I'll never forget it, you know,' he said, blowing out a breath. 'The moment when he spoke to us all, mind to mind. When I realised what was happening, and that... he'd saved us. Trapped us here and tied our hands, but...' He scratched at his temple. 'It went quiet- in my head. In a way it hadn't been before. Not since...' Cassian squinted at the cloudless sky. 'Even with utter hell unleashing here, across our territory. I just went... quiet.' He tapped the side of his head with a finger, and frowned. 'After Hybern, the healer kept me asleep while she worked on my wings. So when I woke up two weeks later... that's when I heard. And when Mor told me what happened to you... It went quiet again.' I swallowed against the constriction of my throat. 'You found me when I needed you most, Cassian.' 'Pleased to be of service.' He gave me a grim smile. 'You can rely on us, you know. Both of us. He's inclined to do everything himself- to give everything of himself. He can't stand to let anyone else offer up anything.' That smile faded. 'Neither can you.

Ah, there is pâté on the inside!" I see! By wrapping the exterior with thin slices of beef... ... he was able to make his presentation look like a cartoony leg of meat. "AH! HWAAAAA?!" The meat wrapped around the exterior is marinated strips of beef! Their richly fragrant scent yet light and almost fruity juices pack a knockout wallop! Directly underneath them is a layer of bacon slices! Not only do they serve to hold the pâté firmly in place... The impact of all that powerful protein in one bite reverberates through my entire body!" "By the way, for the base of my marinade... ... I used Yakiniku Sauce Even store-bought Yakiniku Sauce has a great balance of soy sauce, mirin, garlic and ginger. It makes a good, solid base for the marinade! I took that and adjusted it with some honey, grated onion and freshly squeezed orange juice so it would pair better with the pâté... before asking Nakiri to taste test it to ensure it came together properly." "The pâté in the middle is the most spectacular part of all! Full-bodied yet delicate, it matches beautifully with the aromatic layer of meat. Each bite sparks an explosion of powerful flavor in the mouth!" Using a base of chicken liver, he added chicken breast and cream along with carrots and Shimeji mushrooms. But what really stands out is the preparation of each individual ingredient! Confit. Grill. Braiser. Suer. Each piece was prepared in the way best suited to its strengths... ... teasing out its natural sweetness and ratcheting up the dish's overall goodness!

He carefully grilled the pike over an open charcoal brazier before steaming it together with the rice! Detailed touches like this give the fish a richer flavor and fragrance, which then soaks into the rice! The pike itself is extraordinary! The first touch on the tongue is a strong salty flavor, but hidden underneath is a deep umami undercurrent with a fluffy, savory fragrance that spreads through the mouth with every bite!

Her imagination arranged the oatcakes, rissoles and dumplings into a still life, and even with complimentary lighting, it was a rather cheerless composition. She found herself wanting to add a single satsuma to the canvas to give it a splash of color and a contrast of texture, a pomegranate, an aubergine, or even a humble tomato. But that wasn't English cooking, was it? She looked at the pile of letters. "We are not a country that cooks in primary colors," she said aloud, experimentally, testing the words as her mouth formed them. How pleasurable it would be to write about a ratatouille made from sweet end-of-summer tomatoes, apricot-colored chanterelles fried in butter with flecks of bright green parsley, or red mullet grilled over vine prunings and served with spoonfuls of golden aioli

Chestnuts have always been an ingredient that goes well with gamy meats. And in French cuisine, chestnuts are often seen in combination with venison. But the mildly sweet flavor and tender texture of these sweet chestnuts makes them melt in the mouth! That flavor combined with the smoky aroma of the charcoal grilling, makes the juicy meatiness of the venison stand out in stark contrast! This flavor isn't something that could be created with regular chestnuts. It's a deliciousness made possible precisely because he chose to use sweet chestnuts! "He minced some of them and added them to the sauce as well! Doing that spread their mild sweetness throughout the whole dish!" Soma's Chestnut Sauce Starting with a base of Fond de Veau (a brown stock usually made with veal), he added a cinnamon stick, orange zest and minced sweet chestnuts and then set the sauce to simmer. "Wait a minute. How odd! Charcoal grilling usually adds a unique and very distinctly bitter taste to ingredients. A taste that is decidedly outside the canon of French flavors! Yet this dish has taken that bitter taste and somehow made it fit seamlessly! Is there some secret to it?!" "That would be the coffee." "What?!" "Coffee?" "Yep! You guessed it! That's the Divine Tongue for you. One of the things I learned at Master Shinomiya's restaurant is that cacao goes really well with game meats. I've never used cacao much, though, to be honest... So instead I grabbed some instant coffee! The bitterness of coffee is similar enough to pure cacao that it paired up nicely with both the charcoal grilling and the gamy venison... ... resulting in a deeply rich and astringent flavor that's perfect for a truly French sauce. I added both coffee and chestnuts as secret ingredients to my sauce! This is a Yukihira Original and a brand-new French dish. I call it... ... Charcoal-Grilled Venison Thigh with Chestnut Sauce." In formal Japanese cooking bowl dishes, such as soups and rice bowls, are constructed from four elements: the main ingredient, the supporting ingredients, the stock and the accents. Similarly, the French dishes are constructed from three different parts balanced in harmony: the main ingredient, the sauce and the garnishes. But this dish... this is eccentric and novel and entirely unconventional while still remaining undeniably French! It's almost as if it's a nugget of flavor found only by cracking and peeling away the shell of common sense...

People imagined the Cockaigne ("Land of Plenty") menu as full of delectable meats such as hare, deer and wild boar . all which let themselves be caught. Grilled fish leaped out of rivers of wine onto your plate. Roast geese waddled down streets paved in pastry, just begging to be eaten. Flying pigs and buttered birds fell from the sky like rain, directly into people's mouths. People lived in edible houses made of pancake roofs and walls made of sausage.

I present... the courtyard!" The curtain slid away to reveal a wall of glass. Several production workers slid the transparent panels along the tracks until the entire room opened up onto a massive outdoor kitchen. The contestants filed outside, stunned by the extravagance. It doubled the size of their workspace. Stovetops and grills were set into brick counters. Refrigerators were tucked safely under a canvas canopy. And best of all- most thrilling of all- was a lush, vibrant perennial border that surrounded the entire kitchen, filled with edible plants, herbs, and flowers. Bright orange nasturtiums nodded in the afternoon sunshine, tender peas twined about a chicken wire fence. Bees hovered over patches of fuzzy thyme. Sophia laughed out loud. This was utterly delightful. "Your dream come true, Miss Garden Fairy?" The Scot's thick arms crossed his chest. He looked utterly disinterested. "There are fully-stocked pantries inside, as well. But the outdoor facility takes advantage of our beautiful Vermont landscape. Edibles in the garden." Mr. Smith pointed to glass-fronted coolers. "Local cheeses and other dairy products." He sauntered over to the canopied area and the cameras followed him. Baskets of fresh produce lined the tables. "We locally farmed proteins, fruits, and vegetables. Honey. Maple syrup. Anything and everything you can imagine." He took a perfectly ripe strawberry from one of the boxes and popped it into his mouth.

She lifted a piece of sourdough bruschetta slathered with seafood and a light-colored sauce. She bit carefully into the creation. Her mouth exploded with flavor. Prawns and lobster swimming in the most delectable sauce. Buttery and layered, with whisky and leeks and onions and simple herbs. Sophia moaned. There was more than just one bite on this plate. Thank God. Not strictly a true amuse-bouche, but Sophia didn't care. Was it bad form to lick the plate in a cooking competition? This drab little plate had miraculously fixed her taste bud deficiency. Unbelievable. The moment had just shifted from black-and-white to color, like a scene from the Wizard of Oz. Who had created this dish? Someone with a sophisticated palate but no eye for visual presentation. The last plate beckoned, but she already knew it was a lost cause. There was no way it could best that seafood stew. It was a lovely crepe, packed with grilled eggplant and goat cheese. And now that Sophia's taste had been awakened from hibernation, she was able to enjoy every bite. But it still wasn't enough to out-shine the prawns. Those prawns sang to her, and they needed her. They demanded color and brightness. The sauce was bold and rich. That plate clamored for the balance of her garden. She could imagine a prickly little salad to offer texture and bite, to complement that exquisite sauce. Those prawns needed her.

What is the best thing you've ever eaten?" Poulet rôti. I was sure that my mother was going to say the poulet rôti from L'Ami Louise in Paris because she'd sat next to Jacques Chirac there and he'd said that since she was a chef, perhaps she would cook something for him. And so she did. She went right back into the kitchen and whipped up something fabulous. After that, they used goose as well as duck fat when frying their potatoes, because it had been her way. I mouthed Poulet rôti into the pillow. But my mother was quiet. She could have made conversation, little noises while she was thinking. But she didn't. Lou didn't care. "Masgouf," she said. "From an Iraqi restaurant that's closed now." I sat up. I opened my mouth. I almost yelled, What? But she was still talking. "I went there with her dad years and years ago." I imagined her jerking her thumb in the direction of my room. "The company was like watching paint dry, but the food was fantastic. Out of this world." "And?" Lou said. "And," my mother said, "I went back a couple of years ago, just to see, and it was closed up. Totally empty and sad. One silver tray sat in the middle of the place, I remember. Broke my heart to pieces." "Masgouf?" Lou said. I was already out of bed, sockless and by the bookshelf, ripping through the index of The Joy of Cooking, then Cook Everything, then, finally, Recipes from All Over. I found it. "'Traditional Iraqi fish dish, grilled with tamarind and/or lemon, salt, and pepper,'" I whispered, shocked. "It was heaven," my mother said. "Literally heaven. I've tried to replicate it, I can't tell you how many times." For a second, I saw spots. I would have bet my life on it- on the poulet rôti. "You know how they say that life imitates art?" my mother said. "Well, life imitated masgouf. The fish was so good, so tender, and we ate it with our fingers. For a little while, I convinced myself that life could be so simple." Which meant happiness. Masgouf was my mother's happiness.

Where did you disappear to at the beginning of the feast?” Madalena’s brown eyes widened. “I think you’re the only one who even noticed I was gone. I was in my bedchamber having Eva redo my hair, because it had gotten mussed on the walk through the streets. But then Marco knocked at the door.” Madalena’s alabaster skin flushed with joy. “I sent Eva away…” Her voice trailed off. She winked at Cass. Cass raised a hand to her mouth. “You mean you--” “Do you know how long we waited for this day to come?” Mada grinned. “We simply could not wait another moment.” Behind Madalena, Cass saw Donna Domacetti pushing her way through the crowded portego. Cass had no desire to be grilled about her ordeal so that woman could provide all of Venice with the gory details. “So while I was desperately searching for you, you and Marco were in your bed together.” Cass laughed. “I hope it was magnificent at least.” Mada leaned close to whisper in Cass’s ear. “It was life-changing,” she said. That seemed to be the theme for the day.

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!