Noodle Soup Quotes

We've searched our database for all the quotes and captions related to Noodle Soup. Here they are! All 95 of them:

The Quiet World In an effort to get people to look into each other’s eyes more, and also to appease the mutes, the government has decided to allot each person exactly one hundred and sixty-seven words, per day. When the phone rings, I put it to my ear without saying hello. In the restaurant I point at chicken noodle soup. I am adjusting well to the new way. Late at night, I call my long distance lover, proudly say I only used fifty-nine today. I saved the rest for you. When she doesn’t respond, I know she’s used up all her words, so I slowly whisper I love you thirty-two and a third times. After that, we just sit on the line and listen to each other breathe.
Jeffrey McDaniel (Forgiveness Parade)
... because real thoughts come from outside and travel with us like the noodle soup we take to work; in other words, inquisitors burn books in vain. If a book has anything to say, it burns with a quiet laugh, because any book worth its salt points up and out of itself.
Bohumil Hrabal
'I think you ought to go to New York or Chicago or San Francisco or any city with character and vitality. You should go to work. This place is no good for you, Randy. The air is like soup and the people are like noodles. You're vegetating. I don't want a vegetable. I want a man.' " - Lib McGovern
Pat Frank (Alas, Babylon)
Why would Danika tell them to lie low in the Meat Market?” “Why tell them to lie low in the Bone Quarter?” She sniffed and sighed with a longing toward a bowl of noodle soup. Hunt said, “Even if Danika or Sofie told Emile it was safe to hide out, if I were a kid, I wouldn’t have come here.” “You were a kid, like, a thousand years ago. Forgive me if my childhood is a little more relevant.” “Two hundred years ago,” he muttered. “Still old as fuck.
Sarah J. Maas (House of Sky and Breath (Crescent City, #2))
Today I ate my manuscript with the very spoon I used to write it with. My book was called “Chicken Noodle Soup for the Stomach.”
I wrote it with alphabet soup, and then edited it with a can of chicken noodle soup.
Jarod Kintz (This is the best book I've ever written, and it still sucks (This isn't really my best book))
The days shuffled by like bland schoolgirls. I didn’t notice their individual faces, only their basic uniform: day and night, day and night. I had no patience for showers or balanced meals. I did a lot of lying on floors — childish certainly, but when one can lie on floors without anyone seeing one, trust me, one will lie on a floor. I discovered, too, the fleeting yet discernible joy of biting into a Whitman’s chocolate and throwing the remaining half behind the sofa in the library. I could read, read, read until my eyes burned and the words floating like noodles in soup.
Marisha Pessl (Special Topics in Calamity Physics)
Though my skull is the size of a soup bowl, everything in the universe—and more—can fit inside my imagination. And guess what? My imagination tastes like chicken noodle soup.
Jarod Kintz (This Book is Not for Sale)
It was a delicious meal -- skim milk, wheat middlings, leftover pancakes, half a doughnut, the rind of a summer squash, two pieces of stale toast, a third of a gingersnap, a fish tail, one orange peel, several noodles from a noodle soup, the scum off a cup of cocoa, an ancient jelly roll, a strip of paper from the lining of the garbage pail, and a spoonful of raspberry jello.
E.B. White
Whoever said Romance is dead needs to meet me at The Ozarks Cemetery and help me get this thing to a hospital. It's coughing and cold, but we can still save it. I'll bring Duck Noodle Soup.
Jarod Kintz (BearPaw Duck And Meme Farm presents: Two Ducks Brawling Is A Pre-Pillow Fight)
A brick could be used as a cape, when I’m practicing my anti-superhero drills in Grandmother’s basement and defying her wishes to drink her “fresh” chicken noodle soup through a 20-foot straw that runs from the basement up to the attic, where she found the soup. 

Jarod Kintz (Brick and Blanket Test in Brick City (Ocala) Florida)
Helen’s words had hit Quentin like a weed whacker stuck down the front of his underwear and turned on high. And not the wimpy electric models, but the four-stroke gas engine that produce enough RPMs to turn his junk into noodle soup and effectively emasculate him. Fortunately it was metaphorical.
Jay Barry (Throttling the Bard)
you deserve a call me anytime love. a pick you up from the airport love. a love note on napkins kind of love. a chicken noodle soup for sore throats kind of love. a back rub before bed kind of love. a laughs at your bad jokes kind of love. a reminder to get up ten minutes earlier because it snowed and you’re going to have to clean off your car kind of love. a clean off your car for you kind of love. a bring you cheesecake when you have cramps kind of love. a listening love. a love that takes care of you. a love that sees your messy hair, your morning breath, your spiralling mind, your no sleep crankiness, a love that loves you more because of it. you deserve a requited love. a love that lasts.
Michaela Angemeer (You'll Come Back to Yourself)
Kat happened to get a spot in the cafeteria line-up just behind the young woman lawyer who presented the case against her grandfather. She had removed her black robe too, and Kat found her much less threatening in her cream coloured jacket and trousers. The woman grabbed a carton of milk and then a tossed salad from behind the Plexiglas door. "Stay clear of the noodle soup," she said to Kat pleasantly. "It's vile." Kat smiled back at her. How odd that this woman could be so nice. It must all be in a day's work for her to tear apart and impoverish families. Kat grabbed some red Jell-O and a carton of orange juice for herself. She didn't really feel like eating: she was just going through the motions.
Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch (Hope's War)
Eli keeps showing me random things." he said, shaking his head. "Like what?" I whispered, not able to help myself. "His toes in the dirt, chicken noodle soup, Legos, pine cones, and Calico. Always Calico." He shrugged and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “What do you think he’s trying to tell me?” "Those are his favorite things. He’s telling you his greats.
Amy Harmon
If you blink, you might miss it. You might miss the wet floor at the threshold, symbolically cleansing you before the meal begins. You might overlook the flower arrangement in the corner, a spare expression of the passing season. You might miss the scroll on the wall drawn with a single unbroken line, signaling the infinite continuity of nature. You might not detect the gentle current of young ginger rippling through the dashi, the extra sheet of Hokkaido kelp in the soup, the mochi that is made to look like a cherry blossom at midnight. You might miss the water.
Matt Goulding (Rice, Noodle, Fish: Deep Travels Through Japan's Food Culture)
This isn’t hyperbole, not exactly. Kurume treats tonkotsu like a French country baker treats a sourdough starter—feeding it, regenerating, keeping some small fraction of the original soup alive in perpetuity. Old bones out, new bones in, but the base never changes. The mother of all ramen.
Matt Goulding (Rice, Noodle, Fish: Deep Travels Through Japan's Food Culture)
and I look on my brain as a mass of hydraulically compacted thoughts, a bale of ideas, and my head as a smooth, shiny Aladdin’s lamp. How much more beautiful it must have been in the days when the only place a thought could make its mark was the human brain and anybody wanting to squelch ideas had to compact human heads, but even that wouldn’t have helped, because real thoughts come from outside and travel with us like the noodle soup we take to work; in other words, inquisitors burn books in vain. If a book has anything to say, it burns with a quiet laugh, because any book worth its salt points up and out of itself.
Bohumil Hrabal (Too Loud a Solitude)
FOOD Adobo (uh-doh-boh)---Considered the Philippines's national dish, it's any food cooked with soy sauce, vinegar, garlic, and black peppercorns (though there are many regional and personal variations) Almondigas (ahl-mohn-dee-gahs)---Filipino soup with meatballs and thin rice noodles Baon (bah-ohn)---Food, snacks and other provisions brought on to work, school, or on a trip; food brought from home; money or allowance brought to school or work; lunch money (definition from Tagalog.com) Embutido (ehm-puh-tee-doh)---Filipino meatloaf Ginataang (gih-nih-tahng)---Any dish cooked with coconut milk, sweet or savory Kakanin (kah-kah-nin)---Sweet sticky cakes made from glutinous rice or root crops like cassava (There's a huge variety, many of them regional) Kesong puti (keh-sohng poo-tih)---A kind of salty cheese Lengua de gato (lehng-gwah deh gah-toh)---Filipino butter cookies Lumpia (loom-pyah)---Filipino spring rolls (many variations) Lumpiang sariwa (loom-pyahng sah-ree-wah)---Fresh Filipino spring rolls (not fried) Mamón (mah-MOHN)---Filipino sponge/chiffon cake Matamis na bao (mah-tah-mees nah bah-oh)---Coconut jam Meryenda (mehr-yehn-dah)---Snack/snack time Pandesal (pahn deh sahl)---Lightly sweetened Filipino rolls topped with breadcrumbs (also written pan de sal) Patis (pah-tees)---Fish sauce Salabat (sah-lah-baht)---Filipino ginger tea Suman (soo-mahn)---Glutinous rice cooked in coconut milk, wrapped in banana leaves, and steamed (though there are regional variations) Ube (oo-beh)---Purple yam
Mia P. Manansala (Arsenic and Adobo (Tita Rosie's Kitchen Mystery, #1))
Fan would have expected that one or two of the Girls would have long rebelled at spending a life in a room, would have begged, say, the dentist, to help them steal away, but the funny thing about this existence is that once firmly settled we occupy it with less guard than we know. We watch ourselves routinely brushing our teeth, or coloring the wall, or blowing off the burn from a steaming yarn of soup noodles, and for every moment there is a companion moment that elides onto it, a secret span that deepens the original’s stamp. We feel ever obliged by everyday charges and tasks. They conscript us more and more. We find world enough in a frame. Until at last we take our places at the wheel, or wall, or line, having somewhere forgotten that we can look up.
Chang-rae Lee (On Such a Full Sea)
Special combo, you got it," I say into the phone. "Which one?" "The winter melon soup." Winter melon is symbolic of a wife- a special order of the soup means someone's is about to be abducted. A special order of egg fried rice? Someone's kid. Fried pot stickers? A husband. Shanghai chow mein with chopped-up noodles? Someone's doomed to have their life cut short, the promise of longevity broken.
Elsie Chapman (Hungry Hearts: 13 Tales of Food & Love)
In Taipei we had oyster omelets and stinky tofu at Shilin Night Market and discovered what is arguably the world's greatest noodle soup, Taiwanese beef noodle, chewy flour noodles served with hefty chunks of stewed shank and a meaty broth so rich it's practically a gravy. In Beijing we trekked a mile in six inches of snow to eat spicy hot pot, dipping thin slivers of lamb, porous wheels of crunchy lotus root, and earthy stems of watercress into bubbling, nuclear broth packed with chiles and Sichuan peppercorns. In Shanghai we devoured towers of bamboo steamers full of soup dumplings, addicted to the taste of the savory broth gushing forth from soft, gelatinous skins. In Japan we slurped decadent tonkotsu ramen, bit cautiously into steaming takoyaki topped with dancing bonito flakes and got hammered on whisky highballs.
Michelle Zauner (Crying in H Mart)
The history of Vietnam lies in this bowl, for it is in Hanoi, the Vietnamese heart, that phở was born, a combination of the rice noodles that predominated after a thousand years of Chinese occupation and the taste for beef the Vietnamese acquired under the French, who turned their cows away from ploughs and into bifteck and pot-au-feu. The name of their national soup is pronounced like this French word for fire...
Camilla Gibb (The Beauty of Humanity Movement)
In summer, most ramen restaurants in Tokyo serve hiyashi chūka, a cold ramen noodle salad topped with strips of ham, cucumber, and omelet; a tart sesame- or soy-based sauce; and sometimes other vegetables, like a tomato wedge or sheets of wakame seaweed. The vegetables are arranged in piles of parallel shreds radiating from the center to the edge of the plate like bicycle spokes, and you toss everything together before eating. It's bracing, ice-cold, addictive- summer food from the days before air conditioning. In Oishinbo: Ramen and Gyōza, a young lifestyle reporter wants to write an article about hiyashi chūka. "I'm not interested in something like hiyashi chūka," says my alter ego Yamaoka. It's a fake Chinese dish made with cheap industrial ingredients, he explains. Later, however, Yamaoka relents. "Cold noodles, cold soup, and cold toppings," he muses. "The idea of trying to make a good dish out of them is a valid one." Good point, jerk. He mills organic wheat into flour and hires a Chinese chef to make the noodles. He buys a farmyard chicken from an old woman to make the stock and seasons it with the finest Japanese vinegar, soy sauce, and sake. Yamaoka's mean old dad Kaibara Yūzan inevitably gets involved and makes an even better hiyashi chūka by substituting the finest Chinese vinegar, soy sauce, and rice wine. When I first read this, I enjoyed trying to follow the heated argument over this dish I'd never even heard of. Yamaoka and Kaibara are in total agreement that hiyashi chūka needs to be made with quality ingredients, but they disagree about what kind of dish it is: Chinese, Japanese, or somewhere in between? Unlike American food, Japanese cuisine has boundary issues.
Matthew Amster-Burton (Pretty Good Number One: An American Family Eats Tokyo)
Chang-bo took to his bed, or rather to the quilts on the floor that was all they had left. His legs swelled up like balloons with what Mrs. Song had come to recognize as edema — fluid retention brought on by starvation. He talked incessantly about food. He spoke of the tofu soups his mother made him as a child and an unusually delicious meal of steamed crab with ginger that Mrs. Song had cooked for him when they were newlyweds. He had an uncanny ability to remember details of dishes she had cooked decades earlier. He was sweetly sentimental, even romantic, when he spoke about their meals together. He would take her hand in his own, his eyes wet and cloudy with the mist of his memories. “Come, darling. Let’s go to a good restaurant and order a nice bottle of wine,” he told his wife one morning when they were stirring on the blankets. They hadn’t eaten in three days. Mrs. Song looked at her husband with alarm, worried that he was hallucinating. She ran out the door to the market, moving fast and forgetting all about the pain in her back. She was determined to steal, beg — whatever it took — to get some food for her husband. She spotted her older sister selling noodles. Her sister wasn’t faring well — her skin was flaked just like Chang-bo’s from malnutrition — so Mrs. Song had resisted asking her for help, but now she was desperate, and of course, her sister couldn’t refuse. “I’ll pay you back,” Mrs. Song promised as she ran back home, the adrenaline pumping her legs. Chang-bo was curled up on his side under the blanket. Mrs. Song called his name. When he didn’t respond, she went to turn him over — it wasn’t diffcult now that he had lost so much weight, but his legs and arms were stiff and got in the way. Mrs. Song pounded and pounded on his chest, screaming for help even as she knew it was too late.
Barbara Demick (Nothing to Envy: Ordinary Lives in North Korea)
My energy and curiosity may be renewed but the larder isn’t. There is probably less food in the house than there has ever been. I trudge out to buy a few chicken pieces and a bag of winter greens to make a soup with the spices and noodles I have in the cupboard. What ends up as dinner is clear, bright and life-enhancing. It has vitality (that’s the greens), warmth (ginger, cinnamon) and it is economical and sustaining too. I suddenly feel ready for anything the New Year might throw at me.
Nigel Slater (Notes from the Larder: A Kitchen Diary with Recipes [A Cookbook])
While you can sell ramen relatively expensively in Japan, you can’t do it in America. People will unblinkingly pay $ 20 a plate for spaghetti pomodoro—which is just canned tomatoes and boxed pasta—but they will bitch to the high heavens about forking over $ 20 for a bowl of soup that requires three or four or five different cooked and composed components to put together. Plus, you will rake yourself over the coals looking for ingredients that even approximate what you can buy down the alley from your shop in Tokyo.
Ivan Orkin (Ivan Ramen: Love, Obsession, and Recipes from Tokyo's Most Unlikely Noodle Joint)
HERE ARE MY TEN BEEF NOODLE SOUP COMMANDMENTS: 1. Throw out the first: always flash-boil your bones and beef to get the “musk” out. I’ve gone back and forth on this a lot. I would sometimes brown the meat as opposed to boil, but decided in the end that for this soup, you gotta boil. If you brown, it’s overpowering. The lesson that beef noodle soup teaches you is restraint. Sometimes less is more if you want all the flavors in the dish to speak to you. 2. Make sure the oil is medium-high when the aromatics go down and get a slight caramelization. It’s a fine line. Too much caramelization and it becomes too heavy, but no caramelization and your stock is weak. 3. Rice wine can be tricky. Most people like to vaporize it so that all the alcohol is cooked off. I like to leave a little of the alcohol flavor ’cause it tends to cut through the grease a bit. 4. Absolutely no butter, lard, or duck fat. I’ve seen people in America try to “kick it up a notch” with animal fats and it ruins the soup. Peanut oil or die. 5. Don’t burn the chilis and peppercorns, not even a little bit. You want the spice and the numbness, but not the smokiness. 6. After sautéing the chilis/peppercorns, turn off the heat and let them sit in the oil to steep. This is another reason you want to turn the heat off early. 7. Strain your chilis/peppercorns out of the oil, put them in a muslin bag, and set them aside. Then add ginger/garlic/scallions to the oil in that order. Stage them. 8. I use tomatoes in my beef noodle soup, but I add them after the soup is finished and everything is strained. I let them hang out in the soup as it sits on the stove over the course of the day. I cut the tomatoes thin so they give off flavor without having to cook too long and so you can serve them still intact. 9. Always use either shank or chuck flap. Brisket is too tough. If you want to make it interesting, add pig’s foot or oxtail. 10. Do you. I don’t give you measurements with this because I gave you all the ingredients and the technique. The best part about beef noodle soup is that there are no rules. It just has to have beef, noodle, and soup. There are people that do clear broth beef noodle soup. Beef noodle soup with dairy. Beef noodle soup with pig’s blood. It would suck if you looked at my recipe and never made your own, ’cause everyone has a beef noodle soup in them. Show it to me.
Eddie Huang (Fresh Off the Boat)
I go to one of my favorite Instagram profiles, the.korean.vegan, and I watch her last video, in which she makes peach-topped tteok. The Korean vegan, Joanne, cooks while talking about various things in her life. As she splits open a peach, she explains why she gave up meat. As she adds lemon juice, brown sugar, nutmeg, a pinch of salt, cinnamon, almond extract, maple syrup, then vegan butter and vegan milk and sifted almond and rice flour, she talks about how she worried about whitewashing her diet, about denying herself a fundamental part of her culture, and then about how others don't see her as authentically Korean since she is a vegan. I watch other videos by Joanne, soothed by her voice into feeling human myself, and into craving the experiences of love she talks of and the food she cooks as she does. I go to another profile, and watch a person's hands delicately handle little knots of shirataki noodles and wash them in cold water, before placing them in a clear oden soup that is already filled with stock-boiled eggs, daikon, and pure white triangles of hanpen. Next, they place a cube of rice cake in a little deep-fried tofu pouch, and seal the pouch with a toothpick so it looks like a tiny drawstring bag; they place the bag in with the other ingredients. "Every winter my mum made this dish for me," a voice says over the video, "just like how every winter my grandma made it for my mum when she was a child." The person in the video is half Japanese like me, and her name is Mei; she appears on the screen, rosy cheeked, chopsticks in her hand, and sits down with her dish and eats it, facing the camera. Food means so much in Japan. Soya beans thrown out of temples in February to tempt out demons before the coming of spring bring the eater prosperity and luck; sushi rolls eaten facing a specific direction decided each year bring luck and fortune to the eater; soba noodles consumed at New Year help time progress, connecting one year to the next; when the noodles snap, the eater can move on from bad events from the last year. In China too, long noodles consumed at New Year grant the eater a long life. In Korea, when rice-cake soup is eaten at New Year, every Korean ages a year, together, in unison. All these things feel crucial to East Asian identity, no matter which country you are from.
Claire Kohda (Woman, Eating)
To be a ramen writer of Kamimura's stature, you need to live in a ramen town, and there is unquestionably no town in Japan more dedicated to ramen than Fukuoka. This city of 1.5 million along the northern coast of Kyushu, the southernmost of Japan's four main islands, is home to two thousand ramen shops, representing Japan's densest concentration of noodle-soup emporiums. While bowls of ramen are like snowflakes in Japan, Fukuoka is known as the cradle of tonkotsu, a pork-bone broth made milky white by the deposits of fat and collagen extracted during days of aggressive boiling. It is not simply a specialty of the city, it is the city, a distillation of all its qualities and calluses. Indeed, tell any Japanese that you've been to Fukuoka and invariably the first question will be: "How was the tonkotsu?
Matt Goulding (Rice, Noodle, Fish: Deep Travels Through Japan's Food Culture)
Cool green foods became the natural choice in restaurants and teahouses. Matcha, the powdered green tea used for the tea ceremony, flavored ice cream, jewel-like gelatin cubes, and sweet whipped cream eaten in parfaits and layered with grapes, pineapple chunks, and chewy white mochi balls. There were Japanese-style snow cones, huge hills of shaved ice drizzled with green tea syrup, along with green tea-flavored mousse and tea-tainted sponge cake. Matcha flavored savory items too, including green tea noodles served hot in dashi soup, as well as chilled and heaped on a bamboo draining mat with a cold dipping sauce of dashi, mirin, and soy. There was green tea-flavored wheat gluten and the traditional Kyoto-style dish of white rice topped with thin petals of sashimi that you "cooked" at the table by drenching it with brewed green tea from a tiny teapot.
Victoria Abbott Riccardi (Untangling My Chopsticks: A Culinary Sojourn in Kyoto)
Irie serves me three ramens, including a bowl made with a rich dashi and head-on shrimp and another studded with spicy ground pork and wilted spinach and lashed with chili oil. Both are exceptionally delicious, sophisticated creations, but it's his interpretation of tonkotsu that leaves me muttering softly to myself. The noodles are firm and chewy, the roast pork is striped with soft deposits of warm fat, and the toppings- white curls of shredded spring onion, chewy strips of bamboo, a perfect square of toasted seaweed- are skillfully applied. Here it is the combination of tare, the culmination of years of careful tinkering, and broth, made from whole pig heads and knots of ginger, that defies the laws of tonkotsu: a soup with the savory, meaty intensity of a broth made from a thousand pigs that's light enough to leave you wanting more. And more. And more.
Matt Goulding (Rice, Noodle, Fish: Deep Travels Through Japan's Food Culture)
I first came to Hokkaido for two reasons: miso ramen and uni, the island's most famous foods and two items on my short list for Last Supper constituents. The only thing they share in common, besides a home, is the intense fits of joy they deliver: the former made from an unholy mix of pork-bone broth, thick miso paste, and wok-crisped pork belly (with the optional addition of a slab of melting Hokkaido butter), the latter arguably the sexiest food on earth, yolk-orange tongues of raw sea urchin roe with a habit-forming blend of fat and umami, sweetness and brine. Fall for uni at your own peril; like heroin and high-stakes poker, it's an expensive addiction that's tough to kick. But my dead-simple plan- to binge on both and catch the first flight back to Tokyo- has been upended by a steam locomotive and Whole Foods foliage, and suddenly Hokkaido seems much bigger than an urchin and a bowl of soup. No one told me about the rolling farmlands, the Fuji-like volcanoes, the stunning national parks, one stacked on top of the other. Nobody said there would be wine. And cheese. And bread.
Matt Goulding (Rice, Noodle, Fish: Deep Travels Through Japan's Food Culture)
In theory, toppings can include almost anything, but 95 percent of the ramen you consume in Japan will be topped with chashu, Chinese-style roasted pork. In a perfect world, that means luscious slices of marinated belly or shoulder, carefully basted over a low temperature until the fat has rendered and the meat collapses with a hard stare. Beyond the pork, the only other sure bet in a bowl of ramen is negi, thinly sliced green onion, little islands of allium sting in a sea of richness. Pickled bamboo shoots (menma), sheets of nori, bean sprouts, fish cake, raw garlic, and soy-soaked eggs are common constituents, but of course there is a whole world of outlier ingredients that make it into more esoteric bowls, which we'll get into later. While shape and size will vary depending on region and style, ramen noodles all share one thing in common: alkaline salts. Called kansui in Japanese, alkaline salts are what give the noodles a yellow tint and allow them to stand up to the blistering heat of the soup without degrading into a gummy mass. In fact, in the sprawling ecosystem of noodle soups, it may be the alkaline noodle alone that unites the ramen universe: "If it doesn't have kansui, it's not ramen," Kamimura says. Noodles and toppings are paramount in the ramen formula, but the broth is undoubtedly the soul of the bowl, there to unite the disparate tastes and textures at work in the dish. This is where a ramen chef makes his name. Broth can be made from an encyclopedia of flora and fauna: chicken, pork, fish, mushrooms, root vegetables, herbs, spices. Ramen broth isn't about nuance; it's about impact, which is why making most soup involves high heat, long cooking times, and giant heaps of chicken bones, pork bones, or both. Tare is the flavor base that anchors each bowl, that special potion- usually just an ounce or two of concentrated liquid- that bends ramen into one camp or another. In Sapporo, tare is made with miso. In Tokyo, soy sauce takes the lead. At enterprising ramen joints, you'll find tare made with up to two dozen ingredients, an apothecary's stash of dried fish and fungus and esoteric add-ons. The objective of tare is essentially the core objective of Japanese food itself: to pack as much umami as possible into every bite.
Matt Goulding (Rice, Noodle, Fish: Deep Travels Through Japan's Food Culture)
Rice is sacred to the Japanese people," he says. "We eat it at every meal, yet we never get tired of it." He points out that the word for rice in Japanese, gohan, is the same as the word for meal. When he finally lifts the lid of the first rice cooker, releasing a dramatic gasp of starchy steam, the entire restaurant looks ready to wave their white napkins in exuberant applause. The rice is served with a single anchovy painstakingly smoked over a charcoal fire. Below the rice, a nest of lightly grilled matsutake mushrooms; on top, an orange slice of compressed fish roe. Together, an intense wave of umami to fortify the tender grains of rice. Next comes okoge, the crispy rice from the bottom of the pan, served with crunchy flakes of sea salt and oil made from the outside kernel of the rice, spiked with spicy sansho pepper. For the finale, an island of crisp rice with wild herbs and broth from the cooked rice, a moving rendition of chazuke, Japanese rice-and-tea soup. It's a husk-to-heart exposé on rice, striking in both its simplicity and its soul-warming deliciousness- the standard by which all rice I ever eat will be judged.
Matt Goulding (Rice, Noodle, Fish: Deep Travels Through Japan's Food Culture)
Tender poached egg. Creamy mashed potatoes. And the thick layer of hot, melted cheese! Those are all incredibly delicious, but what takes the cake is the roux! It's been made in a VICHYSSOISE style!" VICHYSSOISE Boiled potatoes, onions, leeks and other ingredients are pureed with cream and soup stock to make this potage. It's often served chilled. Its creation is generally credited to Louis Diat, a French chef at the Ritz Carlton in New York, who first put it on the hotel's menu in 1917. "Amazing! It looks like a thick, heavy dish that would sit in the stomach like lead, but it's so easy to eat!" "The noodles! It's the udon noodles, along with the coriander powder, that makes it feel so much lighter! Coriander is known for its fresh, almost citrusy scent and its mildly spicy bite. It goes exceptionally well with the cumin kneaded into the noodles, each spice working to heighten the other's fragrance. AAAH! It's immensely satisfying!" "I have also included dill, vichyssoise's traditional topping. Dry roasting the dill seeds together with the cumin seeds made a spice mix that gave a strong aroma to the roux." "Hm! Fat noodles in a thick, creamy roux. Eating them is much the same experience as having dipping noodles. What an amazing concept to arrive at from a century-old French soup recipe!
Yūto Tsukuda (食戟のソーマ 7 [Shokugeki no Souma 7] (Food Wars: Shokugeki no Soma, #7))
There were strange stories going around about adults who preyed on children. Not just for sex, but for food. Hyuck was told about people who would drug children, kill them, and butcher them for meat. Behind the station near the railroad tracks were vendors who cooked soup and noodles over small burners, and it was said that the gray chunks of meat floating in the broth were human flesh. Whether urban legend or not, tales of cannibalism swept through the markets. Mrs. Song heard the stories from a gossipy ajumma she had met there. “Don’t buy any meat if you don’t know where it comes from,” she warned darkly. The woman claimed she knew somebody who had actually eaten human flesh and proclaimed it delicious. “If you didn’t know, you’d swear it was pork or beef,” she whispered to a horrified Mrs. Song. The stories got more and more horrific. Supposedly, one father went so insane with hunger that he ate his own baby. A market woman was said to have been arrested for selling soup made from human bones. From my interviews with defectors, it does appear that there were at least two cases—one in Chongjin and the other in Sinuiju—in which people were arrested and executed for cannibalism. It does not seem, though, that the practice was widespread or even occurred to the degree that was chronicled in China during the 1958-62 famine, which killed as many as 30 million people.
Barbara Demick (Nothing to Envy: Ordinary Lives in North Korea)
Moreover, Nancy Sinatra was afflicted, as the overwhelming majority of Americans were, with monolingualism. Lana’s richer, more textured version of “Bang Bang” layered English with French and Vietnamese. Bang bang, je ne l’oublierai pas went the last line of the French version, which was echoed by Pham Duy’s Vietnamese version, We will never forget. In the pantheon of classic pop songs from Saigon, this tricolor rendition was one of the most memorable, masterfully weaving together love and violence in the enigmatic story of two lovers who, regardless of having known each other since childhood, or because of knowing each other since childhood, shoot each other down. Bang bang was the sound of memory’s pistol firing into our heads, for we could not forget love, we could not forget war, we could not forget lovers, we could not forget enemies, we could not forget home, and we could not forget Saigon. We could not forget the caramel flavor of iced coffee with coarse sugar; the bowls of noodle soup eaten while squatting on the sidewalk; the strumming of a friend’s guitar while we swayed on hammocks under coconut trees; the football matches played barefoot and shirtless in alleys, squares, parks, and meadows; the pearl chokers of morning mist draped around the mountains; the labial moistness of oysters shucked on a gritty beach; the whisper of a dewy lover saying the most seductive words in our language, anh oi; the rattle of rice being threshed; the workingmen who slept in their cyclos on the streets, kept warm only by the memories of their families; the refugees who slept on every sidewalk of every city; the slow burning of patient mosquito coils; the sweetness and firmness of a mango plucked fresh from its tree; the girls who refused to talk to us and who we only pined for more; the men who had died or disappeared; the streets and homes blown away by bombshells; the streams where we swam naked and laughing; the secret grove where we spied on the nymphs who bathed and splashed with the innocence of the birds; the shadows cast by candlelight on the walls of wattled huts; the atonal tinkle of cowbells on mud roads and country paths; the barking of a hungry dog in an abandoned village; the appetizing reek of the fresh durian one wept to eat; the sight and sound of orphans howling by the dead bodies of their mothers and fathers; the stickiness of one’s shirt by afternoon, the stickiness of one’s lover by the end of lovemaking, the stickiness of our situations; the frantic squealing of pigs running for their lives as villagers gave chase; the hills afire with sunset; the crowned head of dawn rising from the sheets of the sea; the hot grasp of our mother’s hand; and while the list could go on and on and on, the point was simply this: the most important thing we could never forget was that we could never forget.
Viet Thanh Nguyen (The Sympathizer)
In Tokyo, ramen is a playground for the culinary imagination. As long as the dish contains thin wheat noodles, it's ramen. In fact, there's a literal ramen playground called Tokyo Ramen Street in the basement of Tokyo Station, with eight top-rated ramen shops sharing one corridor. We stopped by one evening after a day of riding around on the Shinkansen. After drooling over the photos at establishments such as Junk Garage, which serves oily, brothless noodles hidden under a towering slag heap of toppings, we settled on Ramen Honda based on its short line and the fact that its ramen seemed to be topped with a massive pile of scallions. However, anything in Tokyo that appears to be topped with scallions is actually topped with something much better. You'll meet this delectable dopplegänger soon, and in mass quantities. The Internet is littered with dozens if not hundreds of exclamation point-bedecked ramen blogs (Rameniac, GO RAMEN!, Ramen Adventures, Ramenate!) in English, Japanese, and probably Serbian, Hindi, and Xhosa. In Tokyo, you'll find hot and cold ramen; Thai green curry ramen; diet ramen and ramen with pork broth so thick you could sculpt with it; Italian-inspired tomato ramen; and Hokkaido-style miso ramen. You'll find ramen chains and fiercely individual holes-in-the-wall. Right now, somewhere in the world, someone is having a meet-cute with her first bowl of ramen. As she fills up on pork and noodles and seaweed and bamboo shoots, she thinks, we were meant to be together, and she is embarrassed at her atavistic reaction to a simple bowl of soup.
Matthew Amster-Burton (Pretty Good Number One: An American Family Eats Tokyo)
Lobster tomalley fish innards! The richness of all the ingredients have melded into one powerful whole! What a robust, almost wild flavor! Next, let's try the broth together with the noodles... here I go! Ye gods! I have to hold myself together or I'll black out! As it is, that was nearly a knockout punch! Who knew umami flavor could be this powerfully violent! How about the toppings? I see three varieties of shredded cheese. Rouille... *Rouille is a type of aioli, usually consisting of olive oil, breadcrumbs and various spices like garlic and chili flakes. It, along with croutons and cheese, is a standard garnish to Soupe de Poisson.* And are those tempura flakes? Aha! He must have added those as a crouton analogue! And finally the rusk! It looks like it's been spread with Échiré butter and well toasted. Perhaps it was added as a palate cleanser for after that strong, rich broth. WHAT?! What an intense, aromatic flavor! But where is all of this coming from?! Hm? What are these pink flakes in the butter? Wait, now I see! Those shells he crushed! He had them dried to increase their umami flavor!" "It's about time you noticed. I added those powdered shells to everything in this dish, from the soup stock to the butter on the rusk." "See, the umami flavor in lobsters and shrimp comes from three elements: glycine, arginine and proline. Of all seafood, crustaceans carry the highest concentration of umami components, y'know. Since Ryo took that powdered lobster shell- chock full of those three umami components- and added it to every element of the dish... ... it's, like, only natural that it's flavor is going to have a strong umami punch.
Yūto Tsukuda (食戟のソーマ 9 [Shokugeki no Souma 9] (Food Wars: Shokugeki no Soma, #9))
Fukuoka, more than any other city in Japan, is responsible for ramen's rocket-ship trajectory, and the ensuing shift in Japan's cultural identity abroad. Between Hide-Chan, Ichiran, and Ippudo- three of the biggest ramen chains in the world- they've brought the soup to corners of the globe that still thought ramen meant a bag of dried noodles and a dehydrated spice packet. But while Ichiran and Ippudo are purveyors of classic tonkotsu, undoubtedly the defining ramen of the modern era, Hideto has a decidedly different belief about ramen and its mutability. "There are no boundaries for ramen, no rules," he says. "It's all freestyle." As we talk at his original Hide-Chan location in the Kego area of Fukuoka, a new bowl arrives on the table, a prototype for his borderless ramen philosophy. A coffee filter is filled with katsuobushi, smoked skipjack tuna flakes, and balanced over a bowl with a pair of chopsticks. Hideto pours chicken stock through the filter, which soaks up the katsuobushi and emerges into the bowl as clear as a consommé. He adds rice noodles and sawtooth coriander then slides it over to me. Compared with other Hide-Chan creations, though, this one shows remarkable restraint. While I sip the soup, Hideto pulls out his cell phone and plays a video of him layering hot pork cheeks and cold noodles into a hollowed-out porcelain skull, then dumping a cocktail shaker filled with chili oil, shrimp oil, truffle oil, and dashi over the top. Other creations include spicy arrabbiata ramen with pancetta and roasted tomatoes, foie gras ramen with orange jam and blueberry miso, and black ramen made with bamboo ash dipped into a mix of miso and onions caramelized for forty-five days.
Matt Goulding (Rice, Noodle, Fish: Deep Travels Through Japan's Food Culture)
Kamimura has been whispering all week of a sacred twenty-four-hour ramen spot located on a two-lane highway in Kurume where truckers go for the taste of true ramen. The shop is massive by ramen standards, big enough to fit a few trucks along with those drivers, and in the midafternoon a loose assortment of castaways and road warriors sit slurping their noodles. Near the entrance a thick, sweaty cauldron boils so aggressively that a haze of pork fat hangs over the kitchen like waterfall mist. While few are audacious enough to claim ramen is healthy, tonkotsu enthusiasts love to point out that the collagen in pork bones is great for the skin. "Look at their faces!" says Kamimura. "They're almost seventy years old and not a wrinkle! That's the collagen. Where there is tonkotsu, there is rarely a wrinkle." He's right: the woman wears a faded purple bandana and sad, sunken eyes, but even then she doesn't look a day over fifty. She's stirring a massive cauldron of broth, and I ask her how long it's been simmering for. "Sixty years," she says flatly. This isn't hyperbole, not exactly. Kurume treats tonkotsu like a French country baker treats a sourdough starter- feeding it, regenerating, keeping some small fraction of the original soup alive in perpetuity. Old bones out, new bones in, but the base never changes. The mother of all ramen. Maruboshi Ramen opened in 1958, and you can taste every one of those years in the simple bowl they serve. There is no fancy tare, no double broth, no secret spice or unexpected toppings: just pork bones, noodles, and three generations of constant simmering. The flavor is pig in its purest form, a milky broth with no aromatics or condiments to mitigate the purity of its porcine essence.
Matt Goulding (Rice, Noodle, Fish: Deep Travels Through Japan's Food Culture)
Every few months or so at home, Pops had to have Taiwanese ’Mian. Not the Dan-Dan Mian you get at Szechuan restaurants or in Fuchsia Dunlop’s book, but Taiwanese Dan-Dan. The trademark of ours is the use of clear pork bone stock, sesame paste, and crushed peanuts on top. You can add chili oil if you want, but I take it clean because when done right, you taste the essence of pork and the bitterness of sesame paste; the texture is somewhere between soup and ragout. Creamy, smooth, and still soupy. A little za cai (pickled radish) on top, chopped scallions, and you’re done. I realized that day, it’s the simple things in life. It’s not about a twelve-course tasting of unfamiliar ingredients or mass-produced water-added rib-chicken genetically modified monstrosity of meat that makes me feel alive. It’s getting a bowl of food that doesn’t have an agenda. The ingredients are the ingredients because they work and nothing more. These noodles were transcendent not because he used the best produce or protein or because it was locally sourced, but because he worked his dish. You can’t buy a championship. Did this old man invent Dan-Dan Mian? No. But did he perfect it with techniques and standards never before seen? Absolutely. He took a dish people were making in homes, made it better than anyone else, put it on front street, and established a standard. That’s professional cooking. To take something that already speaks to us, do it at the highest level, and force everyone else to step up, too. Food at its best uplifts the whole community, makes everyone rise to its standard. That’s what that Dan-Dan Mian did. If I had the honor of cooking my father’s last meal, I wouldn’t think twice. Dan-Dan Mian with a bullet, no question.
Eddie Huang (Fresh Off the Boat)
The menu is spectacular. Passed hors d'oeuvres include caramelized shallot tartlets topped with Gorgonzola, cubes of crispy pork belly skewered with fresh fig, espresso cups of chilled corn soup topped with spicy popcorn, mini arepas filled with rare skirt steak and chimichurri and pickle onions, and prawn dumplings with a mango serrano salsa. There is a raw bar set up with three kinds of oysters, and a raclette station where we have a whole wheel of the nutty cheese being melted to order, with baby potatoes, chunks of garlic sausage, spears of fresh fennel, lightly pickled Brussels sprouts, and hunks of sourdough bread to pour it over. When we head up for dinner, we will start with a classic Dover sole amandine with a featherlight spinach flan, followed by a choice of seared veal chops or duck breast, both served with creamy polenta, roasted mushrooms, and lacinato kale. Next is a light salad of butter lettuce with a sharp lemon Dijon vinaigrette, then a cheese course with each table receiving a platter of five cheeses with dried fruits and nuts and three kinds of bread, followed by the panna cottas. Then the cake, and coffee and sweets. And at midnight, chorizo tamales served with scrambled eggs, waffle sticks with chicken fingers and spicy maple butter, candied bacon strips, sausage biscuit sandwiches, and vanilla Greek yogurt parfaits with granola and berries on the "breakfast" buffet, plus cheeseburger sliders, mini Chicago hot dogs, little Chinese take-out containers of pork fried rice and spicy sesame noodles, a macaroni-and-cheese bar, and little stuffed pizzas on the "snack food" buffet. There will also be tiny four-ounce milk bottles filled with either vanilla malted milk shakes, root beer floats made with hard root beer, Bloody Marys, or mimosas.
Stacey Ballis (Wedding Girl)
We start with a next-generation miso soup: Kyoto's famous sweet white miso whisked with dashi made from lobster shells, with large chunks of tender claw meat and wilted spinach bobbing on the soup's surface. The son takes a cube of topflight Wagyu off the grill, charred on the outside, rare in the center, and swaddles it with green onions and a scoop of melting sea urchin- a surf-and-turf to end all others. The father lays down a gorgeous ceramic plate with a poem painted on its surface. "From the sixteenth century," he tells us, then goes about constructing the dish with his son, piece by piece: First, a chunk of tilefish wrapped around a grilled matsutake mushroom stem. Then a thick triangle of grilled mushroom cap, plus another grilled stem the size of a D-sized battery, topped with mushroom miso. A pickled ginger shoot, a few tender soybeans, and the crowning touch, the tilefish skin, separated from its body and fried into a ripple wave of crunch. The rice course arrives in a small bamboo steamer. The young chef works quickly. He slices curtains of tuna belly from a massive, fat-streaked block, dips it briefly in house-made soy sauce, then lays it on the rice. Over the top he spoons a sauce of seaweed and crushed sesame seeds just as the tuna fat begins to melt into the grains below. A round of tempura comes next: a harvest moon of creamy pumpkin, a gold nugget of blowfish capped with a translucent daikon sauce, and finally a soft, custardy chunk of salmon liver, intensely fatty with a bitter edge, a flavor that I've never tasted before. The last savory course comes in a large ice block carved into the shape of a bowl. Inside, a nest of soba noodles tinted green with powdered matcha floating in a dashi charged with citrus and topped with a false quail egg, the white fashioned from grated daikon.
Matt Goulding (Rice, Noodle, Fish: Deep Travels Through Japan's Food Culture)
If love had its limits, and those limits tasted like lasagna, could you see yourself dating a can of chicken noodle soup? I only ask because I’m in the mood to spoon. After all, I am the 2014 World Cuddling Champion.
Jarod Kintz (This Book is Not for Sale)
Minestrone Soup Minestrone is a classic Italian vegetable soup. The zucchini and cabbage are added at the end for a burst of fresh flavor. INGREDIENTS | SERVES 8 3 cloves garlic, minced 15 ounces canned fire-roasted diced tomatoes 28 ounces canned crushed tomatoes 2 stalks celery, diced 1 medium onion, diced 3 medium carrots, diced 3 cups Roasted Vegetable Stock or Chicken Stock 30 ounces canned kidney beans, drained and rinsed 2 tablespoons tomato paste 2 tablespoons minced basil 2 tablespoons minced oregano 2 tablespoons minced Italian parsley 1½ cups shredded cabbage ¾ cup diced zucchini 1 teaspoon salt ½ teaspoon pepper 8 ounces small cooked pasta Add the garlic, diced and crushed tomatoes, celery, onions, carrots, stock, beans, tomato paste, basil, and spices to a 4-quart slow cooker. Cook on low heat for 6–8 hours. Add shredded cabbage and zucchini and turn to high for the last hour. Stir in the salt, pepper, and pasta before serving. PER SERVING Calories: 270 | Fat: 1.5g | Sodium: 900mg | Carbohydrates: 55g | Fiber: 10g | Protein: 13g Suggested Pasta Shapes for Soup Anchellini, small shells, hoops, alfabeto, or ditaletti are all small pasta shapes suitable for soup. For heartier soups, try bow ties or rotini. Thin rice noodles or vermicelli are better for Asian-style soups. Mushroom Barley Soup Using three types of mushrooms adds a lot of flavor to this soup. INGREDIENTS | SERVES 8 1 ounce dried porcini mushrooms 1 cup boiling water 1½ teaspoons butter 5 ounces sliced fresh shiitake mushrooms 4 ounces sliced fresh button mushrooms 1 large onion, diced 1 clove garlic, minced
Rachel Rappaport (The Everything Healthy Slow Cooker Cookbook (Everything®))
BRAINSTORMING! Every night after dinner—which is usually something like tuna noodle casserole made with cream-of-wallpaper soup—I escape to the privacy of my bedroom.
James Patterson (I Funny: A Middle School Story FREE PREVIEW)
When you piss in a cereal bowl and let it cool down to room temperature, it behaves a lot like chicken noodle soup under the same conditions.
Sara Benincasa (Agorafabulous!: Dispatches from My Bedroom)
  Over a bowl of steaming feu, Chinese noodle soup, Mon kept talking. As always, the soup was served with a plate piled high with fresh greens—cilantro and mint, bean sprouts and lemon—that one added for taste. On the table sat an assortment of Lao and Thai condiments like fish paste, chili peppers, and hot sauce. I usually stayed away from these deadly bottles. Mon, on the other hand, dumped a healthy dose of each into her bowl. Just one
Brett Dakin (Another Quiet American: Stories Of Life In Laos)
Chicken and Zucchini Noodle Soup Number of Servings: 8 Calories per Serving: 227   Ingredients: ●           3 1/2 cups thinly sliced zucchini ●           3 cups chopped cooked boneless, skinless chicken ●           3/4 cup chopped celery ●           1/6 cup chopped onion ●           1/6 cup chopped carrot ●           1/6 cup coconut oil ●           10 cups low sodium chicken broth ●           1/3 tsp dried marjoram ●           2 thin slivers fresh ginger ●           1/3 tsp black pepper ●           3/4 Tbsp dried parsley ●           1 bay leaf   Instructions: Combine the chicken, celery, onion, carrot, coconut oil, broth, marjoram, ginger, pepper, parsley, and bay leaf in the slow cooker. Cover and cook for 6 hours on low. Ladle into soup bowls and top with sliced zucchini.
Arianna Brooks (Slow Cooker: Weight Loss: 250 Healthy, Delicious, Easy Diet Recipes to Lose Weight (Slow Cooker Weight Loss Series Book 1))
Spicy Seafood Noodle Soup
Maangchi (Maangchi's Real Korean Cooking: Authentic Dishes for the Home Cook)
I thought Hayama's talent lay in the mixing of varied exotic spices to create the perfect fragrance." "No, his skill is in manipulating fragrance itself. He can do more than just add more spices into his recipes. In fact, this time he subtracted spices instead. In so doing, he accentuated the freshness and flavor of the in-season pike." "Uh, I get that much, but, like, how did he manage to get that rich of a fragrance with only one spice? His dish's impact was on par with Ryo's!" "Yes! Just searing not give that punch. It is inconceivable!" "I used kaeshi sauce. Right before serving, I brushed a thin layer of kaeshi onto the fish slices." "Kaeshi? Does he mean the ramen soup base?!" "Kaeshi was mentioned during the Ramen Bout in the Quarterfinals, yes. It seems this time it is being used in a purely Japanese fashion." "Kaeshi? Like Tsubame-Gaeshi Sword Cut, yes? Kojiro Sasaki Swallow Cut!" "I'm surprised you're familiar with that sword technique. But no, this is different. Kaeshi is a mixture of soy sauce, mirin and sake. It is most often diluted with dashi stock to go with noodles. It is considered an all-purpose seasoning that can be used in almost any Japanese dish." "No wonder! Fish meat generally does not brown easily, even when using the high, focused heat of a blowtorch. But the sugars present in kaeshi make that easier! It also prevents the heating time from dragging out too long and ruining the freshness of the fish. " "The fatty acids of the fish mix with the sugars in the kaeshi. Add heat and they will sizzle and boil.
Yūto Tsukuda (食戟のソーマ 12 [Shokugeki no Souma 12] (Food Wars: Shokugeki no Soma, #12))
What is it?" Her interest piqued by the heavenly aroma. "Delicious," I said. I could have told her it was soup made up of parsley, spinach, dill, sautéed onions, thin noodles, chickpeas, kidney beans, dried yogurt, dried mint, garlic, oil, and salt, but why spoil the surprise?
Sara Farizan (Hungry Hearts: 13 Tales of Food & Love)
Back then, rice was in short supply, and the government was waging a campaign to encourage people to eat more flour and mixed grains. At school, our lunchboxes were inspected daily, and anyone caught bringing white rice had their palms strapped. Flour, donated as food aid by the United States and stamped on each sack with a picture of a handshake, was distributed by the neighbourhood office and eventually found its way into the marketplace. Lunch in every home consisted of sujebi, knife-cut noodles, or banquet noodles — the extra-thin soup noodles that were extruded by machine and so insubstantial that you’d barely even chewed them before they were slipping down your throat. They were called banquet noodles because we used to eat them only on special days, but they were ubiquitous in our neighbourhood since you could prepare them many different ways, including in soup or tossed in a spicy sauce.
Hwang Sok-yong (At Dusk)
Fideos secos, also known as sopa seca or Mexican “dry soup,” is typically made with thin spaghetti cooked in a guajillo pepper and tomato sauce, topped with avocado, queso fresco, and sometimes chicharrón (fried pork rinds). This grain-free version replaces the pasta with carrots—and I have to say, they just might be the tastiest carrots I’ve ever eaten (and this is coming from a girl who doesn’t really like carrots). Spiralized carrots are great as a pasta swap in dishes like this where you want a noodle with a good bite. Zucchini tends to get watery if cooked too long, but the carrots stay firm, creating a very pasta-like experience. 1 large (13-ounce) carrot (at least 2 inches thick) 2 dried guajillo chiles,* stemmed, split open, and seeded 4 teaspoons olive oil ⅓ cup chopped onion 3 garlic cloves 2 medium tomatoes, quartered 1 teaspoon adobo sauce (from a can of chipotle peppers in adobo sauce) ½ teaspoon ground cumin ¾ teaspoon kosher salt 4 ounces thinly sliced avocado (from 1 small Hass) 2 ounces (scant ½ cup) crumbled queso fresco 1 tablespoon chopped fresh cilantro *Read the label to be sure this product is gluten-free. Using the widest noodle blade of your spiralizer, spiralize the carrot, then cut the “noodles” into 6-inch lengths. Set aside on a plate. Soak the guajillo chiles in a bowl of ½ cup hot water until softened, about 30 minutes. Transfer the chiles and soaking liquid to a blender. Heat a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add 1 teaspoon of the oil, the onion, and garlic and cook, stirring, until the onion is golden brown, 3 to 4 minutes. Transfer the mixture to the blender. Add the tomatoes, adobo sauce, cumin, and ¼ teaspoon of the salt to the blender and blend well. In the same skillet, heat the remaining 3 teaspoons oil over medium-high heat. Add the carrot noodles and the remaining ½ teaspoon salt. Cook, stirring, until softened, about 5 minutes. Pour the sauce from the blender over the carrots, increase the heat to high, and cook, stirring occasionally, until the sauce thickens, about 5 minutes. To serve, divide the carrot noodles between 2 bowls. Top each with half the avocado, queso fresco, and cilantro.
Gina Homolka (Skinnytaste One and Done: 140 No-Fuss Dinners for Your Instant Pot®, Slow Cooker, Air Fryer, Sheet Pan, Skillet, Dutch Oven, and More)
1 large aubergine, cut into bite-sized chunks (about 2cm) 150g shiitake mushrooms (or brown, chestnut or white mushrooms), stems removed, thinly sliced 10 cherry tomatoes, halved 800ml coconut milk 400ml good-quality vegetable stock 100g tenderstem broccoli, cut into large chunks 100g dried rice vermicelli noodles, or other thin noodles 2–3 tbsp kecap manis 1–2 tbsp rice vinegar or white wine vinegar Sea salt, to taste Coconut oil or sunflower oil, for frying Kerupuk or prawn crackers, to serve Lime wedges, to serve For the spice paste Large bunch of coriander 4 garlic cloves, peeled and sliced 2 small banana shallots or 4 Thai shallots, peeled and sliced 4 long red chillies, half deseeded, all sliced 2cm piece of ginger (about 10g), peeled and sliced 1 lemongrass stalk, outer woody layers removed, thinly sliced 1 tsp ground coriander Pick some of the coriander leaves from the stalks and set aside to use as a garnish. Place all the coriander stalks and remaining leaves, along with the other spice paste ingredients, in a food processor and blend to a smooth paste. Heat 2 tablespoons of oil in a wide, deep saucepan or casserole dish over a medium heat and fry the spice paste until fragrant, about 10 minutes. Add the aubergine chunks and sliced mushrooms with another 1 tablespoon of oil and cook, stirring, for 2–3 minutes. As soon as they have started to soften, add the tomatoes, coconut milk and vegetable stock and bring to the boil, then reduce to a simmer for 30 minutes. Add the broccoli and simmer for a further 5 minutes. Meanwhile, place the noodles in a heatproof bowl, pour over boiling water and leave for 10 minutes (or follow the packet instructions). Drain and toss with a little oil to prevent them sticking together. When ready to serve, check the vegetables are soft and the aubergine is cooked through. Add the noodles to the soup and warm through. Season with kecap manis, vinegar and salt. Taste to check the seasoning, then serve immediately garnished with the reserved coriander leaves, and the crackers, lime wedges and sambal on the side.
Lara Lee (Coconut & Sambal: Recipes from my Indonesian Kitchen)
When I’m gone,” he says, starting again, “Bellamy will have no one. There will be no one to celebrate her birthdays.” His voice breaks once again. This time, it doesn’t find its rhythm. “There will be no one to make sure she makes it home after she stays out too long with Larissa. Nobody will make sure she goes to the doctor when she gets bronchitis in the fall or makes her chicken noodle soup without carrots. And that …” Tears stream down his cheeks in a quiet river. “That’s what keeps me up at night.
Adriana Locke (Reputation (Mason Family, #2))
AMERICAN LEGION FUNERAL HOT DISH 1 pound ground beef ½ onion, chopped 1 cup frozen sliced carrots 1 cup frozen cauliflower 1 cup frozen chopped broccoli 1 can cream of mushroom soup 1 can cream of chicken soup 3-4 stalks celery, chopped 2 tablespoons soy sauce ½ teaspoon white pepper 1 12-ounce bag chow mein noodles Preheat oven to 325°F. Fry hamburger and onion in large cast-iron pan, breaking hamburger up into small pieces. Drain and place in large baking pan. Mix vegetables, soups, celery, soy sauce and pepper, then combine with meat in pan. Fold in ⅔ of chow mein noodles (8 ounces), cover and bake for about an hour. Sprinkle remaining chow mein noodles on top. Put cover back on and bake another 15 minutes.
Susan Wiggs (The Winter Lodge (The Lakeshore Chronicles Book 2))
My lady, would you care to inspect the menu for dinner? Cook is doing her best to accommodate on such short notice. I believe she plans to serve chicken this evening." "Oh, actually, chicken will do very well for his lordship, but I shall require a dish without meat." "Without meat?" the woman repeated, looking even more pinched. "Such as, may I inquire?" "Vegetables, bread, noodles, soup made without meat stock, cheese, milk, fruit. Anything, really, so long as it is not made from killed meat.
Tracy Anne Warren (Happily Bedded Bliss (The Rakes of Cavendish Square, #2))
The best part about beef noodle soup is that there are no rules. It just has to have beef, noodle, and soup. There are people that do clear broth beef noodle soup. Beef noodle soup with dairy. Beef noodle soup with pig’s blood. It would suck if you looked at my recipe and never made your own, ‘cause everyone has a beef noodle soup in them. Show it to me.
Eddie Huang (Fresh Off the Boat)
Bok Choy Seitan Pho (Vietnamese Noodle Soup) After sampling pho at a Vietnamese noodle shop in Los Angeles, I was on a mission to create a simple plant-based version of this aromatic, festive noodle dish in my own kitchen. My recipe features seitan, a wonderful plant-based protein found in many natural food stores. My whole family loves the interactive style in which this soup is served. In fact, you can plan a dinner party around this traditional meal. Simply dish up the noodles and bubbling broth into large soup bowls, set out a variety of vegetable toppings, and let your guests serve it up their way. MAKES 4 SERVINGS BROTH 4 cups reduced-sodium vegetable broth ½ medium yellow onion, chopped ½ cup sliced shiitake mushrooms 1 medium carrot, sliced 4 garlic cloves, minced 8 thin slices peeled fresh ginger root 1 tablespoon reduced-sodium soy sauce 1 tablespoon rice wine vinegar 1 tablespoon agave syrup ¼ teaspoon ground black pepper 2 cinnamon sticks 2 star anise pods ½ teaspoon whole coriander 6 sprigs of fresh basil 6 sprigs of fresh cilantro NOODLES One 8-ounce package flat rice noodles TOPPINGS One 8-ounce package seitan (wheat gluten) strips, thinly sliced 2 small bunches of fresh bok choy, sliced thinly 1 cup fresh bean sprouts ½ cup coarsely chopped cilantro ½ cup coarsely chopped basil 1 small lime, cut into wedges 1 small jalapeño pepper, seeded and diced 4 green onions, sliced TO PREPARE THE BROTH: 1. Combine all the broth ingredients in a large pot, cover, and bring to a low boil. Reduce the heat and simmer for 30 minutes. Strain the broth, discarding the vegetables and seasonings. Return the strained broth to the pot, cover, and keep warm (broth should be bubbling right before serving time). While broth is cooking, prepare noodles and toppings. TO PREPARE THE NOODLES: 1. Bring a medium pot of water to a boil. Add the rice noodles, cover, and cook until just tender, about 5 minutes, or according to package directions. Drain the noodles immediately and rinse with cold water. Return the drained noodles to the pot and cover. TO PREPARE THE TOPPINGS: 1. Arrange the toppings on a large platter. 2. To serve the soup, divide the noodles among four very large soup bowls. Either garnish the noodles with desired toppings or let your guests do their own. Ladle boiling broth over the noodles and toppings, and serve immediately. Allow hot broth to wilt vegetables and cool slightly before eating it. PER SERVING (ABOUT 2 OUNCES NOODLES, 2 OUNCES SEITAN, 1 CUP VEGETABLE TOPPINGS, AND 1 CUP BROTH): Calories: 310 • Carbohydrates: 55 g • Fiber: 4 g • Protein: 17 g • Total fat: 2 g • Saturated fat: 0 g • Sodium: 427 mg • Star nutrients: Vitamin A (39% DV), vitamin C (23% DV), iron (11% DV), selenium (13% DV)
Sharon Palmer (The Plant-Powered Diet: The Lifelong Eating Plan for Achieving Optimal Health, Beginning Today)
What's on the menu for tomorrow?" I ask. "Celery root soup with bacon and green apple. And bean and Swiss chard." "Why don't you ever do something normal, like chicken noodle?" Gretchen asks. "If you want that, buy a can," Tee says, stirring the creamy goodness in her speckled enamelware pot. Gretchen begins preparing for the morning. I hover, watching, though by now she knows what to do. She'll make the dough for the soup boules, challahs, sticky buns, and Friday's featured sandwich loaf, cinnamon raisin. I start the poolish- a pre-fermented dough- for my own seven-grain Rustica as she weighs the flour and fills the stand mixer. The machine wheezes, rocking a little too much, as it spins the ingredients together. It's old and will need to be replaced soon. Vintage, Gretchen calls it.
Christa Parrish (Stones for Bread)
After all, Ramen is simply noodle soup. Simple in essence. Powerful in flavor.
Aiko Takahashi (Authentic Ramen: 42 Easy and Authentic Japanese Ramen Recipes for Cooking Ramen at Home)
We visited Gwangjang Market in one of Seoul's oldest neighborhoods, squeezing past crowds of people threading through its covered alleys, a natural maze spontaneously joined and splintered over a century of accretion. We passed busy ajummas in aprons and rubber kitchen gloves tossing knife-cut noodles in colossal, bubbling pots for kalguksu, grabbing fistfuls of colorful namul from overbrimming bowls for bibimbap, standing over gurgling pools of hot oil, armed with metal spatulas in either hand, flipping the crispy sides of stone-milled soybean pancakes. Metal containers full of jeotgal, salt-fermented seafood banchan, affectionally known as rice thieves, because their intense, salty flavor cries out for starchy, neutral balance; raw, pregnant crabs, floating belly up in soy sauce to show off the unctuous roe protruding out from beneath their shells; millions of minuscule peach-colored krill used for making kimchi or finishing hot soup with rice; and my family's favorite, crimson sacks of pollack roe smothered in gochugaru, myeongnanjeot.
Michelle Zauner (Crying in H Mart)
H Mart is a supermarket chain that specializes in Asian food. The H stands for han ah reum, a Korean phrase that roughly translates to "one arm full of groceries." H Mart is where parachute kids flock to find the brand of instant noodles that reminds them of home. It's where Korean families buy rice cakes to make tteokguk, the beef and rice cake soup that brings in the New Year. It's the only place where you can find a giant vat of peeled garlic, because it's the only place that truly understands how much garlic you'll need for the kind of food your people eat. H Mart is freedom from the single-aisle "ethnic" section in regular grocery stores.
Michelle Zauner (Crying in H Mart)
Inside an H Mart complex, there will be some kind of food court, an appliance shop, and a pharmacy. Usually, there's a beauty counter where you can buy Korean makeup and skin-care products with snail mucin or caviar oil, or a face mask that vaguely boasts "placenta." (Whose placenta? Who knows?) There will usually be a pseudo-French bakery with weak coffee, bubble tea, and an array of glowing pastries that always look much better than they taste. My local H Mart these days is in Elkins Park, a town northeast of Philadelphia. My routine is to drive in for lunch on the weekends, stock up on groceries for the week, and cook something for dinner with whatever fresh bounty inspires me. The H Mart in Elkins Park has two stories; the grocery is on the first floor and the food court is above it. Upstairs, there is an array of stalls serving different kinds of food. One is dedicated to sushi, one is strictly Chinese. Another is for traditional Korean jjigaes, bubbling soups served in traditional earthenware pots called ttukbaegis, which act as mini cauldrons to ensure that your soup is still bubbling a good ten minutes past arrival. There's a stall for Korean street food that serves up Korean ramen (basically just Shin Cup noodles with an egg cracked in); giant steamed dumplings full of pork and glass noodles housed in a thick, cakelike dough; and tteokbokki, chewy, bite-sized cylindrical rice cakes boiled in a stock with fish cakes, red pepper, and gochujang, a sweet-and-spicy paste that's one of the three mother sauces used in pretty much all Korean dishes. Last, there's my personal favorite: Korean-Chinese fusion, which serves tangsuyuk---a glossy, sweet-and-sour orange pork---seafood noodle soup, fried rice, and black bean noodles.
Michelle Zauner (Crying in H Mart)
Following the crowds came the blog entries. My early favorite read: “I thought for sure the soup would have a ketchup flavor to it, so I was surprised and thrilled to eat such an authentic, delicious bowl of ramen. Sorry, Ivan, for thinking such negative things about you.” Every news article, blog post, TV interview, and conversation focused on the gaijin angle. Every positive review started, “I expected Ivan Ramen to be terrible, but …” The online forums were alive with conspiracy theories. Some people said I was a front for a large Korean corporation; others claimed that I was just a front for a Japanese chef; my favorite one speculated that I was really Japanese and was just pretending to be a foreigner.
Ivan Orkin (Ivan Ramen: Love, Obsession, and Recipes from Tokyo's Most Unlikely Noodle Joint)
Closer to home, the Netherlands’ colonial history was evident on the country’s dining tables and restaurant menus, with Indonesian cuisine offering a rare bright spot among otherwise dire food options. It was common for family celebrations or corporate events to involve a rijsttafel (‘rice table’), a lavish banquet consisting of dozens of gelatinous Indonesian dishes displayed on a vast table. Just as no British town could be complete without an Indian curry house, most Dutch towns had at least one restaurant offering peanut soup, chicken satay and spicy noodles. Nasi goreng (fried rice) and bami goreng (fried noodles) were as well known to Dutch diners as chicken masala and naan bread were to the British. After centuries of trade with Indonesia, the Dutch had developed an abiding obsession with coffee, with an expensive coffee machine an essential feature of even the scruffiest student house. Surinamese food, which I’d never even heard of before moving to the Netherlands, was also popular. The Dutch had left their mark on the world, and the world had returned the favour.
Ben Coates (Why the Dutch are Different: A Journey into the Hidden Heart of the Netherlands: From Amsterdam to Zwarte Piet, the acclaimed guide to travel in Holland)
Vanavond op het menu, sojasaus, crackers, noodles, Matzo Ball Soup, als aperitief.
Petra Hermans
From a time even before then, from before James was born, there's a list of frequently requested items in English and Chinese: Egg rolls Wontons Pot stickers Crab rangoons (What are these? Winnie, their mother, annotated in Chinese. Their father wrote underneath, Wontons filled with cream cheese.) Beef with broccoli Following a scattershot statistical analysis, Winnie also compiled a list of things Americans liked: Large chunks of meat Wontons and noodles together in the same soup Pea pods and green beans, carrots, broccoli, baby corn (no other vegetables) Ribs or chicken wings Beef with broccoli Chicken with peanuts Peanuts in everything Chop suey (What is this? Leo wrote. I don't know, Winnie wrote.) Anything with shrimp (The rest of them can't eat shrimp, she annotated. Be careful.) Anything from the deep fryer Anything with sweet and sour sauce Anything with a thick, brown sauce And there is, of course, the list of things the Americans didn't like: Meat on the bone (except ribs or chicken wings) Rice porridge Fermented soybeans
Lan Samantha Chang (The Family Chao)
I thought you said these were Chinese-style noodles... ...so I was expecting something with pork spareribs on top. The fish dumpling noodles in Hong Kong are good... but I've never seen anything like this in China. What's this on the top?" "Barbecued pork made from Berkshire boar, and jakoten." " 'Jakoten'? " "It's a specialty from the Shikoku prefecture. They're fish cakes made from ground sardines and deep-fried in oil. They're nutritious and taste good too." "Sardines, is it?" "Ah, this barbecued pork is completely different from Chinese-style barbecued pork!" "And this soup?" "I made the stock with pork bones and flying fish yakiboshi... ... and boosted the flavor with some miso and soy sauce. I don't use any MSG in it." "Hmm... the combination of pork bones and yakiboshi isn't something that a Chinese chef would have thought of." "I've never tasted a soup like this before!" "The noodles have no kansui in them. After kneading the dough with eggs... ... I let it rest for a whole week." "Mmm... they're firm and flavorful!" "I haven't seen noodles like this in China either!" "The aged noodles taste so good!
Tetsu Kariya (Ramen and Gyoza)
Sometimes, it was too confusing and overwhelming. As far as I knew, there wasn't a chicken noodle soup for the soul on how to figure out your sexuality.
Madison Nicole (Not Queer Enough)
Nine snowy owls leave noodle soup on a ledge.
Crystal Beach (One Polar Bear)
When I was a little girl, I would gorge on her fried tofu with chilies. I was much slimmer back then, you know." "Was the tofu your favorite dish of hers?" I asked. "Oh no, there's too many to count." Celia's tone softened as if she were waxing nostalgic about a lost, grand romance, rather than a recipe. "Everything she cooked was excellent. I still remember every dish that she made: beef noodle soup, braised short ribs, drunken chicken wings, deep-fried shrimp rolls... Your laolao cooked from her heart, and that's why her food was the best in Chinatown.
Roselle Lim (Natalie Tan's Book of Luck & Fortune)
The recipes ran the gamut of vegetarian, fish, chicken, beef, pork, noodles, soups, stews, and desserts. They also spanned cuisines from Cantonese, Sichuan, Shanghainese, and even Taiwanese. My grandmother must have expanded her repertoire. The care and poetry of each recipe was accentuated by its simple instructions and colorful anecdotes.
Roselle Lim (Natalie Tan's Book of Luck & Fortune)
Truffles, foie gras, seafood, and caviar for forty-five people exceeded the restaurant's resources in both finances and prep time. The food at family meal was intended to be simple but tasty. We cooks took turns organizing and cooking for the restaurant staff before the first seating of the evening. In the early years, hand-stretched pizza had made regular appearances, as did roasted chicken, spaghetti and meatballs, and vats of chicken noodle soup. Recently, though, some newer recruits in the kitchen had turned family meal into more of a family feud. Eager to show Alain their individual style and prowess, the newbies had whipped up ten square feet of vegetarian lasagna with made-from-scratch ribbons of pasta, individual Beef Wellingtons with flaky pastry crusts, pillowy gnocchi dunked in decadent Bleu d'Auvergne with a finish of nutmeg grated tableside. Irritatingly good but, in my opinion, completely missing the point.
Kimberly Stuart (Sugar)
A formal ten-course Chinese dinner was a deliberate courtship of the senses. The appetizers of cold plate meats gave way to steaming fish maw soup, cold and hot introductions to titillate and delight before the showcase of entrees: beef, pork, chicken, fish, seafood, vegetables. The ensuing textures, aromas, and flavors seduced, fulfilling the promises of the first courses. The inclusion of noodle and rice dishes provided a sense of comfort. The final dessert course of sesame balls stuffed with red-bean paste sealed the engagement on the sweetest of notes.
Roselle Lim (Natalie Tan's Book of Luck & Fortune)
Yet as Yumi thought about it, the word "home" conjured images of a cluttered little room with a futon, lit by the hion lights outside. It was alien, and yet it was the place where she'd learned what she actually liked. Dramas on the viewer. Clothing that was her own. Noodle soup, light on the salt, chicken broth with a single egg and a pinch of pepper.
Brandon Sanderson (Yumi and the Nightmare Painter)
Positive thinking is to adversity what chicken noodle soup is to an illness -- it will turn some things around for the better
Jerry D. Guess
As soon as I was immersed in my work, cutting up the kabocha squash for the winter butternut squash soup, dicing the carrots to braise in orange juice, and starting another giant vat of chicken stock, I allowed the aromas and natural muscle rhythms of the kitchen to sweep me up in what I loved. I calmed down and experienced--- as corny as it might sound--- the joy of cooking. I was in love with food, obsessed with it. Food wasn't just fuel; it could heal a broken heart, it could entertain, it could bring you home. Magic happened when a perfectly balanced dish came together. A beautiful symphony of flavors. Salty, sweet, acidic, crunchy, colorful, soft, hard, warm, cold. It should take you on a journey. Once I had an Italian dish called Genovese, consisting of braised rabbit over thick noodles with a carrot and pea sauce. It was so beautiful, earthy, clever, and delicious, and it warmed you from the inside. It was what I liked to call a "circle of life plate.
Victoria Benton Frank (My Magnolia Summer)
And every day at dinner time, I’d bring homemade chicken noodle soup up to your bedroom.” I still remember that soup. It was so good. I began to look forward to it every day. Even on the days I had no appetite, that soup warmed me up and made me smile. “I remember that. I loved it.” My mother pulls back to find my eyes, a knowing smile stretching across her pretty face. She leans in to kiss my hairline, then whispers, “That soup was from Dean.
Jennifer Hartmann (Still Beating)
The water boils over. I turn down the heat, carefully drop the noodles in, and watch the dry block soften and separate. What was once stiff and brittle comes unglued. The curls relax into waves as the noodles depart from one another. I sprinkle in the soup base, and the water browns. My mouth waters as I stir the noodles and wonder how in the world Trent Bedderman might get us some cash. Fast.
Patti Kim (I'm Ok)
Moreover, Nancy Sinatra was afflicted, as the overwhelming majority of Americans were, with monolingualism. Lana’s richer, more textured version of “Bang Bang” layered English with French and Vietnamese. Bang bang, je ne l’oublierai pas went the last line of the French version, which was echoed by Pham Duy’s Vietnamese version, We will never forget. In the pantheon of classic pop songs from Saigon, this tricolor rendition was one of the most memorable, masterfully weaving together love and violence in the enigmatic story of two lovers who, regardless of having known each other since childhood, or because of knowing each other since childhood, shoot each other down. Bang bang was the sound of memory’s pistol firing into our heads, for we could not forget love, we could not forget war, we could not forget lovers, we could not forget enemies, we could not forget home, and we could not forget Saigon. We could not forget the caramel flavor of iced coffee with coarse sugar; the bowls of noodle soup eaten while squatting on the sidewalk; the strumming of a friend’s guitar while we swayed on hammocks under coconut trees; the football matches played barefoot and shirtless in alleys, squares, parks, and meadows; the pearl chokers of morning mist draped around the mountains; the labial moistness of oysters shucked on a gritty beach; the whisper of a dewy lover saying the most seductive words in our language, anh oi; the rattle of rice being threshed; the workingmen who slept in their cyclos on the streets, kept warm only by the memories of their families; the refugees who slept on every sidewalk of every city; the slow burning of patient mosquito coils; the sweetness and firmness of a mango plucked fresh from its tree; the girls who refused to talk to us and who we only pined for more; the men who had died or disappeared; the streets and homes blown away by bombshells; the streams where we swam naked and laughing; the secret grove where we spied on the nymphs who bathed and splashed with the innocence of the birds; the shadows cast by candlelight on the walls of wattled huts; the atonal tinkle of cowbells on mud roads and country paths; the barking of a hungry dog in an abandoned village; the appetizing reek of the fresh durian one wept to eat; the sight and sound of orphans howling by the dead bodies of their mothers and fathers; the stickiness of one’s shirt by afternoon, the stickiness of one’s lover by the end of lovemaking, the stickiness of our situations; the frantic squealing of pigs running for their lives as villagers gave chase; the hills afire with sunset; the crowned head of dawn rising from the sheets of the sea; the hot grasp of our mother’s hand; and while the list could go on and on and on, the point was simply this: the most important thing we could never forget was that we could never forget. When Lana was finished, the audience clapped, whistled, and stomped, but I sat silent and stunned as she bowed and gracefully withdrew, so disarmed I could not even applaud.
Viet Thanh Nguyen (The Sympathizer)
Evangeline,” Lisa said. “I like you better like this.” “You would,” Daphne scoffed. “Where is Uncle Jack tonight?” “He's got a date,” Evangeline said. “He asked me to watch Ruby till y'all came home. I was about to start supper, but I’m going to have to rethink what we are going to eat. I've only got six pork chops.” “Don't worry, Evangeline. There's plenty to eat. We just need to adjust a little,” Jen said. She walked down a short hallway that led to the laundry room and disappeared into a closet that had been turned into a pantry. She emerged a moment later carrying an arm full of ingredients. She put two bags of noodles on the counter, along with four cans of tuna and two cans of cream of mushroom soup. Then went back to get a box of breadcrumbs. “Tuna noodle casserole?” Charlie asked. “Yep,” Jen said. “Quick, easy, and a crowd pleaser.” “Yeah, my thighs are going to be real pleased,” Lisa quipped. “Oh hush,” Jen said. “You can run it off tomorrow.” “I love tuna noodle casserole,” Daphne smiled. “Honestly though, I can't remember the last time I had it.” “That's because you eat too much take out, sweetie,” Evangeline said. “So, anything I can do to help?” “Could you check the fridge for sour cream and Parmesan cheese, please? And there should be a bag of frozen peas in the freezer,” Jen said, inclining her head in that direction. Charlie handed one of the three journals from Edwina’s box to Lisa and the other one to Daphne. “Come on, let's start looking through these while they’re making dinner.” Charlie sat at the end of the table with Lisa and Daphne flanking her, and they each began to flip through the pages of Edwina’s most private thoughts. Ruby walked into the kitchen and placed herself between Charlie and Lisa. Ruby glanced up at the clock. “Aunt Lisa, will you come upstairs and read me a story?” Jen ripped open the packages of noodles and poured them into a pot of hot water. “Ruby Ellen, you've already had a story. Why are you out of bed?” “I can't sleep, Mama,” Ruby said. Lisa
Wendy Wang (Shadow Child (Witches of Palmetto Point #6))
Tonight, we have Peking duck over the Noodle Soup.
Petra Hermans (Voor een betere wereld)
I'm going to explode," my dad says, rubbing his stomach gleefully. He's just put down a massive sandwich piled with corned beef, pastrami, chopped liver, and Swiss cheese, with a slide of crispy onion strings and a vanilla malt. "Tilt," I say, making the time-out signal with my hands. I managed to get three-quarters of the way through a turkey club with no tomatoes and Thousand Island instead of mayo, with a pile of extra-crispy fries and a chocolate phosphate. Not to mention the bucket of pickles, and the soup, chicken with kreplach and noodles for him, sweet-and-sour cabbage for me.
Stacey Ballis (Wedding Girl)
WHEN I WOKE up a few hours later, the apartment was empty, but the coffee table had boxes of Kleenex, cold and allergy medicine, a bottle of water, and a note on it.   Rach, Had to run to the bar to take inventory. Mason’s running errands, call me if you need anything. The rest is in the kitchen. And if you eat my green ones, I will not take pity on you just because you’re sick.           Kash Green ones? I walked into the kitchen and laughed out loud. The counter had four cans of chicken noodle soup, eight Gatorade bottles, and three boxes of Sour Patch Kids on it. I put away everything except for one of the boxes and went back to my makeshift bed on the couch. Kash was either the worst . . . or the absolute best at taking care of someone. Either way, I was falling so in love with that man. And yeah, I ate the green ones. I’d have to remember to hide the other two boxes before he came over again.   Kash
Molly McAdams (Forgiving Lies (Forgiving Lies, #1))
CHICKEN NOODLE SOUP and Gatorade?” Mason laughed and opened the door to the police department. “She said she had allergies, not the flu.” “Well shit, I don’t know! She really looked like she didn’t feel good, so I just got her everything I could think of.” “You’re so whipped and you’re not even screwing her.” I shook my head and tried not to punch him. “Shut up, Mase.” We
Molly McAdams (Forgiving Lies (Forgiving Lies, #1))
As Yasu popped open a giant Kirin- the champagne of Japanese beers- Tomiko placed bowls of special buckwheat noodle soup at everyone's place, since the noodles represent long life. They are also said to bring prosperity, because in the past silversmiths and goldsmiths used to pick up the scraps of metal in their workshops with soba noodle dough. A salty seafood vapor wafted up from my soup bowl, holding a wobbly poached egg in a nest of gray noodles. A pink wheat gluten flower and sprig of Japanese chervil lay submerged in the hot dashi broth, along with two round slices of kamaboko, the springy sweet fish paste eaten all over Japan.
Victoria Abbott Riccardi (Untangling My Chopsticks: A Culinary Sojourn in Kyoto)
My menu for this trip was pretty simple, mirroring the multi-day menu I typically use on longer backpacking trips. For dinner: ramen noodles cooked in miso soup with a 1 oz shot of olive oil for extra calories and fat (700-1400 calories.) Breakfast: pound cake or other quick bread, smashed flat to save space, and packed in plastic bags (1000 calories.) 3 snacks per day consisting of Snickers, cookies, salami and crackers, Cliff bars, nuts, or licorice (1000-1500 calories.)
Kathryn Fulton (Hikers' Stories from the Appalachian Trail)
For dinner, he serves dishes such as raw local fish accented with touches like fresh basil and balsamic vinegar; roasted pumpkin soup laced with ishiri; fat, chewy handmade spaghetti with tender rings of squid on a puddle of ink enhanced with another few drops of fish sauce. It's what Italian food would be if Italy were a windswept peninsula in the Far East. If dinner is Ben's personal take on Noto ingredients, breakfast still belongs to his in-laws. It's an elaborate a.m. feast, fierce in flavor, rich in history, dense with centuries of knowledge passed from one generation to the next: soft tofu dressed with homemade soy and yuzu chili paste; soup made with homemade miso and simmered fish bones; shiso leaves fermented kimchi-style, with chilies and ishiri; kaibe, rice mixed with ishiri and fresh baby squid, pressed into patties and grilled slowly over a charcoal fire; yellowtail fermented for six months, called the blue cheese of the sea for its lactic funk. The mix of plates will change from one morning to the next but will invariably include a small chunk of konka saba, mackerel fermented for up to five years, depending on the day you visit. Even when it's broken into tiny pieces and sprinkled over rice, the years of fermentation will pulse through your body like an electric current.
Matt Goulding (Rice, Noodle, Fish: Deep Travels Through Japan's Food Culture)
I fill one container with hearty vegetable soup, and another with a Japanese-style broth, bok choy, scallions, and udon noodles. I pack up a roasted chicken breast, and some plain steamed brown rice. Some orange slices in honey vinegar with mint. A couple of corn muffins.
Stacey Ballis (Good Enough to Eat)
Don't get me wrong- tempura is served as a side dish in Tokyo, too, especially at soba and udon restaurants. Step into a branch of of the Hanamaru Udon chain, and before you select your bowl of noodles you're confronted with an array of self-serve, a la carte tempura: eggplant, onion, and squash, yes, but also hard-boiled quail eggs on a stick, squid tentacles, or a whole baby octopus. And the way most diners eat their tempura strains the definition of "side dish," because they plunk the crispy morsels right into their noodle broth. Japanese cooks are experts at frying food to a crisp and equally adept at ruining that crispy perfection through dunking, saucing, and refrigeration. I never learned to appreciate a stone-cold, once-crispy pork cutlet, but I enjoy tempura falling apart in hot soup and eaten at the moment when it has taken on broth but maintains a hint of crispness. The ship has hit the iceberg, but it's still momentarily afloat.
Matthew Amster-Burton (Pretty Good Number One: An American Family Eats Tokyo)
SPARROW SCHOOL TOKMACH SOUP Boil coarsely chopped potato, thinly sliced onions, and carrots in beef broth until soft. Add thin noodles and cook until done. Put boiled beef in bottom of bowl and pour broth and vegetables over.
Jason Matthews (Red Sparrow (Red Sparrow Trilogy #1))
Bang bang was the sound of memory’s pistol firing into our heads, for we could not forget love, we could not forget war, we could not forget lovers, we could not forget enemies, we could not forget home, and we could not forget Saigon. We could not forget the caramel flavor of iced coffee with coarse sugar; the bowls of noodle soup eaten while squatting on the sidewalk; the strumming of a friend’s guitar while we swayed on hammocks under coconut trees; the football matches played barefoot and shirtless in alleys, squares, parks, and meadows; the pearl chokers of morning mist draped around the mountains; the labial moistness of oysters shucked on a gritty beach; the whisper of a dewy lover saying the most seductive words in our language, anh oi; the rattle of rice being threshed; the workingmen who slept in their cyclos on the streets, kept warm only by the memories of their families; the refugees who slept on every sidewalk of every city; the slow burning of patient mosquito coils; the sweetness and firmness of a mango plucked fresh from its tree; the girls who refused to talk to us and who we only pined for more; the men who had died or disappeared; the streets and homes blown away by bombshells; the streams where we swam naked and laughing; the secret grove where we spied on the nymphs who bathed and splashed with the innocence of the birds; the shadows cast by candlelight on the walls of wattled huts; the atonal tinkle of cowbells on mud roads and country paths; the barking of a hungry dog in an abandoned village; the appetizing reek of the fresh durian one wept to eat; the sight and sound of orphans howling by the dead bodies of their mothers and fathers; the stickiness of one’s shirt by afternoon, the stickiness of one’s lover by the end of lovemaking, the stickiness of our situations; the frantic squealing of pigs running for their lives as villagers gave chase; the hills afire with sunset; the crowned head of dawn rising from the sheets of the sea; the hot grasp of our mother’s hand; and while the list could go on and on and on, the point was simply this: the most important thing we could never forget was that we could never forget.
Viet Thanh Nguyen (The Sympathizer (The Sympathizer #1))