Pesto Quotes

I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you every Tuesday. I will love you as the starfish loves a coral reef and as kudzu loves trees, even if the oceans turn to sawdust and the trees fall in the forest without anyone around to hear them. I will love you as the pesto loves the fettuccini and ats the horseradish loves the miyagi, and the pepperoni loves the pizza. I will love you as the manatee loves the head of lettuce and as the dark spot loves the leopard, as the leech loves the ankle of a wader and as a corpse loves the beak of the vulture. I will love you as the doctor loves his sickest patient and a lake loves its thirstiest swimmer. I will love you as the beard loves the chin, and the crumbs love the beard, and the damp napkin loves the crumbs, and the precious document loves the dampness of the napkin, and the squinting eye of the reader loves the smudged document, and the tears of sadness love the squinting eye as it misreads what is written. I will love you as the iceberg loves the ship, and the passengers love the lifeboat, and the lifeboat loves the teeth of the sperm whale, and the sperm whale loves the flavor of naval uniforms. I will love you as a drawer loves a secret compartment, and as a secret compartment loves a secret, and as a secret loves to make a person gasp... I will love you until all such compartments are discovered and opened, and all the secrets have gone gasping into the world. I will love you until all the codes and hearts have been broken and until every anagram and egg has been unscrambled. I will love you until every fire is extinguished and rebuilt from the handsomest and most susceptible of woods. I will love you until the bird hates a nest and the worm hates an apple. I will love you as we find ourselves farther and farther from one another, where once we were so close... I will love you until your face is fogged by distant memory. I will love you no matter where you go and who you see, I will love you if you don't marry me. I will love you if you marry someone else--and i will love you if you never marry at all, and spend your years wishing you had married me after all. That is how I will love you even as the world goes on its wicked way.

I will love you with no regard to the actions of our enemies or the jealousies of actors. I will love you with no regard to the outrage of certain parents or the boredom of certain friends. I will love you no matter what is served in the world’s cafeterias or what game is played at each and every recess. I will love you no matter how many fire drills we are all forced to endure, and no matter what is drawn upon the blackboard in blurry, boring chalk. I will love you no matter how many mistakes I make when trying to reduce fractions, and no matter how difficult it is to memorize the periodic table. I will love you no matter what your locker combination was, or how you decided to spend your time during study hall. I will love you no matter how your soccer team performed in the tournament or how many stains I received on my cheerleading uniform. I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you every Tuesday. I will love you if you cut your hair and I will love you if you cut the hair of others. I will love you if you abandon your baticeering, and I will love you if you if you retire from the theater to take up some other, less dangerous occupation. I will love you if you drop your raincoat on the floor instead of hanging it up and I will love you if you betray your father. I will love you even if you announce that the poetry of Edgar Guest is the best in the world and even if you announce that the work of Zilpha Keatley Snyder is unbearably tedious. I will love you if you abandon the theremin and take up the harmonica and I will love you if you donate your marmosets to the zoo and your tree frogs to M. I will love you as a starfish loves a coral reef and as a kudzu loves trees, even if the oceans turn to sawdust and the trees fall in the forest without anyone around to hear them. I will love you as the pesto loves the fettuccini and as the horseradish loves the miyagi, as the tempura loves the ikura and the pepperoni loves the pizza. I will love you as the manatee loves the head of lettuce and as the dark spot loves the leopard, as the leech loves the ankle of a wader and as a corpse loves the beak of the vulture. I will love you as the doctor loves his sickest patient and a lake loves its thirstiest swimmer. I will love you as the beard loves the chin, and the crumbs love the beard, and the damp napkin loves the crumbs, and the precious document loves the dampness in the napkin, and the squinting eye of the reader loves the smudged print of the document, and the tears of sadness love the squinting eye as it misreads what is written. I will love you as the iceberg loves the ship, and the passengers love the lifeboat, and the lifeboat loves the teeth of the sperm whale, and the sperm whale loves the flavor of naval uniforms. i will love you as a child loves to overhear the conversations of its parents, and the parents love the sound of their own arguing voices, and as the pen loves to write down the words these voices utter in a notebook for safekeeping. I will love you as a shingle loves falling off a house on a windy day and striking a grumpy person across the chin, and as an oven loves malfunctioning in the middle of roasting a turkey. I will love you as an airplane loves to fall from a clear blue sky and as an escalator loves to entangle expensive scarves in its mechanisms. I will love you as a wet paper towel loves to be crumpled into a ball and thrown at a bathroom ceiling and as an eraser loves to leave dust in the hairdos of people who talk too much. I will love you as a cufflink loves to drop from its shirt and explore the party for itself and as a pair of white gloves loves to slip delicately into the punchbowl. I will love you as the taxi loves the muddy splash of a puddle and as a library loves the patient tick of a clock.

The door was locked and Alexia, resourceful as she was, had not yet learned to pick locks. Though she mentally added it to her list of useful skills she needed to acquire along with hand-to-hand combat and the recipe for pesto. If her life were to continue on its present track which after 26 years of obscurity, now seemed to mainly involve people trying to kill her, it would appear that acquiring a less savory skill set might be necessary. Although she supposed pesto making ought to be termed 'more savory'.

Once again Bobby Tom glanced at her over the top of Cheryl Lynn’s fluffy blond curls. “How was the spaghetti you ordered?” “It was excellent.” “I’m not much for the green stuff they poured over it.” “Are you referring to the pesto?” “Whatever. I like a nice meat sauce.” “Of course you do. With a double rack of greasy ribs on the side, I’ll bet.” “You’re making my mouth water just thinking about it.” Cheryl Lynn lifted her head from his shoulder. “You’re doin’ it again, B.T.” “Doing what, sweetheart?” “Talkin’ to her.” “Oh, I don’t think so darlin’. Not when I got you on my mind.

Pestom madam." "Yes, Floote, that! Brilliant. Full of garlic." To illustrate her point, she took another mouthful before continuing. "Seems they put garlic in positively everything here. Absolutely fantastic.

So this pesto I enjoy so much is really an infamous Italian antisupernatural weapon?' Alexia turned accusing dark eyes on Madame Lefoux. 'Yet there is no pesto in my parasol armament. I think we ought to rectify that immediately.

The pesto and angel hair are warm in the bowl on my lap, the fragrances of olive oil and basil blending the exotic and familiar, equal parts sunny Tuscan hillside and hometown dirt. A meal like this makes you want to live forever, if only for the scent of warm pesto in January.

I will love you with no regard to the actions of our enemies or the jealousies of actors. I will love you with no regard to the outrage of certain parents or the boredom of certain friends. I will love you no matter what is served in the world’s cafeterias or what game is played at each and every recess. I will love you no matter how many fire drills we are all forced to endure, and no matter what is drawn upon the blackboard in a blurring, boring chalk. I will love you no matter how many mistakes I make when trying to reduce fractions, and no matter how difficult it is to memorize the periodic table. I will love you no matter what your locker combination was, or how you decided to spend your time during study hall. I will love you no matter how your soccer team performed in the tournament or how many stains I received on my cheerleading uniform. I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you every Tuesday. I will love you if you cut your hair and I will love you if you cut the hair of others. I will love you if you abandon your baticeering, and I will love you if you retire from the theater to take up some other, less dangerous occupation. I will love you if you drop your raincoat on the floor instead of hanging it up and I will love you if you betray your father. I will love you even if you announce that the poetry of Edgar Guest is the best in the world and even if you announce that the work of Zilpha Keatley Snyder is unbearably tedious. I will love you if you abandon the theremin and take up the harmonica and I will love you if you donate your marmosets to the zoo and your tree frogs to M. I will love you as the starfish loves a coral reef and as kudzu loves trees, even if the oceans turn to sawdust and the trees fall in the forest without anyone around to hear them. I will love you as the pesto loves the fetuccini and as the horseradish loves the miyagi, as the tempura loves the ikura and the pepperoni loves the pizza. I will love you as the manatee loves the head of lettuce and as the dark spot loves the leopard, as the leech loves the ankle of a wader and as a corpse loves the beak of the vulture. I will love you as the doctor loves his sickest patient and a lake loves its thirstiest swimmer. I will love you as the beard loves the chin, and the crumbs love the beard, and the damp napkin loves the crumbs, and the precious document loves the dampness in the napkin, and the squinting eye of the reader loves the smudged print of the document, and the tears of sadness love the squinting eye as it misreads what is written. I will love you as the iceberg loves the ship, and the passengers love the lifeboat, and the lifeboat loves the teeth of the sperm whale, and the sperm whale loves the flavor of naval uniforms. I will love you as a child loves to overhear the conversations of its parents, and the parents love the sound of their own arguing voices, and as the pen loves to write down the words these voices utter in a notebook for safekeeping. I will love you as a shingle loves falling off a house on a windy day and striking a grumpy person across the chin, and as an oven loves malfunctioning in the middle of roasting a turkey. I will love you as an airplane loves to fall from a clear blue sky and as an escalator loves to entangle expensive scarves in its mechanisms. I will love you as a wet paper towel loves to be crumpled into a ball and thrown at a bathroom ceiling and an eraser loves to leave dust in the hairdos of the people who talk too much. I will love you as a taxi loves the muddy splash of a puddle and as a library loves the patient tick of a clock. I will love you as a thief loves a gallery and as a crow loves a murder, as a cloud loves bats and as a range loves braes. I will love you as misfortune loves orphans, as fire loves innocence and as justice loves to sit and watch while everything goes wrong.

So this pesto I enjoy so much is really an infamous Italian antisupernatural weapon?

Occasionally, in the stillness of a taxi or an airplane, she would catalog the pleasures she had lost. Cigarettes. Chewing gum. Strong mint toothpaste. Any food with hard edges or sharp corners that could pierce or abrade the inside of her mouth: potato chips, croutons, crunchy peanut butter. Any food that was more than infinitesimally, protozoically, spicy or tangy or salty or acidic: pesto or Worcestershire sauce, wasabi or anchovies, tomato juice or movie-theater popcorn. Certain pamphlets and magazines whose paper carried a caustic wafting chemical scent she could taste as she turned the pages. Perfume. Incense. Library books. Long hours of easy conversation. The ability to lick an envelope without worrying that the glue had irritated her mouth. The knowledge that if she heard a song she liked, she could sing along to it in all her dreadful jubilant tunelessness. The faith that if she bit her tongue, she would soon feel better rather than worse.

Could Pesto be his own observer? Interesting question. He used to like to raise his leg and study his asshole. It didn't seem like this observation caused him to split into multiple cats with multiple assholes.

(I bring food and drink to the guards when they are on post during feasts. I believe it is written in the Obfuscations of St. Pesto: “In nine cases out of ten, a large friend with a poleax shall truly a blessing be.” )

Chato visualised strangling her thin neck with the same underwear; tying it around her collar like a luscious red bow on a birthday present. Pesto gasped for air, her reptile like tongue sticking out, her face turning to a beautiful shade of onion pink as she choked on Chato’s kachcha. What a lovely contrast of that delicate pink against that gaudy red and green underwear. Poetry in motion, Chato thought, smiling. What an exquisite and intense way to die.

But why didn't Gram tell us our mother wore a perfume that smelled like sunshine? That she slept in the garden in the springtime? That she made pesto with walnuts? why did she keep this real-life mother from us? But as soon as I ask the question, I know the answer, because suddenly there is not blood pumping in my veins, coursing all throughout my body, but longing for a mother who loves lilacs. Longing like I've never had for the Paige walker who wanders that world. That Paige Walker never made me feel like a daughter, but a mother who boils water for pasta does. Except don't you need to be claimed to be a daughter? Don't you need to be loved?

Technology is neither good nor bad; nor is it neutral.” This is certainly true in the kitchen. Tools are not neutral objects. They change with changing social context. A mortar and pestle was a different thing for the Roman slave forced to pound up highly amalgamated mixtures for hours on end for his master’s enjoyment than it is for me: a pleasing object with which I make pesto for fun, on a whim.

It is, for one thing, a clear sunny day, which is no small piece of luck when you’re on a Northern California beach in October. The sand is actually warm between their toes, instead of dank and gritty; but the air also has the crisp autumnal bite that makes you want to wrap yourself in something soft. No one acts crabby, or restless, or bored. Billie has packed some particularly delicious sandwiches—pesto chicken for the adults, hummus for Olive (who has recently gone vegetarian)—and they wash these down with tepid cocoa from a thermos

I needed to talk to Vargina, to straighten this out, but felt suddenly faint, headed for the deli across the street. Just standing in the vicinity of comfort food was comfort. The schizophrenic glee with which you cold load your plastic shell with spinach salad, pork fried rice, turkey with cranberry, chicken with pesto, curried yams, clams casino, breadsticks, and yogurt, pay for it by the pound, this farm feed for human animals in black chinos and pleated chinos, animals whose enclosure included the entire island of Manhattan, this sensation I treasured deeply.

You’ve encountered it, I’m sure: friends who are obsessed by the need to get their children’s (or their own) teeth straightened, their thighs sculpted, their breasts or their backyards professionally redesigned … They want the perfect career trajectory, the perfect holiday, the perfect pesto, the perfect latte, the perfect eyebrow, the perfect orgasm … They yearn for perfect politicians (ha!), perfect banks, perfect cars, perfect shoes, perfect kitchens … our new angst springs from the discovery that our lives are falling short of some crazy ideal of perfection clogging our minds like a cancer … Nothing is perfect. Life is messy. Relationships are complex. Outcomes are uncertain. People are irrational.12

Il sacerdote notò il mio gesto e disse: “Hai corso molto a lungo; le tue vesti sono strappate, sei pesto e sanguinante e sporco di fango. Hai sparso sangue altrui e vieni a cercare rifugio? Se è così, entra nel sacro luogo, perché qui fuori Apollo non può proteggerti”. Si chinò per aiutarmi. Le sue erano le mani di un vecchio, ma asciutte e calde, e avevano una forza risanatrice. Io dissi: “Non ho sparso il sangue di nessuno. Sarebbe meglio se avessi sparso il mio, perché i miei occhi hanno visto il mio cuore e la sua luce s’è mutata per sempre in tenebra”. “Nel cuore di ogni uomo c’è un labirinto”, disse il sacerdote, “e per ciascuno viene il giorno in cui deve giungere al centro e affrontare il Minotauro. […]”.

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.

Down every aisle a single thought follows me like a shadow: Brand Italy is strong. When it comes to cultural currency, there is no brand more valuable than this one. From lipstick-red sports cars to svelte runway figures to enigmatic opera singers, Italian culture means something to everyone in the world. But nowhere does the name Italy mean more than in and around the kitchen. Peruse a pantry in London, Osaka, or Kalamazoo, and you're likely to find it spilling over with the fruits of this country: dried pasta, San Marzano tomatoes, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, jars of pesto, Nutella. Tucked into the northwest corner of Italy, sharing a border with France and Switzerland, Piedmont may be as far from the country's political and geographical center as possible, but it is ground zero for Brand Italy. This is the land of Slow Food. Of white truffles. Barolo. Vermouth. Campari. Breadsticks. Nutella. Fittingly, it's also the home of Eataly, the supermarket juggernaut delivering a taste of the entire country to domestic and international shoppers alike. This is the Eataly mother ship, the first and most symbolically important store for a company with plans for covering the globe in peppery Umbrian oil, and shavings of Parmigiano-Reggiano Vacche Rosse. We start with the essentials: bottle opener, mini wooden cutting board, hard-plastic wineglasses. From there, we move on to more exciting terrain: a wild-boar sausage from Tuscany. A semiaged goat's-milk cheese from Molise. A tray of lacy, pistachio-pocked mortadella. Some soft, spicy spreadable 'nduja from Calabria. A jar of gianduja, the hazelnut-chocolate spread that inspired Nutella- just in case we have any sudden blood sugar crashes on the trail.

Of all the herbs, Jasmine thought, basil was her soul mate. She rubbed her fingers over a leaf and sniffed deeply at the pungent, almost licorice scent. Basil was sensuous, liking to stretch out green and silky under a hot sun with its feet covered in cool soil. Basil married so well with her favorite ingredients: rich ripe tomatoes, a rare roast lamb, a meaty mozzarella. Jasmine plucked three leaves from her basil plant and slivered them in quick, precise slashes, then tucked them into her salad along with a tablespoon of slivered orange rind. Her lunch today was to be full of surprises. She wanted to impress as well as amuse this particular guest. They would start with a tomato soup in which she would hide a broiled pesto-stuffed tomato that would reveal itself slowly with every sip. Next she would pull out chicken breasts stuffed with goat cheese and mint. Then finish with poached pears, napped heavily in eau-de-vie-spiked chocolate.

CHICKEN BASIL PESTO SANDWICH Ingredients 55 grams mayonnaise 2 tablespoons of mustard 450 grams diced chicken 170 grams basil pesto 4 slices of wheat bread 2 leaves of lettuce   Preparation 1.        Using a small bowl, mix the chicken, basil pesto and mayonnaise. 2.       Place the  lead of lettuce on top of the bread 3.       Add the mixture on top of the lettuce.

who does it will tell you. There's a wheelbarrowful of reasons to grow your own. To start, there's pleasure in knowing that the pesto was made from your basil and garlic. You're allowed

If you're having a bad hair day or a bad boy day, he'll whip up one of his yummy mango smoothies for you, sit you down, and say, "Little one, remember what's really important in life: a family that loves you, good friends, and not putting too much garlic in the pesto." — Chloe Carlson

Once through the door Edmund pulled me roughly aside. The big yeoman at the threshold lowered the blade of his halberd an inch and frowned at the bastard. Edmund released me and looked bewildered, as if his own hand had betrayed him. (I bring food and drink to the guards when they are on post during feasts. I believe it is written in the Obfuscations of St. Pesto: In nine cases out of ten, a large friend with a poleax shall truly a blessing be.)

I got a funcussion

One day, after I mistakenly added five garlic cloves to the pesto I'd prepared, rather than the one clove the recipe called for, Sylvia announced that the baby was kicking mightily, and what a strange and wondrous thing it is to put your hand on your wife's belly and feel your child moving like an agitated Mexican jumping bean.

ÑOQUIS DE PAPA Estas bolitas de papa tan ligeras como el aire son un plato básico de la cocina italiana. La papa o patatas proporcionan la combinación perfecta de almidón y humedad. INGREDIENTES: 1 kg de papa. 2 huevos. 1 cucharadita de sal. 3 tazas de harina de trigo más la necesaria para espolvorear. PROCEDIMIENTO: 1) Colocar las papas a cocinar o llevarla al horno con su piel. 2) tritura las papas cuando las papas estén bien frías pasarla por un pasapuré o rallarla. 3) Añade la mezcla los huevos casca los huevos y añada sal y bate con un tenedor hasta que se mezcle vierte los huevos batidos, de manera uniforme sobre las papas completamente frías. Luego, espolvorea una taza de harina de modo homogéneo. Con un rascador, mezcla levanta y dale vuelta a las papas para mezclarlas bien con los huevos y la harina hasta que se forme una masa grumosa y desigual. 4) Incorpora la harina espolvorea un cuarto de taza de harina restante sobre la superficie de trabajo. Reparte la mezcla de las papas encima y espolvorea con otro cuarto de taza de harina. Con un rascador y luego con las manos, mezcla, levanta y dale vueltas a la mezcla, presionando ligeramente mientras trabajas, hasta que la harina se haya incorporado totalmente a la masa. 5) Dale forma a la masa forma una bola con la masa y tápala con un bol invertido. Espolvorea dos bandejas de horno grandes con la harina con el rascador rasca la superficie de trabajo hasta que quede limpia y luego espolvorearla de nuevo la harina. 6) Divide la mano en ocho trozos con el rascador, corta la masa en ocho trozo iguales. Deja siete bajo el bol y colca uno sobre la superficie de trabajo forma un cilindro corto. 7) Forma un cilindro con la masa con los dedos de ambas manos sobre el cilindro muévelo hacia adelante y hacia atrás sobre la superficie de trabajo, deslizando las manos gradualmente hacia los extremos para formar lentamente un cilindro estrecho de unos doce milímetros de diámetro. 8) Corta el cilindro en trozos corta el rulo en trozos de 2 cm con forma de almohada, coloca los trozos sin que se toquen, sobre las bandejas de horno preparadas. Enrolla y corta el resto de la masa del mismo modo, cubre las bandejas con papel de aluminio y guárdalas en nevera como mínimo una hora y como máximo toda la noche. 9) Para cocer los ñoquis, échalos por tandas en una olla con agua salada hirviendo y déjalos cocer unos tres minutos. Hasta que floten. Escúrrelos y cúbrelos con tu salsa favorita pesto, tomate o mezcle con mantequilla y queso parmesano.

you’ll realize you can’t substitute basil for spinach in a salad because spinach is a main ingredient, but you can add spinach in place of some basil when you are making pesto because that is just one flavor component.

Look for guacamole, hummus, pesto, tapenades, olives, and unsweetened condiments, such as mayonnaise, mustard, ketchup without high-fructose corn syrup, and oil-based salad dressings without high-fructose corn syrup, sugar, dextrose, or cornstarch.

•Don’t limit egg consumption. Have a three-egg omelet, for instance, with lots of extra-virgin olive oil, pesto, or olive oil–soaked sun-dried tomatoes.

almonds, hazelnuts, pecans, walnuts) make great hot cereals for breakfast, heated with milk, coconut milk or water, unsweetened almond milk, or soymilk, and topped with walnuts, raw sunflower seeds, and blueberries or other berries. Eggs make a return to breakfast in all their glory: fried, over-easy, hard-boiled, soft-boiled, scrambled. Add basil pesto, olive tapenade, chopped vegetables, mushrooms, goat cheese, olive oil, chopped meats (but not cured bacon, sausage, or salami) to your scrambled eggs for an endless variety of dishes.

The Dandelion Co-op carried locally grown vegetables, and almond milk, and nuts and spices in bulk. Sunshine's parents had hooked me on natural food. Cassie and Sam had a plump little garden back behind the cabin, in the only spot that got much sun. They made coconut milk ice cream, and cauliflower fried in olive oil, and pesto pizzas, and on and on.

Cosima and Tommy sit on Midsummer Common, under a tree on the patch of grass where they first met. As is their tradition, Cosima has baked a plethora of goodies: sour cherry and chocolate cupcakes, goat's cheese and pesto pizzas, orange oil cannoli, and- Tommy's personal favorite- lemon and lavender cake.

She soaked, washed, and trimmed three artichokes, baby purple Romagnas, which would sadly lose their beautiful hue once they hit hot water, then washed and peeled a bunch of pencil-thin asparagus. She pulled out several small zucchini and sliced them into translucent moons. She washed three leeks, slicing them down their centers and peeling back each layer, carefully rinsing away any sand, then chopped the white, light green, and some of the darker parts into a fine dice. She shelled a couple handfuls of spring peas, collecting them in a ceramic bowl. She chopped a bulb of fennel and julienned one more, then washed and spun the fronds. She washed the basil and mint and spun them dry. Last, she chopped the shallots. With the vegetables prepped, she started on the risotto, the base layer for the torta a strati alla primavera, or spring layer cake, she'd been finessing since her arrival, and which she hoped would become Dia's dish. She'd make a total of six 'torte': three artichoke and three asparagus. The trick was getting the risotto to the perfect consistency, which was considerably less creamy than usual. It had to be firm enough to keep its shape and support the layers that would be placed on top of it, but not gummy, the kiss of death for any risotto. She started with a 'soffritto' of shallot, fennel, and leek, adding Carnaroli rice, which she preferred to arborio, pinot grigio, and, when the wine had plumped the rice, spring-vegetable stock, one ladle at a time. Once the risotto had absorbed all the liquid and cooked sufficiently, she divided it into six single-serving crescent molds, placed the molds in a glass baking dish, and popped them all in the oven, which made the risotto the consistency of a soft Rice Krispies treat. Keeping the molds in place, she added the next layer, steamed asparagus in one version, artichoke in the other. A layer of basil and crushed pignoli pesto followed, then the zucchini rounds, flash-sauteed, and the fennel matchsticks, cooked until soft, and finally, the spring-pea puree. She carefully removed the first mold and was rewarded with a near-perfect crescent tower, which she drizzled with red-pepper coulis. Finally, she placed a dollop of chilled basil-mint 'sformato' alongside the crescent and radiated mint leaves around the 'sformato' so that it looked like a sun. The sun and the moon, 'sole e luna,' all anyone could hope for.

walked to my car, a red Jeep Convertible. I got in and drove to the station with the top down. I bought my favorite sandwich at Juice ‘N Java Café, called Cienna. It had a Portobello mushroom, yellow tomato, goat cheese arugula, and pesto on Pugliese bread. I figured I had earned it after the morning I had. The police station was located inside of City Hall, right in the heart of Cocoa Beach. I knew the place well, even though I was usually located at the sheriff’s offices in Rockledge. Cocoa Beach was my town, and every time they needed a detective, I was

She got tipsy on pinot noir and ate too much of her pesto angel hair with blackened chicken-- now, at the door to the room, she's regretting it. She feels nauseous from the wine, and she knows her breath is bad from the garlic. Tom doesn't seem to notice; he's calm and a little giddy and keeps passing a hand over her ass, up under her dress. She wants to feel sexy; but she just can't, not with the thought of her dinner or her certainty that she has pesto in her teeth. Italian places are romantic in theory, but the pasta and the garlic and the rich sauces and filling wines are not conducive to carrying the romance past dinner.

Former pastry chef Sam Mason opened Oddfellows in Williamsburg with two business partners in 2013 and has since developed upwards of two hundred ice cream flavors. Many aren't for the faint of heart: chorizo caramel swirl, prosciutto mellon, and butter, to name a few. Good thing there are saner options in the mix like peanut butter & jelly, s'mores, and English toffee. A retro scoop shop off Bowery, Morgenstern's Finest Ice Cream has been bringing fanciful flavors to mature palettes since opening in 2014. Creator Nicholas Morgenstern, who hails from the restaurant world, makes small batches of elevated offerings such as strawberry pistachio pesto, lemon espresso, and Vietnamese coffee. Ice & Vice hails from the Brooklyn Night Bazaar in Greenpoint, and owners Paul Kim and Ken Lo brought it to the Lower East Side in 2015. Another shop devoted to quality small batches, along with weird and wacky flavors, you'll find innovations like Farmer Boy, black currant ice cream with goat milk and buckwheat streusel, and Movie Night, buttered popcorn-flavored ice cream with toasted raisins and chocolate chips.

He sold smoked bluefish pâté and cocktail sauce, lemons, asparagus, corn on the cob, sun-dried tomato pesto, and fresh pasta. He sold Ben & Jerry's, Nantucket Nectars, frozen loaves of French bread. It was a veritable grocery store; before, it had just been fish. Marguerite inspected the specimens in the refrigerated display case; even the fish had changed. There were soft-shell crabs and swordfish chunks ("great for kebabs"); there was unshelled lobster meat selling for $35.99 a pound; there were large shrimp, extra-large shrimp, and jumbo shrimp available with shell or without, cooked or uncooked. But then there were the Dusty staples- the plump, white, day-boat scallops, the fillets of red-purple tuna cut as thick as a paperback novel, the Arctic char and halibut and a whole striped bass that, if Marguerite had to guess, Dusty had caught himself off of Great Point that very morning.

Starters Corn chowder with red peppers and smoked Gouda $8 Shrimp bisque, classic Chinatown shrimp toast $9 Blue Bistro Caesar $6 Warm chèvre over baby mixed greens with candy-striped beets $8 Blue Bistro crab cake, Dijon cream sauce $14 Seared foie gras, roasted figs, brioche $16 Entrées Steak frites $27 Half duck with Bing cherry sauce, Boursin potato gratin, pearls of zucchini and summer squash $32 Grilled herbed swordfish, avocado silk, Mrs. Peeke's corn spoon bread, roasted cherry tomatoes $32 Lamb "lollipops," goat cheese bread pudding $35 Lobster club sandwich, green apple horseradish, coleslaw $29 Grilled portabello and Camembert ravioli with cilantro pesto sauce $21 Sushi plate: Seared rare tuna, wasabi aioli, sesame sticky rice, cucumber salad with pickled ginger and sake vinaigrette $28 *Second Seating (9:00 P.M.) only Shellfish fondue Endless platter of shrimp, scallops, clams. Hot oil for frying. Selection of four sauces: classic cocktail, curry, horseradish, green goddess $130 (4 people) Desserts- All desserts $8 Butterscotch crème brûlée Mr. Smith's individual blueberry pie à la mode Fudge brownie, peanut butter ice cream Lemon drop parfait: lemon vodka mousse layered with whipped cream and vodka-macerated red berries Coconut cream and roasted pineapple tart, macadamia crust Homemade candy plate: vanilla marshmallows, brown sugar fudge, peanut brittle, chocolate peppermints

There’s nothing wrong with a savory pancake, but it should never meet up with a doughnut, any more than a cupcake should be frosted with pesto. The Pon de Monja is dusted with shrimp powder and filled with a fishy jelly studded with cabbage and corn kernels. It looks like the contents of a diaper

By adding vegetables like carrots, potatoes and zucchini, you were able to create seven separate pâtes of different colors. And each pâte has been cooked in a way to maximize the deliciousness of each vegetable. I'm impressed you were able to complete all that work in so little time." "You made two separate sauces too. A sweet and tangy sudachi gelée... ... and a refreshing green herb sauce centered on shiso... and mixed with other fragrant herbs to make a pesto." "Wow! Seasoning a European terrine with distinctly Japanese flavors like sudachi and shiso... what a fresh idea!" "Mmmm! The sautéed zucchini together with the herb sauce is so invigoratingly zesty and tasty! Exquisite!" "The tangy sudachi sauce goes well with the mildly sweet tomatoes too." "Seven different pâtes with two different sauces means there are fourteen flavors to enjoy. I'm already excited to try various combinations!" "Me too. It seems the colorful rainbow stripes aren't only pleasing to the eye... they also manage to be equally pleasing to the palate!

A lei toccherà tenere duro, ostinarsi a proseguire, spesso brancolando nella nebbia, qualche volta proprio nel buio pesto; non lasciarsi spaventare dalle frasi piene di incisi e dai congiuntivi imperfetti, armarsi di pazienza e, se necessario, di dizionario. A lui, in compenso, spetta il compito di abbagliarla, a intervalli regolari, proprio quando meno se lo aspetta. Più lo legge, meglio lo capisce. Non che usi parole complicate, è solo che le sue frasi spesso finiscono altrove. Una volta che lo sa, che capisce che lui non l'abbandona ma torna sempre indietro a tenderle la mano, va tutto liscio.

Platters upon platters of cured meats quickly disappear, followed by a salad of roasted artichokes, followed by a ravioli with a creamy truffle sauce, followed by a lamb chop with an Umbrian pesto. Everyone gushes over the food--- it is mountainous and never ending, a salty, savory parade of spring produce and aged ingredients. It is satiating down to my bones.

This particular shop uses three types of Sicilian pistachios and slow roasts them for twenty-four hours. Forty-seven judges from a gelato university crossed the world trying to find the absolute best, and they picked this one. So how could I not do that?" "'Gelato university'?" He chuckles. "I know, right? I definitely missed my calling," I reply, and I love how his laugh gets a little deeper. "But at least you didn't miss the gelato." "Exactly!" I smile, relishing the lightness between us once again. "What else is on your list?" he asks. "Definitely more lentils, and this region is known for truffles, so I have to do that. But they're also known for their meats here, which is interesting. Obviously the cured meats we're used to when we think of Italian charcuteries is here, but also a lot of roasted pork as well, and boar. And sausage! I read a recipe for amatriciana with sausage instead of guanciale. Umbria's actually one of the few regions of Italy without any coastline---" "So you did no research at all before coming?" he says, sarcasm peppered in with a smile. "Please, I'm just getting warmed up. I haven't even gotten into the olive oil varietals. And pesto! That pesto we had at the dinner last night on the lamb chops--- that pesto that has marjoram and walnuts instead of the one we're used to from Liguria, with basil and pine nuts.

Growing up outside of Philadelphia, I never wanted for diner food, whether it was from Bob's Diner in Roxborough or the Trolley Car Diner in Mount Airy. The food wasn't anything special- eggs and toast, meat loaf and gravy, the omnipresent glass case of pies- but I always found the food comforting and satisfying, served as it was in those old-fashioned, prefabricated stainless steel trolley cars. Whenever we would visit my mom's parents in Canterbury, New Jersey, we'd stop at the Claremont Diner in East Windsor on the way home, and I'd order a fat, fluffy slice of coconut cream pie, which I'd nibble on the whole car ride back to Philly. I'm not sure why I've always found diner food so comforting. Maybe it's the abundance of grease or the utter lack of pretense. Diner food is basic, stick-to-your-ribs fare- carbs, eggs, and meat, all cooked up in plenty of hot fat- served up in an environment dripping with kitsch and nostalgia. Where else are a jug of syrup and a bottomless cup of coffee de rigueur? The point of diner cuisine isn't to astound or impress; it's to fill you up cheaply with basic, down-home food. My menu, however, should astound and impress, which is why I've decided to take up some of the diner foods I remember from my youth and put my own twist on them. So far, this is what I've come up with: Sloe gin fizz cocktails/chocolate egg creams Grilled cheese squares: grappa-soaked grapes and Taleggio/ Asian pears and smoked Gouda "Eggs, Bacon, and Toast": crostini topped with wilted spinach, pancetta, poached egg, and chive pesto Smoky meat loaf with slow-roasted onions and prune ketchup Whipped celery root puree Braised green beans with fire-roasted tomatoes Mini root beer floats Triple coconut cream pie

She made them honey butter fried chicken and buttermilk biscuits the way her mother had taught her, with White Lily flour and the butter shredded on a box grater. She served charred eggplant with cilantro pesto, polenta pasticciata, grilled corn, and fried dill pickles.

Dr. Greger’s Eight Check-Mark Pesto 2 cups fresh basil leaves ¼ cup freshly toasted walnuts 2 cloves fresh garlic ¼ of a peeled lemon ¼ teaspoon lemon zest ¼ inch of fresh turmeric root (or ¼ teaspoon turmeric powder) ¼ cup pinto beans ¼ cup water or liquid from bean can 1 tablespoon white miso Pepper to taste Combine all ingredients in a food processor. Blend until smooth. Scoop onto a cup and a half of cooked whole-grain pasta.

So pairing your greens with a green-light source of fat may not only make them taste better but will maximize nutrient absorption. This can mean enjoying a creamy tahini-based dressing on your salad, putting walnuts in your pesto, or sprinkling some toasted sesame seeds on your sautéed kale.

You can also find prepackaged pouches of Indian food online or at Indian or natural foods markets. Again, I’d use them as sauces rather than eat them as a meal in themselves. My favorite is spinach dal—that way, I’m eating greens in a greens sauce! That’s like the kale-pesto principle: Use one green (basil) to make the other green (kale) taste better.

PORTOBELLO MUSHROOMS STUFFED WITH GRILLED CHICKEN, PESTO AND SUN-DRIED TOMATOES 4 large Portobello mushrooms (approximately 1 pound) MARINADE FOR MUSHROOMS: 5 tablespoons best-quality olive oil 5 tablespoons best-quality dry sherry

The preceptor had called the long skinny pasta “spa-giggle-tee” or some such silliness. Alexia didn’t rightly care, so long as there was pesto on top of it.

Waking up Thursday morning to another dreary day and the sense of being physically stuffed, they focused on FISH. While Charlotte interviewed the postmaster about the origin, techniques, and ingredients for his best-in-Maine lobster bakes, Nicole set off to gather recipes for glazed salmon, baked pesto haddock, and cod crusted with marjoram, a minted savory unique to Quinnipeague, and sage.

Glorious Food Italians are known the world over for their food. Each region of Italy enjoys its own kind of cooing. For example, in Naples, pasta is served with a tomato-based sauce, while in the north, it is more often served with a white cheese sauce. The people of Genoa often put pesto, a flavorful mixture of basil, pine nuts, garlic, olive oil, and grated cheese, on their pasta. The grated cheese called Parmesan originated in the area around Parma. Italians also invented many other cheeses, including Gorgonzola, mozzarella, provolone, and ricotta. No one knows when pizza was invented, but the people of Naples made it popular. At first, pizza was a simple flatbread topped with tomato and garlic. Since then, it has evolved into countless variations, served all over Italy and the world. Italians tend to eat a light breakfast of coffee and perhaps a small bun. Lunch is often the main meal, while dinner tends to be lighter. Italian meals may include antipasti, an array of vegetables, cold cuts, and seafood; a pasta dish; a main course of meat or fish; a salad; and cheese and fruit. Bread is served with every meal. Italy is justly famous for its ice cream, which is called gelato. Fresh gelato is made regularly at ice cream shops called gelaterias. Italians are just as likely to gather, discussing sports and the world, in a gelateria as in a coffee shop. Many Italians drink a strong, dark coffee called espresso, which is served in tiny cups. Another type of Italian coffee, cappuccino, is espresso mixed with hot, frothed milk. Both espresso and cappuccino have become popular in North America. Meanwhile, many Italians are becoming increasingly fond of American-style fast food, a trend that bothers some Italians. In general, dinner is served later at night in southern Italy than in northern Italy. This is because many people in the south, as in most Mediterranean regions, traditionally took naps in the afternoon during the hottest part of the day. These naps are rapidly disappearing as a regular part of life, although many businesses still shut down for several hours in the early afternoon.

sopa de calabaza con pesto, ensalada de canónigos con moras y frambuesas, quiche de queso de cabra con tomates y romero, y hamburguesas de patata con ajo y guacamole. De postre tomaron tartaleta de almendras y albaricoques.

Today's offerings include grilled tuna in a soy wasabi marinade, and a pan-roasted squab with curried apricot chutney, neither typical bistro fare. It makes me think wistfully of compound butters and pestos of fresh herbs and toasted nuts, of mushrooms and lardons, eggs and roast chicken, none of which appear anywhere on the menu. I order myself an appetizer portion of mussels and a side of frites to start and a green salad. After an extended cross examination of the waiter, Enid orders a beet and goat cheese salad and the veal chop with Roquefort butter.

Pesto pine nut bread Eat as an accompaniment to a meal or a snack. Makes: 1 loaf Prep: 10 minutes Bake: 3 hours, 30 minutes Ingredients Bread 1 cup plus 2 tablespoons water 3 cups bread flour 2 tablespoons sugar 1 tsp salt 1 ¼ tsp bread machine or quick active dry yeast Pesto Filling 1/3 cup basil pesto 2 tablespoons bread flour 1/3 cup pine nuts Directions: Add bread ingredients to pan. Choose basic bread setting, and light/medium crust color. While bread is baking, mix pesto and flour together, then add pine nuts.   Add filling at the signal for raisins/nuts.

Zucchini Noodles with Pesto and Tilapia 2 medium zucchini Grated Parmesan cheese Tilapia or other fish of your choice FOR THE PESTO: 1 bunch fresh basil leaves ½ cup toasted pine nuts ½ cup grated Parmesan cheese 2 garlic cloves (or 2 tablespoons minced garlic) ¾ cup extra virgin olive oil Blend all of the pesto ingredients in a food processor. Use a spiralizer to cut the zucchini into spaghetti-like strips. Place the zucchini noodles in a skillet and warm up over medium heat for a couple of minutes. Top with grated Parmesan and 2 tablespoons of the pesto. Mix well. Serve topped with grilled fish. Note: Pour any remaining pesto into ice cube trays and freeze. Warm up the amount you need whenever you want it for another recipe. You can also save time by using oven-ready fish from the grocery store and/ or low-sodium store-bought pesto sauce.

Sarai tenuta sveglia dalle domande notturne. Sai cosa sono le domande notturne? Sono le voci che vengono dal buio pesto. Le urla che ti parlano dalle fessure. Creature sacrileghe e primitive che fanno una crociata contro la tua anima finché non sei una montagna all'orizzonte, una pietra, un granello di polvere senza nome.

«Sarai tenuta sveglia dalle domande notturne. Sai cosa sono le domande notturne? Sono le voci che vengono dal buio pesto. Le urla che ti parlano dalle fessure. Creature sacrileghe e primitive che fanno una crociata contro la tua anima finché non sei una montagna all'orizzonte, una pietra, un granello di polvere senza nome.»