Peter Cook Quotes

I have learned from my mistakes, and I am sure I can repeat them exactly

As I looked out into the night sky, across all those infinite stars, it made me realize how insignificant they are.

I am blind -- but I am able to read thanks to a wonderful new system known as 'broil' . . . I'm sorry, I'll just feel that again.

So what did you bring? Lip gloss and a hairbrush?” Smirking, she unpacked the sandwiches Mort's cook had made for her, along with an ample slice of chocolate cake. “You owe me an apology.” “Omigod, it's a feast! Okay, you're forgiven.

I may have done some other things as good but I am sure none better. I haven't matured, progressed, grown, become deeper, wiser, or funnier. But then, I never thought I would. (Peter Cook about Beyond the Fringe)

One of the ways to avoid being beaten by the system is to laugh at it.

I met a man at a party. He said "I'm writing a novel" I said "Oh really? Neither am I.

I don’t think this kind of thing [satire] has an impact on the unconverted, frankly. It’s not even preaching to the converted; it’s titillating the converted. I think the people who say we need satire often mean, ‘We need satire of them, not of us.’ I’m fond of quoting Peter Cook, who talked about the satirical Berlin cabarets of the ’30s, which did so much to stop the rise of Hitler and prevent the Second World War.

Everything I've ever told you, including this, is a lie.

I've always been after the trappings of great luxury. But all I've got hold of are the trappings of great poverty. I've got hold of the wrong load of trappings, and a rotten load they are too, ones I could have very well done without.

Job was what you'd technically describe as a loony.

The English murder their meat twice: once when they shoot it, again when they cook it. 'Drôle, n'est-ce pas'?

Here’s another. Kill man’s sense of values. Kill his capacity to recognise greatness or to achieve it. Great men can’t be ruled. We don’t want any great men. Don’t deny conception of greatness. Destroy it from within. The great is the rare, the difficult, the exceptional. Set up standards of achievement open to all, to the least, to the most inept – and you stop the impetus to effort in men, great or small. You stop all incentive to improvement, to excellence, to perfection. Laugh at Roark and hold Peter Keating as a great architect. You’ve destroyed architecture. Build Lois Cook and you’ve destroyed literature. Hail Ike and you’ve destroyed the theatre. Glorify Lancelot Clankey and you’ve destroyed the press. Don’t set out to raze all shrines – you’ll frighten men, Enshrine mediocrity - and the shrines are razed. Then there’s another way. Kill by laughter. Laughter is an instrument of human joy. Learn to use it as a weapon of destruction. Turn it into a sneer. It’s simple. Tell them to laugh at everything. Tell them that a sense of humour is an unlimited virtue. Don't let anything remain sacred in a man’s soul – and his soul won’t be sacred to him. Kill reverence and you’ve killed the hero in man. One doesn’t reverence with a giggle. He’ll obey and he’ll set no limits to obedience – anything goes – nothing is too serious.

I think the most joyous thing in life is to loaf around and watch another bloke do a job of work. Look how popular are the men who dig up London with electric drills. Duke's son, cook's son, son of a hundred kings, people will stand there for hours on end, ear drums splitting. Why? Simply for the pleasure of being idle while watching other people work.

I’ve learned from my mistakes and I’m sure I can repeat them exactly.” —Peter Cook

All right, You Great Git, You've asked for it. I'll cover the world in Tastee-Freez and Wimpy Burgers. I'll fill it with concrete runways, motorways, aircraft, television, automobiles, advertising, plastic flowers, frozen food and supersonic bangs. I'll make it so noisy and disgusting that even You'll be ashamed of Yourself! No wonder You've so few friends. You're unbelievable!

It’s not as easy as you’d think, burning a dead creature. Flesh and skin want to cook and crisp and char rather than ignite.

Mastery in any field, from cooking to chess to brain surgery, is a gradual accretion of knowledge, conceptual understanding, judgment, and skill. These are the fruits of variety in the practice of new skills, and of striving, reflection, and mental rehearsal.

Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God, that He may exalt you at the proper time, casting all your anxiety upon Him, because He cares for you.” - 1 Peter 5:6-7 There

Agriculture makes people dependent on a few domesticated crops and animals instead of hundreds of wild food sources, creating vulnerability to droughts and blights and zoonotic diseases. Agriculture makes for sedentary living, leaving humans to do something that no primate with a concern for hygiene and public health would ever do: namely, living in close proximity to their feces. Agriculture makes for surplus and thus almost inevitably, the uneven distribution of surplus generating socio-economic status differences that dwarf anything that other primates cook up with their hierarchies. And from there it's just a hop, skip and a jump until we've got Mr. McGregor persecuting Peter Rabbit and people incessantly singing Oklahoma.

I saw an advertisement the other day for the secret of life. It said 'The secret of life can be yours for twenty-five shillings. Sent to Secret of Life Institute, Willesden.' So I wrote away, seemed a good bargain, secret of life, twenty-five shillings. And I got a letter back saying, 'If you think you can get the secret of life for twenty-five shillings, you don't deserve to have it. Send fifty shillings for the secret of life.

I've always wanted to be an expert on tadpoles; I've always fancied being a tadpole expert. It's a wonderful life if you become an experty tadpoleous, as they are known in the trade. You get invited out to all the smart parties and social gatherings. When smart people are making out their lists for the dinner parties, they say, 'Now, who can we have to make up the ten? A tadpole expert would be very nice. He could sit next to Lady Sonia.

Angus had been hurt deeply by what John Peter had done, that he might have lost a friend in such a horrible way. I could see that. But even aside from the stupid thing John Peter had done, Angus was hurting for me, feeling my pain, taking it with him as he rode off. He might not have understood all of what I was feeling but he had embraced it. He didn't get it after Millie died, but now he knew what loss could do to a person. Empathy just might save the world one day.

The advice of etiquette experts on dealing with unwanted invitations, or overly demanding requests for favours, has always been the same: just say no. That may have been a useless mantra in the war on drugs, but in the war on relatives who want to stay for a fortnight, or colleagues trying to get you to do their work for them, the manners guru Emily Post’s formulation – ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible’ – remains the gold standard. Excuses merely invite negotiation. The comic retort has its place (Peter Cook: ‘Oh dear, I find I’m watching television that night’), and I’m fond of the tautological non-explanation (‘I can’t, because I’m unable to’). But these are variations on a theme. The best way to say no is to say no. Then shut up.

Apart from the peace and emptiness of the landscape, there is a special smell about winter in Provence which is accentuated by the wind and the clean, dry air. Walking in the hills, I was often able to smell a house before I could see it, because of the scent of woodsmoke coming from an invisible chimney. It is one of the most primitive smells in life, and consequently extinct in most cities, where fire regulations and interior decorators have combined to turn fireplaces into blocked-up holes or self-consciously lit "architectural features." The fireplace in Provence is still used - to cook on, to sit around, to warm the toes, and to please the eye - and fires are laid in the early morning and fed throughout the day with scrub oak from the Luberon or beech from the foothills of Mont Ventoux. Coming home with the dogs as dusk fell, I always stopped to look from the top of the valley at the long zigzag of smoke ribbons drifting up from the farms that are scattered along the Bonnieux road. It was a sight that made me think of warm kitchens and well-seasoned stews, and it never failed to make me ravenous.

1. Total domination of the world by 1958. 2. Domination of the astral spheres quite soon too. 3. The finding of lovely ladies for Spotty Muldoon within the foreseeable future. 4. GETTING A NUCLEAR ARM to deter with. 5. The bodily removal from this planet of C. P. Snow and Alan Freeman and their replacement with fine TREES. 6. Stopping the GOVERNMENT from crawling up our pipes and listening to all we say. 7. Training BEES for uses against foreign powers, and so on. 8. Elimination of spindly insects and encouragement of lovely little newts who dance about and are happy. 9. E. L. Wisty for GOD.

Then, Peter caught the smirk between Cenehard and Eleanor. He blushed, turning a rosier color than Eleanor had. This caused all of the Dwarves, who were naturally merry people, to nearly drop to the floor rolling with laughter. In an attempt to change the subject, Peter leaned back in his chair and proclaimed in a loud voice, "Man, I am stuffed. Good cook--" He leaned back a little bit too far and fell right out of the chair. His face turned redder still, and he jumped up, grabbing Evangeline's plate, which she had been happily and heartily eating from, and ran off saying, "I really ought to bring Edith her dinner!

IF ANY ONE OF YOU TRIES THIS SHIT AGAIN WITH PETER, OR HARRASS ANY OF MY FRIENDS THAT ARE MAIDS, THERE IS NOWHERE IN THIS GODFORSAKEN KINGDOM YOU WILL BE SAFE FROM ME. I KNOW WHERE YOU ALL SLEEP, I COOK YOUR FOOD, I KNOW WHO WASHES YOUR CLOTHES AND BEDDING, AND IF I HAVE TO CHASE YOU INTO A SIX-FOOT-DEEP HOLE, I WILL. GOT IT?

The pig had been killed because spirits, like people, cannot resist the smell of cooking pig.

cooked alive or forced to eat the severed ears from their own heads

Duke’s son, cook’s son, son of a hundred kings – people will stand there for hours on end, with their ear-drums splitting – why? Simply for the pleasure of being idle while other people work.

It's the most essential thing of all just because it's not a matter of how you do it at all, but of whether you do it. Like being born, or cooking: how you do it is less important than whether you do it. You can find thousands of books on prayer that give you methods of praying, hundreds of "hows"; but they do you no good at all unless you actually pray. Otherwise it's like reading a cookbook instead of cooking. You can't eat a cookbook!

We believe this to be the work of thieves, and I'll tell you why. The whole pattern is very reminiscent of past robberies where we have found thieves to be involved. The tell-tale loss of property — that's one of the signs we look for.

In the midst of them, the blackest and largest in that dark setting, reclined James Hook, or as he wrote himself, Jas. Hook, of whom it is said he was the only man that the Sea-Cook feared. He lay at his ease in a rough chariot drawn and propelled by his men, and instead of a right hand he had the iron hook with which ever and anon he encouraged them to increase their pace. As dogs this terrible man treated and addressed them, and as dogs they obeyed him. In person he was cadaverous [dead looking] and blackavized, and his hair was dressed in long curls, which at a little distance looked like black candles, and gave a singularly threatening expression to his handsome countenance. His eyes were of the blue of the forget-me-not, and of a profound melancholy, save when he was plunging his hook into you, at which time two red spots appeared in them and lit them up horribly. In manner, something of the grand seigneur still clung to him, so that he even ripped you up with an air, and I have been told that he was a raconteur of repute. He was never more sinister than when he was most polite, which is probably the truest test of breeding; and the elegance of his diction, even when he was swearing, no less than the distinction of his demeanour, showed him one of a different cast from his crew. A man of indomitable courage, it was said that the only thing he shied at was the sight of his own blood, which was thick and of an unusual colour. In dress he somewhat aped the attire associated with the name of Charles II, having heard it said in some earlier period of his career that he bore a strange resemblance to the ill-fated Stuarts; and in his mouth he had a holder of his own contrivance which enabled him to smoke two cigars at once. But undoubtedly the grimmest part of him was his iron claw.

Everything,” he said. “My wife cooks everything well.” He dealt the menus out and left us to greet another couple, and we dithered enjoyably between lamb stuffed with herbs, daube, veal with truffles, and an unexplained dish called the fantaisie du chef. The old man came back and sat down, listened to the order, and nodded. “It’s always the same,” he said. “It’s the men who like the fantaisie.

In 1995 Leslie Aiello and Peter Wheeler proposed that the reason some animals have evolved big brains is that they have small guts, and small guts are made possible by a high-quality diet. Aiello and Wheeler’s head-spinning idea came from the realization that brains are exceptionally greedy for glucose—in other words, for energy. For an inactive person, every fifth meal is eaten solely to power the brain.

Thus it was we entered a low eating-house on the lamplit shores of the river in a Moslem neighbourhood, a modest boxwood shanty having no walls at all, but sufficiently screened with hanging bags. There were several benches and three tables, and upon each table were oil-lamps which cast soft shadows on the haze of airborne cooking-fats and wood-smoke, and gently illuminating a dozen Africans at food; on the floor at the farther end were cooking-fires, and a fine diversity of smells arose from bubbling pots and sizzling pans. The chef was a robust ogre of glistening dark bronze with an incense pastille smouldering in his hair, a swearing, sweating Panta-gruel naked to the waist and stoking fires, lifting lids, and scooping out great globs of meat and manioc and fish: he might have been cooking skulls on the shores of River Styx.

What’s your dad doing for his bachelor party?” I laugh. “Have you met my dad? He’s the last person who would ever have a bachelor party. He doesn’t even have any guy friends to have a party with!” I stop and consider this. “Well, I guess Josh is the closest thing he has. We haven’t seen much of him since he went to school, but he and my dad still e-mail every so often.” “I don’t get what your family sees in that guy,” Peter says sourly. “What’s so great about him?” It’s a touchy subject. Peter’s paranoid my dad likes Josh better than him, and I try to tell him it’s not a contest--which it definitely isn’t. Daddy’s known Josh since he was a kid. They trade comic books, for Pete’s sake. So, no contest. Obviously my dad likes Josh better. But only because he knows him better. And only because they’re more alike: Neither of them is cool. And Peter’s definitely cool. My dad is bewildered by cool. “Josh loves my dad’s cooking.” “So do I!” “They have the same taste in movies.” Peter throws in, “And Josh was never in a hot tub video with one of his daughters.” “Oh my God, let it go already! My dad’s forgotten about that.” “Forgotten” might be too strong of a word. Maybe more like he’s never brought it up again and he hopefully never will. “I find that hard to believe.” “Well, believe it. My dad is a very forgiving, very forgetful man.

Peter saw a group of men on the bank preparing to cook some tortoises for dinner. To most Russians, eating tortoise was a repugnant idea, but Peter, ever curious, asked for some for his own table. His comrades dining with him tasted the new dish, not knowing what it was. Thinking it was young chicken and liking it, they finished what was on their plates, whereupon Peter ordered his servant to bring in the “feathers” of these chickens. When they saw the tortoise shells, most of the Russians laughed at themselves; two were sick.

Dù sao thì Peter cũng đang phải đương đầu với người duy nhất trên đời mà Sea-Cook e sợ. Ấy vậy mà Peter chẳng hề do dự, chú chỉ cảm thấy vui mừng tột độ, đến mức nghiến cả răng lại. Nhanh như chớp, chú giằng ngay lấy con dao đeo ở thắt lưng Hook và lúc chuẩn bị băm nhỏ kẻ thù thì chú chợt nhận ra mình đang đứng cao hơn hắn trên vách đá. Đánh nhau như vậy là không công bằng và chú cao thượng chìa tay ra cho tên cướp biển để giúp hắn trèo lên. Đúng lúc đó, Hook cắn Peter. Sự phản phúc của Hook chứ không phải là vết đau làm Peter ngây ra, không phản ứng gì. Nó khiến chú bất lực, chỉ đứng nhìn, vô cùng kinh tởm. Đứa trẻ nào cũng nghệt ra như vậy khi lần đầu bị người ta đối xử bất công. Khi đến với bạn, ấy là nó cho rằng nó có cái quyền hơn ai hết khi yêu cầu công lý. Nếu bạn tỏ ra không công bằng với nó, nó vẫn yêu bạn nhưng đó không phải là đứa trẻ vô tư như trước nữa. Chẳng ai quên được nỗi bất công đầu tiên, chẳng ai, trừ Peter. Chú rất hay bị đối xử bất công nhưng lại quên ngay. Tôi cho rằng sự khác biệt chính giữa Peter và mọi đứa trẻ khác là ở chỗ đó.

I wonder where they’ll go,” Jake continued, frowning a little. “There’s wolves out there, and all sorts of beasts.” “No self-respecting wolf would dare to confront that duenna of hers, not with that umbrella she wields,” Ian snapped, but he felt a little uneasy. “Oho!” said Jake with a hearty laugh. “So that’s what she was? I thought they’d come to court you together. Personally, I’d be afraid to close my eyes with that gray-haired hag in bed next to me.” Ian was not listening. Idly he unfolded the note, knowing that Elizabeth Cameron probably wasn’t foolish enough to have written it in her own girlish, illegible scrawl. His first thought as he scanned the neat, scratchy script was that she’d gotten someone else to write it for her…but then he recognized the words, which were strangely familiar, because he’d spoken them himself: Your suggestion has merit. I’m leaving for Scotland on the first of next month and cannot delay the trip again. Would prefer the meeting take place there, in any case. A map is enclosed for direction to the cottage. Cordially-Ian. “God help that silly bastard if he ever crosses my path!” Ian said savagely. “Who d’you mean?” “Peters!” “Peters?” Jake said, gaping. “Your secretary? The one you sacked for mixin’ up all your letters?” “I should have strangled him! This is the note I meant for Dickinson Verley. He sent it to Cameron instead.” In furious disgust Ian raked his hand through his hair. As much as he wanted Elizabeth Cameron out of his sight and out of his life, he could not cause two women to spend the night in their carriage or whatever vehicle they’d brought, when it was his fault they’d come here. He nodded curtly to Jake. “Go and get them.” “Me? Why me?” “Because,” Ian said bitterly, walking over to the cabinet and putting away the gun, “it’s starting to rain, for one thing. For another, if you don’t bring them back, you’ll be doing the cooking.” “If I have to go after that woman, I want a stout glass of something fortifying first. They’re carrying a trunk, so they won’t get much ahead of me.” “On foot?” Ian asked in surprise. “How did you think they got up here?” “I was too angry to think.

24. The Rutles, “Cheese and Onions” (1978) A legend to last a lunchtime. The Rutles were the perfect Beatle parody, starring Monty Python’s Eric Idle and the Bonzos’ Neil Innes in their classic mock-doc All You Need Is Cash, with scene-stealing turns by George Harrison, Mick Jagger, and Paul Simon. (Interviewer: “Did the Rutles influence you at all?” Simon: “No.” Interviewer: “Did they influence Art Garfunkel?” Simon: “Who?”) “Cheese and Onions” is a psychedelic ersatz Lennon piano ballad so gorgeous, it eventually got bootlegged as a purported Beatle rarity. Innes captures that tone of benignly befuddled pomposity—“I have always thought in the back of my mind / Cheese and onions”—along with the boyish vulnerability that makes it moving. Hell, he even chews gum exactly like John. The Beatles’ psychedelic phase has always been ripe for parody. Witness the 1967 single “The L.S. Bumble Bee,” by the genius Brit comedy duo Peter Cook and Dudley Moore, from Beyond the Fringe and the BBC series Not Only . . . ​But Also, starring John Lennon in a cameo as a men’s room attendant. “The L.S. Bumble Bee” sounds like the ultimate Pepper parody—“Freak out, baby, the Bee is coming!”—but it came out months before Pepper, as if the comedy team was reeling from Pet Sounds and wondering how the Beatles might respond. Cook and Moore are a secret presence in Pepper—when the audience laughs in the theme song, it’s taken from a live recording of Beyond the Fringe, produced by George Martin.

One Friday, after a particularly shattering day at the office, in which my code reviews had all come back red with snotty comments, and my manager, Peter, had gently inquired about the pace of my refactoring ("perhaps not sufficiently turbo-charged"), I arrived home in a swirl of angst, with petulance and self-recrimination locked in ritual combat to determine which would ruin my night. On the phone with Beoreg, I ordered my food with a rattling sigh, and when his brother arrived at my door, he carried something different: a more compact tub containing a fiery red broth and not one but two slabs of bread for dipping. "Secret spicy," he whispered. The soup was so hot it burned the frustration out of my, and I went to bed feeling like a fresh plate, scalded and scraped clean.

Edmund said they must gather gulls’ eggs from the rocks, but when they came to think of it they couldn’t remember having seen any gulls’ eggs and wouldn’t be able to cook them if they found any. Peter thought to himself that unless they had some stroke of luck they would soon be glad to eat eggs raw, but he didn’t see any point in saying this out loud. Susan said it was a pity they had eaten the sandwiches so soon. One or two tempers very nearly got lost at this stage. Finally Edmund said: “Look here. There’s only one thing to be done. We must explore the wood. Hermits and knights-errant and people like that always manage to live somehow if they’re in a forest. They find roots and berries and things.” “What sort of roots?” asked Susan. “I always thought it meant roots of trees,” said Lucy.

I can’t help but think of one of my favorite moments in any Pixar movie, when Anton Ego, the jaded and much-feared food critic in Ratatouille, delivers his review of Gusteau’s, the restaurant run by our hero Remy, a rat. Voiced by the great Peter O’Toole, Ego says that Remy’s talents have “challenged my preconceptions about fine cooking … [and] have rocked me to my core.” His speech, written by Brad Bird, similarly rocked me—and, to this day, sticks with me as I think about my work. “In many ways, the work of a critic is easy,” Ego says. “We risk very little yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face is that in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is in the discovery and defense of the new. The world is often unkind to new talent, new creations. The new needs friends.

In the midst of them, the blackest and largest in that dark setting, reclined James Hook, or as he wrote himself, Jas. Hook, of whom it is said he was the only man that the Sea-Cook feared. He lay at his ease in a rough chariot drawn and propelled by his men, and instead of a right hand he had the iron hook with which ever and anon he encouraged them to increase their pace. As dogs this terrible man treated and addressed them, and as dogs they obeyed him. In person he was cadaverous and blackavized, and his hair was dressed in long curls, which at a little distance looked like black candles, and gave a singularly threatening expression to his handsome countenance. His eyes were of the blue of the forget-me-not, and of a profound melancholy, save when he was plunging his hook into you, at which time two red spots appeared in them and lit them up horribly. In manner, something of the grand seigneur still clung to him, so that he even ripped you up with an air, and I have been told that he was a raconteur of repute. He was never more sinister than when he was most polite, which is probably the truest test of breeding; and the elegance of his diction, even when he was swearing, no less than the distinction of his demeanour, showed him one of a different cast from his crew. A man of indomitable courage, it was said that the only thing he shied at was the sight of his own blood, which was thick and of an unusual colour. In dress he somewhat aped the attire associated with the name of Charles II, having heard it said in some earlier period of his career that he bore a strange resemblance to the ill-fated Stuarts; and in his mouth he had a holder of his own contrivance which enabled him to smoke two cigars at once.

That black horse we used for packin’ up here is the most cantankerous beast alive,” Jake grumbled, rubbing his arm. Ian lifted his gaze from the initials on the tabletop and turned to Jake, making no attempt to hide his amusement. “Bit you, did he?” “Damn right he bit me!” the older man said bitterly. “He’s been after a chuck of me since we left the coach at Hayborn and loaded those sacks on his back to bring up here.” “I warned you he bites anything he can reach. Keep your arm out of his way when you’re saddling him.” “It weren’t my arm he was after, it was my arse! Opened his mouth and went for it, only I saw him outter the corner of my eye and swung around, so he missed.” Jakes’s frown darkened when he saw the amusement in Ian’s expression. “Can’t see why you’ve bothered to feed him all these years. He doesn’t deserve to share a stable with your other horses-beauties they are, every one but him.” “Try slinging packs over the backs of one of those and you’ll see why I took him. He was suitable for using as a pack mule; none of my other cattle would have been,” ian said, frowning as he lifted his head and looked about at the months of accumulated dirt covering everything. “He’s slower’n a pack mule,” Jake replied. “Mean and stubborn and slow,” he concluded, but he, too, was frowning a little as he looked around at the thick layers of dust coating every surface. “Thought you said you’d arranged for some village wenches to come up here and clean and cook fer us. This place is a mess.” “I did. I dictated a message to Peters for the caretaker, asking him to stock the place with food and to have two women come up here to clean and cook. The food is here, and there are chickens out in the barn. He must be having difficulty finding two women to stay up here.” “Comely women, I hope,” Jake said. “Did you tell him to make the wenches comely?” Ian paused in his study of the spiderwebs strewn across the ceiling and cast him an amused look. “You wanted me to tell a seventy-year-old caretaker who’s half-blind to make certain the wenches were comely?” “Couldn’ta hurt ‘t mention it,” Jake grumbled, but he looked chastened. “The village is only twelve miles away. You can always stroll down there if you’ve urgent need of a woman while we’re here. Of course, the trip back up here may kill you,” he joked referring to the winding path up the cliff that seemed to be almost vertical. “Never mind women,” Jake said in an abrupt change of heart, his tanned, weathered face breaking into a broad grin. “I’m here for a fortnight of fishin’ and relaxin’, and that’s enough for any man. It’ll be like the old days, Ian-peace and quiet and naught else. No hoity-toity servants hearin’ every word what’s spoke, no carriages and barouches and matchmaking mamas arrivin’ at your house. I tell you, my boy, though I’ve not wanted to complain about the way you’ve been livin’ the past year, I don’t like these servents o’ yours above half. That’s why I didn’t come t’visit you very often. Yer butler at Montmayne holds his nose so far in t’air, it’s amazin’ he gets any oxhegen, and that French chef o’ yers practically threw me out of his kitchens. That what he called ‘em-his kitchens, and-“ The old seaman abruptly broke off, his expression going from irate to crestfallen, “Ian,” he said anxiously, “did you ever learn t’ cook while we was apart?” “No, did you?” “Hell and damnation, no!” Jake said, appalled at the prospect of having to eat anything he fixed himself.

A story by Alice Park on the aging effects of fat on kids' bodies drew some pointed comments about parental accountability. "Your story is horrifying," wrote Susan Stafford of Berkeley, Calif. "But no one gains weight out of nowhere. People live in denial about food. Parents eat garbage and feed their kids the same." Diabetic Peter Baxter of Brighton, England, advocated for home cooking to combat ubiquitous ads for meals "that will kill children." Meanwhile Katy Steinmetz's TIME.com piece on state initiatives to ban big soda was widely shared on Twitter, where food writer Mark Bittman wrote, "The soda wars escalate.

Sprinkle a mixture of cooked, crumbled bacon, chopped fresh herbs, and bread crumbs on top of baked or grilled ½-inch-thick slices of summer tomatoes or Vidalia onions and bake or grill them until the topping is golden brown.

Grace and peace be multiplied to you in the knowledge of God and of Jesus our Lord.” (This phrase occurs one time in 2 Peter 1:2.)

The Lord is gracious (Psalm 111:4). He is the giver of grace (Proverbs 3:34). He is the God of all grace (1 Peter 5:10). His throne is a throne of grace (Hebrews 4:16). The Holy Spirit is called the Spirit of grace (Hebrews 10:29). Our message is called “The Gospel of the Grace of God” and “The Word of His Grace” (Acts 20:24, 32).

The prophets of old prophesied of the grace that should come to us (1 Peter 1:10). This grace came by Jesus (John 1:17). Jesus was full of grace, and it is from His fullness that we receive one grace after another (John 1:14,16). The grace of God was upon Jesus and gracious words proceeded out of His mouth (Luke 2:40; 4:22). It was by grace that Jesus tasted of death for every man (Hebrews 2:9).

Continue in grace (Acts 13:43). Abound in grace (2 Corinthians 8:7). Be strong in grace (2 Timothy 2:1). Grow in grace (2 Peter 3:18). The Word of God speaks of: Great grace (Acts 4:33). The abundance of grace (Romans 5:17). The exceeding grace of God (2 Corinthians 9:14). The glory of His grace (Ephesians 1:6). The riches of His grace (Ephesians 1:7). The exceeding riches of His grace (Ephesians 2:7). The dispensation of the grace of God (Ephesians 3:2). The gift of the grace of God (Ephesians 3:7). The grace of life (1 Peter 3:7). The manifold grace of God (1 Peter 4:10). The true grace of God (1 Peter 5:12).

Grace is multiplied unto us through the knowledge of God and of Jesus our Lord (2 Peter 1:2). An individual can: Receive grace in vain (2 Corinthians 6:1). Set aside or treat as meaningless the grace of God (Galatians 2:21). Fall from grace (Galatians 5:4). Insult the Spirit of grace (Hebrews 10:29). Fall short of grace (Hebrews 12:15). Turn the grace of God into lewdness (Jude 4).

The November Road Playlist “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right”—Bob Dylan “’Round Midnight”—Billy Taylor Trio “Will You Love Me Tomorrow?”—The Shirelles “Follow the Yellow Brick Road” from The Wizard of Oz—Judy Garland “How Can You Lose”—Art Pepper “Night and Day”—Ella Fitzgerald “I Saw Her Standing There”—The Beatles “Jack O’Diamonds”—Ruth Brown “Ring of Fire”—Johnny Cash “Somebody Have Mercy”—Sam Cooke “Something Cool”—June Christy “Prisoner of Love”—James Brown “It’s My Party”—Lesley Gore “Blowin’ in the Wind”—Peter, Paul and Mary “I’m Walkin’”—Fats Domino “You’re Getting to Be a Habit with Me”—Frank Sinatra “’Round Midnight”—Thelonious Monk

First into the pan goes a generous knob of butter, followed by the chicken breasts and legs, a large onion cut into quarters, a dozen or so sliced champignons de Paris—those small, tightly capped white mushrooms—a couple of cloves of garlic en chemise, crushed but not peeled, and a bouquet garni of herbs. When the color of the chicken has turned to deep gold, a large glass of white wine is poured into the pan and allowed to reduce before half a liter of crème fraîche is added. The bird is cooked for thirty minutes, the sauce is strained through a fine sieve, the dish is seasoned to taste, and there you have it.

We ended up eating toasted pieces of soap. Yep. Mom will never let us cook again. In

night, I got home and Clay stood in the kitchen cooking dinner for two.  I had to suppress the happy-dance I wanted to do and, instead, nonchalantly walked by him.  A note on the table from Rachel explained she had gone out with Peter and would be back late.  The note stressed alone. Since Clay’s last appearance, I’d thought of several questions to ask him—starting with his teeth—and hoped he wouldn’t get annoyed and go fur on me again.  I decided to ease him into my agenda. “Wow, I didn’t know you cooked.  It smells great.”  I set my messenger bag on a chair and hovered behind him, watching him work. He pulled baked potatoes from the oven.  To the side, two plates waited with steaming chicken breasts.  Seeing dinner almost ready, I grabbed flatware for us and sat down. “So, other than cooking, how did you keep yourself busy today?” He set a plate in front of me and sat down.  He pointed to the last batch of books I’d brought home that he had piled neatly on the table between us. “You read them all already?” He nodded. “That’s a lot to read in just five days.  Are you skipping chapters?” I teased. He glanced up at me then back down at his food.  Maybe I needed to work on my teasing.  I supposed smiling would have helped. “So,

What about me, Peter?” “You can cook. You can clean. You can be waiting here for me when I get home. I’d think that would be enough.” “Well, it’s not!

Oh, the dishes they cook probably don’t taste as good as they make out anyway. The way the judges carried on last night, you’d think the chocolate dessert gave them an orgasm.

Where, Bredon asked himself, did the money come from that was to be spent so variously and so lavishly? If this hell’s-dance of spending and saving were to stop for a moment, what would happen? If all the advertising in the world were to shut down tomorrow, would people still go on buying more soap, eating more apples, giving their children more vitamins, roughage, milk, olive oil, scooters and laxatives, learning more languages by gramophone, hearing more virtuosos by radio, re-decorating their houses, refreshing themselves with more non-alcoholic thirst-quenchers, cooking more new, appetizing dishes, affording themselves that little extra touch which means so much? Or would the whole desperate whirligig slow down, and the exhausted public relapse upon plain grub and elbow-grease? He did not know. Like all rich men, he had never before paid any attention to advertisements. He had never realized the enormous commercial importance of the comparatively poor. Not on the wealthy, who buy only what they want when they want it, was the vast superstructure of industry founded and built up, but on those who, aching for a luxury beyond their reach and for a leisure for ever denied them, could be bullied or wheedled into spending their few hardly won shillings on whatever might give them, if only for a moment, a leisured and luxurious illusion. Phantasmagoria

It is impossible to reckon in figures the extent to which wealth is restricted indirectly, the extent to which energy is squandered, that might have served to produce, and above all to prepare the machinery necessary to production. It is enough to cite the immense sums spent by Europe in armaments for the sole purpose of acquiring control of the markets, and so forcing her own commercial standards on neighbouring territories and making exploitation easier at home; the millions paid every year to officials of all sorts, whose function it is to maintain the rights of minorities — the right, that is, of a few rich men — to manipulate the economic activities of the nation; the millions spent on judges, prisons, policemen, and all the paraphernalia of so-called justice — spent to no purpose, because we know that every alleviation, however slight, of the wretchedness of our great cities is followed by a very considerable diminution of crime; lastly, the millions spent on propagating pernicious doctrines by means of the press, and news “cooked” in the interest of this or that party, of this politician or of that company of exploiters.

As it turned out, Cosima had quite a flair for flavor. She created things that shocked Kat, who had only ever followed her mother's more mundane recipes. One Saturday, Cosima made rosemary, stilton, and walnut bread and their father ran up and down the street after breakfast, telling his neighbors he was training for a marathon. Another Saturday her bacon and brie bread caused Peter Rubens to quit his sales job and revisit a great passion for pottery and carpentry that he'd long before abandoned. Kat personally puts her father's remarriage down to the chocolate and chili bread Cosima made when she was six, Kat liked her stepmother and loved that she was finally free to leave her father and little sister and go out into the world to live her own life.

Ah, the mummy of Seqenenre,” I said. “Have you got as far as that?” From the small figure on the cot came a reflective voice. “It appeaws to me that he was muwduwed.” “What?” said Emerson, baffled by the last word. “Murdered,” I interpreted. “I would have to agree, Ramses; a man whose skull has been smashed by repeated blows did not die a natural death.” Sarcasm is wasted on Ramses. “I mean,” he insisted, “that it was a domestic cwime.” “Out of the question,” Emerson exclaimed. “Petrie has also put forth that absurd idea; it is impossible because—” “Enough,” I said. “It is late and Ramses should be asleep. Cook will be furious if we do not go down at once.” “Oh, very well.” Emerson bent over the cot. “Good night, my boy.” “Good night, Papa. One of the ladies of the hawem did it, I think.

Boy Lost Picture a sunset in a small port town by the sea. Two teenaged boys sitting on the docks watching the ships as they fly across the water. One reaches out and takes the other’s hand. In this brush of skin for skin, a thousand unspoken promises erupt between them, and both are determined to keep them. This is what youth is. The sheer belief that you will be able to keep every promise you made to someone else. That you will be able to love someone into a forever when you do not even understand what forever means. An evening spent in the headiness of love, they go back to their respective homes. One boy helps his mother with cooking and cleaning and looking after his little sister. His father is a good man, a sailor who brings home with him meagre wages, but a heart full of love and a quicksilver tongue that tells stories of faraway lands to enthral them all. But this boy, despite his blessings, is not happy. He may have been blessed with a loving family, but that faraway look is made of unrest and wanderlust, something about him says fae, changeling, wearing the skin of a boy who was always destined to fly, to leave.   The other boy returns home to a father who drinks and a mother who works so hard that she is never there. He is the unwanted creature in this home, a beating waiting for him at every corner. His father’s temper is a beast so powerful that a boy made of paper bones barely held together cannot fight him. He hides in his room. He lives for a boy at sunset, hope made into a human being. Now picture this. This boy of paper bones alone at the docks the next sunset. And this boy alone on the docks again on a rainy day. And this boy alone on the docks every day after, waiting for someone who promised him forevers he never intended to keep. This boy becoming a man, a heart wounded so young in youth that it never quite healed right. Imagine him becoming a sailor, searching land after land for a boy he once loved, thinking he was hurt, or stolen, just needing to know what happened to him. Now see him finally finding out that the boy he loved in his boyhood ran away to a magical land where he never grew up. That without a second glance, he just forgot every promise of forever. Imagine his rage, that ancient pain turning to a terrible anger and escaping from the forgotten attic of his mangled heart. Think of what happens when immense love turns into immense hate. An anger so intense it cannot be controlled. What he would give up to avenge the boy he once was, paper-boned, standing on the docks, broken without a single person to love him, simply all alone. A hand is a small price to pay for a magical ship that will take him to Neverland, a place that lives on a star. Becoming a villain called Captain Hook is a small exchange to show Peter Pan that you cannot throw away love and think you will get away unscarred.

Writing to Gov. Nicholas Cooke on October 12, 1776, he explained, The Advantages arising from a judicious appointment of Officers, and the fatal consequences that result from the want of them, are too obvious to require Arguments to prove them; I shall, therefore, beg leave to add only, that as the well doing, nay the very existence of every Army, to any profitable purposes, depend upon it, that too much regard cannot be had to the choosing of Men of Merit and such as are, not only under the influence of a warm attachment to their Country, but who also possess sentiments of principles of the strictest honor. Men of this Character, are fit for Office, and will use their best endeavours to introduce that discipline and subordination, which are essential to good order, and inspire that Confidence in the Men, which alone can give success to the interesting and important contest in which we are engaged. 50 Washington consistently underscored his view of the “immense consequence” of having “men of the most respectable characters” as the officers surrounding the commanderin chief. He wrote years later to Secretary of War, James McHenry as a new army was being contemplated to address the post-French Revolutionary government: To remark to a Military Man how all important the General Staff of an Army is to its well being, and how essential consequently to the Commander in Chief, seems to be unnecessary; and yet a good choice is of such immense consequence, that I must be allowed to explain myself. The Inspector General, Quartermaster General, Adjutant General, and Officer commanding the Corps of Artillerists and Engineers, ought to be men of the most respectable characters, and of first rate abilities; because, from the nature of their respective Offices, and from their being always about the Commander in Chief who is obliged to entrust many things to them confidentially, scarcely any movement can take place without their knowledge. It follows then, that besides possessing the qualifications just mentioned, they ought to have those of Integrity and prudence in

I am specialising in the Universe and all that surrounds it

Well, Cook didn't want to tell 'em that he was doing it in the hope it would prevent scurvy-because they might mutiny and take over the ship if they thought that he was taking them on a voyage so long that scurvy was likely. So here's what he did: Officers ate at one place where the men could observe them. And for a long time, he served sauerkraut to the officers, but not to the men. And, then, finally, Captain Cook said, "Well, the men can have it one day a week."In due course, he had the whole crew eating sauerkraut.

I once knew a guy that had the time to exercise twice a day, had time to read two books a week, and had all his meals cooked for him, and yet, he still complained about how much he hated prison.

And love isn’t just an emotion, it isn’t just how you feel; it’s a doing word. If you love something or someone, it causes you to act. So, when I cook, clean and wash for you, I do it as an act of love. And when you mow the grass, weed the garden and keep your room tidy, they are also acts of love to me.

A Darker Shade of Magic by V.E. Schwab Night Angel or Lightbringer by Brent Weeks Prince of Thorns by Mark Lawrence The Demon Cycle by Peter V. Brett The Expanse by James S.A. Corey Kings of the Wyld by Nicholas Eames The Black Company by Glen Cook Temeraire by Naomi Novik Red Rising by Pierce Brown The Ruin of Kings by Jenn Lyons

A year of biblical womanhood would mean, among other things, rising before dawn (Proverbs 31:15), submitting to my husband (Colossians 3:18), growing out my hair (1 Corinthians 11:15), making my own clothes (Proverbs 31:21–22), learning how to cook (Proverbs 31:15), covering my head in prayer (1 Corinthians 11:5), calling Dan “master” (1 Peter 3:5–6), caring for the poor (Proverbs 31:20), nurturing a gentle and quiet spirit (1 Peter 3:4), and remaining ceremonially impure for the duration of my period (Leviticus 15:19–

Mostly I longed to find something that I could do well. This was part of why the simple routines of the city fascinated me; I could watch a stick-stick soldier or a restaurant cook with incredible intensity, simply because these people were good at what they did. There was a touch of voyeurism in my attention, at least in the sense that I watched the people work with all of the voyeur's impotent envy. There were many days when I would have liked nothing more than to have had a simple skill that I could do over and over again, as long as I did it well

I saw [Peter Cook] perform live often enough to know that it was just terrific when he turned it on. I also worked with him enough times to know he could come up with unfunny ideas just like anyone else.

The kitchen, dining room, and living room are mixed up together in a snuggly way, always warmed by the fireplace and the Aga. Peter has never seen an Aga, this gigantic iron cooking invention. I get to explain to him how it works, that the ovens and circular metal iron-topped grills are always on. I show him that you switch a pan from a high-heat grill to a low-heat one and control the cooking that way. It’s like knowing a foreign language.

The Establishment Club was modelled on 'those wonderful Berlin cabarets which did so much to stop the rise of Hitler and prevent the outbreak of the Second World War'.

It was in the boat that Jesus found Peter. It wasn’t at church or in a prayer meeting. It was out at sea in Peter’s place of comfort, while Peter was coming to terms with yet another failure, a night spent without catching a single fish. But instead of judgment, Jesus met Peter with grace. Instead of anger, Jesus came to Peter and showed him love. Jesus helped him make a big catch, and then Jesus cooked Peter breakfast.

I shudder to tell that many of our people, harassed by the madness of excessive hunger, cut pieces from the buttocks of the Saracens already dead there, which they cooked, but when it was not yet roasted enough by the fire, they devoured it with savage mouth

Asparagus, for example, is one vegetable that should be steamed before eating in order to unlock cancer-fighting properties, and the same goes for tomatoes. A quick sauté is also okay, but avoid overcooking or boiling, as you will then lose the highest quality properties.   Mushrooms should also be cooked in order to release muscle building-properties. Surprisingly, spinach should be cooked as well, because that is when you will be able to absorb the most calcium, magnesium, and iron. If you can’t stand to fully cook spinach, just give it a quick steaming, cooking it until it starts to wilt.

Even Sunday was no respite. It was a day when no labor was allowed—except, of course, necessary tasks like cooking, cleaning, and childcare, which were women’s work.

cooked breadfruit, which was as exciting as a football-sized unbuttered baked potato.

As Chang’s answer has almost everything to do with work and little with play, a few days later I ask Peter Meehan what he thinks makes David Chang really and truly happy—if the wheels can ever stop turning, he relaxes, takes a deep breath of free air, nothing on his mind. “I’ve seen it,” Meehan says. “It’s there. But he doesn’t pursue it. His happiness is not a priority in his life. It’s an incidental benefit, but he’s not dead to it. Maybe, if someday he realizes that happiness can help him achieve his goals, he’ll give a shit about it.” The waiter at Yakitori Totto comes over and reminds us we have to be out by seven. They need the table. Chang looks out the window, then back at me. “My great regret is I can’t get drunk with my cooks anymore. “I’ll die before I’m fifty,” he says, matter-of-factly.

Potential problem as homelessness must be tackled on many fronts. Prevention is vital. Vocational and occupational job counseling and retraining; pre- and post-marital counseling; parental and family counseling; crisis management; work schedule options; residence options ​Some of the bill for retraining might be paid out of a tax on companies doing work on the Moon and importing workers and their families. The rehabilitation work might in part be done by OMOs, occupational maintenance organizations. What is needed is not job “insurance” (i.e. unemployment compensation) but job “assurance.” ​Those still falling through the more stubborn cracks can be provided storage lockers for what belongings they retain, lockers to which is attached a legal address for receipt of mail, and for listing of job applications. This host facility might provide cooking facilities and showers. ​Use of such a facility will bring with it a requirement to participate in retraining and rehabilitation programs. This is in everybody’s interest. “Tanstaafl still rules!” [There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch!”]

Phips his Wreck-Voyage.

Cook's comic gift was a public blessing. It could also be a private curse. 'It was almost an affliction,' says Bird. 'At least my mind can take a rest from that. I can and do turn it off when I go home and you felt that Peter never did and never could. 'the weight's off my shoulders now,' said Peter Ustinov, formerly the world's funniest man, after seeing Cook perform. 'The accolade, for what it's worth, belongs to him. It's a vast relief.

Thus it was that during this period, while still earning regular promotions, including one in 1937 in which his immediate superior lauded his “comprehensive knowledge of the organizational methods and ideology of Jewry, the enemy,” Eichmann generally went about his work far behind the scenes. His work at this time, he recalled, “was often of a confidential and embarrassing nature, as when I established that the Führer’s diet cook, who was at one time his mistress, was one thirty-second Jewish. My immediate superior, Lieutenant General Heinrich Müller, quickly classified the report as Top Secret.

The United Nations estimates that one and a half billion people live without electricity and three and a half billion still rely on primitive fuels such as wood or charcoal for cooking and heating.

The passing of Mardi Gras artistic director Peter Tully was marked by a full-page advertisement in Sydney Star Observer. It was mostly blank, with his small photograph dwarfed by the huge words, ‘MOODY BITCH DIES OF AIDS’.