Poached Egg Quotes

I am trying here to prevent anyone saying the really foolish thing that people often say about Him: I’m ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but I don’t accept his claim to be God. That is the one thing we must not say. A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic — on the level with the man who says he is a poached egg — or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God, or else a madman or something worse. You can shut him up for a fool, you can spit at him and kill him as a demon or you can fall at his feet and call him Lord and God, but let us not come with any patronizing nonsense about his being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.

Whipped cream isn't whipped cream at all if it hasnt been whipped with whips, just like poached eggs isn't poached eggs unless it's been stolen in the dead of the night.

Love is poached eggs and the Sunday newspaper and slow, hard sex.

All that can accurately be said about a man who thinks he is a poached egg is that he is in the minority.

If, by the virtue of charity or the circumstance of desperation, you ever chance to spend a little time around a Substance-recovery halfway facility like Enfield MA’s state-funded Ennet House, you will acquire many exotic new facts… That certain persons simply will not like you no matter what you do. That sleeping can be a form of emotional escape and can with sustained effort be abused. That purposeful sleep-deprivation can also be an abusable escape. That you do not have to like a person in order to learn from him/her/it. That loneliness is not a function of solitude. That logical validity is not a guarantee of truth. That it takes effort to pay attention to any one stimulus for more than a few seconds. That boring activities become, perversely, much less boring if you concentrate intently on them. That if enough people in a silent room are drinking coffee it is possible to make out the sound of steam coming off the coffee. That sometimes human beings have to just sit in one place and, like, hurt. That you will become way less concerned with what other people think of you when you realize how seldom they do. That there is such a thing as raw, unalloyed, agendaless kindness. That it is possible to fall asleep during an anxiety attack. That concentrating intently on anything is very hard work. That 99% of compulsive thinkers’ thinking is about themselves; that 99% of this self-directed thinking consists of imagining and then getting ready for things that are going to happen to them; and then, weirdly, that if they stop to think about it, that 100% of the things they spend 99% of their time and energy imagining and trying to prepare for all the contingencies and consequences of are never good. In short that 99% of the head’s thinking activity consists of trying to scare the everliving shit out of itself. That it is possible to make rather tasty poached eggs in a microwave oven. That some people’s moms never taught them to cover up or turn away when they sneeze. That the people to be the most frightened of are the people who are the most frightened. That it takes great personal courage to let yourself appear weak. That no single, individual moment is in and of itself unendurable. That other people can often see things about you that you yourself cannot see, even if those people are stupid. That having a lot of money does not immunize people from suffering or fear. That trying to dance sober is a whole different kettle of fish. That different people have radically different ideas of basic personal hygiene. That, perversely, it is often more fun to want something than to have it. That if you do something nice for somebody in secret, anonymously, without letting the person you did it for know it was you or anybody else know what it was you did or in any way or form trying to get credit for it, it’s almost its own form of intoxicating buzz. That anonymous generosity, too, can be abused. That it is permissible to want. That everybody is identical in their unspoken belief that way deep down they are different from everyone else. That this isn’t necessarily perverse. That there might not be angels, but there are people who might as well be angels.

Look at the woebegone walk of him. Eaten a bad egg. Poached eyes on ghost.

A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic—on a level with the man who says he is a poached egg—or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God: or else a madman or something worse. You can shut Him up for a fool, you can spit at Him and kill Him as a demon; or you can fall at His feet and call Him Lord and God. But let us not come with any patronising nonsense about His being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.

I am the interpretation of the prophet I am the artist in the coffin I am the brave flag stained with blood I am the wounds overcome I am the dream refusing to sleep I am the bare-breasted voice of liberty I am the comic the insult and the laugh I am the right the middle and the left I am the poached eggs in the sky I am the Parisian streets at night I am the dance that swings till dawn I am the grass on the greener lawn I am the respectful neighbour and the graceful man I am the encouraging smile and the helping hand I am the straight back and the lifted chin I am the tender heart and the will to win I am the rainbow in rain I am the human who won’t die in vain I am Athena of Greek mythology I am the religion that praises equality I am the woman of stealth and affection I am the man of value and compassion I am the wild horse ploughing through I am the shoulder to lean onto I am the Muslim the Jew and the Christian I am the Dane the French and the Palestinian I am the straight the square and the round I am the white the black and the brown I am the free speech and the free press I am the freedom to express I will die for my right to be all the above here mentioned And should threat encounter I’ll pull my pencil

The poached egg on your plate at breakfast is not dirt. The poached egg on page 202 of the Greek lexicon in the library of the British Museum is dirt.

A fluffy poached egg is a good breakfast, and a good breakfast is better than a bad one, like a good book is better than having your toe chopped off.

By the 1920s if you wanted to work behind a lunch counter you needed to know that 'Noah's boy' was a slice of ham (since Ham was one of Noah’s sons) and that 'burn one' or 'grease spot' designated a hamburger. 'He'll take a chance' or 'clean the kitchen' meant an order of hash, 'Adam and Eve on a raft' was two poached eggs on toast, 'cats' eyes' was tapioca pudding, 'bird seed' was cereal, 'whistleberries' were baked beans, and 'dough well done with cow to cover' was the somewhat labored way of calling for an order of toast and butter. Food that had been waiting too long was said to be 'growing a beard'. Many of these shorthand terms have since entered the mainstream, notably BLT for a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich, 'over easy' and 'sunny side up' in respect of eggs, and 'hold' as in 'hold the mayo'.

While we're on brunch, how about hollandaise sauce? Not for me. Bacteria love hollandaise. And hollandaise, that delicate emulsion of egg yolks and clarified butter, must be held at a temperature not too hot nor too cold, lest it break when spooned over your poached eggs. Unfortunately, this lukewarm holding temperature is also the favorite environment for bacteria to copulate and reproduce in. Nobody I know has ever made hollandaise to order. Most likely, the stuff on your eggs was made hours ago and held on station. Equally disturbing is the likelihood that the butter used in the hollandaise is melted table butter, heated, clarified, and strained to get out all the breadcrumbs and cigarette butts. Butter is expensive, you know. Hollandaise is a veritable petri-dish of biohazards.

The lunatic who believes he is a poached egg, is to be condemned solely on the ground that he is in a minority. Or rather, since we must not assume democracy, on the ground that the government disagrees with him.

How can you whip cream without whips? Whipped cream isn't whipped cream at all unless it's been whipped with whips. Just as a poached egg isn't a poached egg unless it's been stolen from the woods in the dead of night!

Ah now, that’s manners for you,” said the little figure, who wore a large, floppy hat and a large, flappy overcoat. “Is there more? he says, as if it were poached quail’s eggs and smoked gazelle and truffles, not just a mushrump, what tastes more or less like something what’s been dead for a week and a cat wouldn’t touch. Manners.

A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic—on a level with the man who says he is a poached egg—or else he would be the Devil of Hell.

Kate Moss famously said that “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” So I thought I’d put together a little list of things she’s obviously never tried before that taste so much better than buying into an oppressive body ideal could ever feel: Pasta, pizza, mangoes, avocados, doughnuts, peanut butter, sushi, bacon, chocolate cake, lemon cake, any cake really, blueberries, garlic bread, smoked salmon, poached eggs, apples, roast dinners, cookie dough, sweet potatoes, whipped cream, freshly squeezed orange juice, watermelon, gelato, paella, oh and cheese. You’re welcome, Kate!

The modern philosopher claims, like a sort of confident man, that if we will grant him this, the rest will be easy; he will straighten out the world, if he is allowed to give this one twist to the mind... Against all this the philosophy of St. Thomas stands founded on the universal common conviction that eggs are eggs. The Hegelian may say that an egg is really a hen, because it is a part of an endless process of Becoming; the Berkelian may hold that poached eggs only exist as a dream exists, since it is quite as easy to call the dream the cause of the eggs as the eggs the cause of the dream; the Pragmatist may believe that we get the best out of scrambled eggs by forgetting that they ever were eggs, and only remembering the scramble. But no pupil of St. Thomas needs to addle his brains in order adequately to addle his eggs; to put his head at any peculiar angle in looking at eggs, or squinting at eggs, or winking the other eye in order to see a new simplification of eggs. The Thomist stands in the broad daylight of the brotherhood of men, in their common consciousness that eggs are not hens or dreams or mere practical assumptions; but things attested by the Authority of the Senses, which is from God.

I’m ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but I don’t accept His claim to be God.’ That is the one thing we must not say. A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic—on a level with the man who says he is a poached egg—or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God: or else a madman or something worse.

He had to admit that this boy looked like good wizard material. In other words, he was thin, gangling, pale from reading disturbing books in unhealthy rooms, and had watery eyes like two lightly poached eggs....Wizards are martyrs to things like asthma and flat feet; it somehow seems to give them their drive.

As observers of totalitarianism such as Victor Klemperer noticed, truth dies in four modes, all of which we have just witnessed. The first mode is the open hostility to verifiable reality, which takes the form of presenting inventions and lies as if they were facts. The president does this at a high rate and at a fast pace. One attempt during the 2016 campaign to track his utterances found that 78 percent of his factual claims were false. This proportion is so high that it makes the correct assertions seem like unintended oversights on the path toward total fiction. Demeaning the world as it is begins the creation of a fictional counterworld. The second mode is shamanistic incantation. As Klemperer noted, the fascist style depends upon “endless repetition,” designed to make the fictional plausible and the criminal desirable. The systematic use of nicknames such as “Lyin’ Ted” and “Crooked Hillary” displaced certain character traits that might more appropriately have been affixed to the president himself. Yet through blunt repetition over Twitter, our president managed the transformation of individuals into stereotypes that people then spoke aloud. At rallies, the repeated chants of “Build that wall” and “Lock her up” did not describe anything that the president had specific plans to do, but their very grandiosity established a connection between him and his audience. The next mode is magical thinking, or the open embrace of contradiction. The president’s campaign involved the promises of cutting taxes for everyone, eliminating the national debt, and increasing spending on both social policy and national defense. These promises mutually contradict. It is as if a farmer said he were taking an egg from the henhouse, boiling it whole and serving it to his wife, and also poaching it and serving it to his children, and then returning it to the hen unbroken, and then watching as the chick hatches. Accepting untruth of this radical kind requires a blatant abandonment of reason. Klemperer’s descriptions of losing friends in Germany in 1933 over the issue of magical thinking ring eerily true today. One of his former students implored him to “abandon yourself to your feelings, and you must always focus on the Führer’s greatness, rather than on the discomfort you are feeling at present.” Twelve years later, after all the atrocities, and at the end of a war that Germany had clearly lost, an amputated soldier told Klemperer that Hitler “has never lied yet. I believe in Hitler.” The final mode is misplaced faith. It involves the sort of self-deifying claims the president made when he said that “I alone can solve it” or “I am your voice.” When faith descends from heaven to earth in this way, no room remains for the small truths of our individual discernment and experience. What terrified Klemperer was the way that this transition seemed permanent. Once truth had become oracular rather than factual, evidence was irrelevant. At the end of the war a worker told Klemperer that “understanding is useless, you have to have faith. I believe in the Führer.

Whips!” cried Veruca Salt. “What on earth do you use whips for?” “For whipping cream, of course,” said Mr. Wonka. “How can you whip cream without whips? Whipped cream isn’t whipped cream at all unless it’s been whipped with whips. Just as a poached egg isn’t a poached egg unless it’s been stolen from the woods in the dead of night! Row on, please!” They

He was standing very still with his arms folded, staring with poached egg eyes.

He would either be a lunatic—on a level with the man who says he is a poached egg—or else he would be the Devil of Hell.

It is therefore important to discover whether there is any answer to Hume within the framework of a philosophy that is wholly or mainly empirical. If not, there is no intellectual difference between sanity and insanity. The lunatic who believes that he is a poached egg is to be condemned solely on the ground that he is in a minority, or rather — since we must not assume democracy — on the ground that the government does not agree with him. This is a desperate point of view, and it must be hoped that there is some way of escaping from it.

Just suppose that the dead do revisit the living. That something approximately to be described as Jim can return to see how George is making out. Would this be at all satisfactory? Would it even be worthwhile? At best, surely, it would be like the brief visit of an observer from another country who is permitted to peep in for a moment from the vast outdoors of his freedom and see, at a distance, through glass, this figure who sits solitary at the small table in the narrow room, eating his poached eggs humbly and dully, a prisoner for life.

Penn replied that surely bin Laden had provided quite a number of his very own broadcasts and videos. I was again impressed by the way that Chávez rejected this proffered lucid-interval lifeline. All of this so-called evidence, too, was a mere product of imperialist television. After all, “there is film of the Americans landing on the moon,” he scoffed. “Does that mean the moon shot really happened? In the film, the Yanqui flag is flying straight out. So, is there wind on the moon?” As Chávez beamed with triumph at this logic, an awkwardness descended on my comrades, and on the conversation. Chávez, in other words, is very close to the climactic moment when he will announce that he is a poached egg and that he requires a very large piece of buttered toast so that he can lie down and take a soothing nap.

I love eggs. Scrambled eggs. Fried eggs. Poached on toast, and boiled eggs. I love peeling the shell off of a boiled egg, don't you. I even like egg salad, which my brother won't eat even if someone holds him down...

It was as soft as a poached egg and, when he punctured it, oozed what appeared to be ivory-colored cream. He tried some. Richness flooded his mouth. The taste was fresh, almost like chewing grass, but filling and slightly sweet.

I am trying here to prevent anyone saying the really foolish thing that people often say about Him: ‘I’m ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but I don’t accept His claim to be God.’ That is the one thing we must not say. A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic—on a level with the man who says he is a poached egg—or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God: or else a madman or something worse. You can shut Him up for a fool, you can spit at Him and kill Him as a demon; or you can fall at His feet and call Him Lord and God. But let us not come with any patronising nonsense about His being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.

All through dinner Miss Beatrice Hyde-Clare imagined tossing food at Damien Matlock, Duke of Kesgrave. The projectiles varied depending on the course—fish patties with olive paste, stuffed tomatoes, veal cutlets, poached eggs, fillets of salmon, meringues with preserves—but the impulse remained steady.

I am trying here to prevent anyone saying the really foolish thing that people often say about Him: ‘I’m ready to accept Jesus as a great moral teacher, but I don’t accept His claim to be God.’ That is the one thing we must not say. A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic—on a level with the man who says he is a poached egg—or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God: or else a madman or something worse. You can shut Him up for a fool, you can spit at Him and kill Him as a demon; or you can fall at His feet and call Him Lord and God. But let us not come with any patronising nonsense about His being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He

how about hollandaise sauce? Not for me. Bacteria love hollandaise. And hollandaise, that delicate emulsion of egg yolks and clarified butter, must be held at a temperature not too hot nor too cold, lest it break when spooned over your poached eggs. Unfortunately, this lukewarm holding temperature is also the favorite environment for bacteria to copulate and reproduce in. Nobody I know has ever made hollandaise to order.

Add a pinch of salt to eggs destined for scrambling, omelettes, custards, or frittatas before cooking. Lightly season water for poaching eggs. Season eggs cooked in the shell or fried in a pan just before serving.

They streaked past a black door. STOREROOM NUMBER 71, it said on it. WHIPS - ALL SHAPES AN SIZES. "Whips!' cried Veruca Salt. "What on earth do you use whips for?" "For whipping cream of course," said Wonka. "How can you whip cream without whips? Whipped cream isn't whipped cream at all unless it's been whipped with whips. Just as a poached egg isn't a poached egg unless it's been stolen from the woods in the dead of night! Row on please!

A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic—on a level with the man who says he is a poached egg—or else he would be the Devil of Hell. . . . You can shut Him up for a fool, you can spit at Him and kill Him as a demon; or you can fall at His feet and call Him Lord and God. But let us not come with any patronising nonsense about His being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.2

EGGS BENEDICT It is made up of a poached egg, cheese, bacon and other ingredients on top of a muffin and seasoned with tangy hollandaise. It is one of the more traditional breakfast dishes served in North America. However, Eggs Benedict alone can hardly be called an original dish. Where's the surprise? Still, faced with such beauty... ... I can't help but want to take a bite. AAAH! A perfectly poached egg so soft it melts on the tongue. The refined tang of high-quality hollandaise sauce. Crispy, salty bacon and a sweet, soft muffin! All of these together wrap the tongue in an exquisite harmony of deliciousness! Wait, no. That isn't all. There is a greater depth to the flavor than that. But from what? Hm? What is that golden powder I see? AH! Karasumi! You've sprinkled karasumi on the muffin! *Karasumi: Dried mullet roe. It is considered a delicacy in Japan* I see! Karasumi is made of roe, which are fish eggs! It was the salty delicacy of the karasumi mixed with the richness of the egg yolk... ... that created such a deep and robust flavor!

A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic—on the level with a man who says he is a poached egg—or he would be the devil of hell. You must take your choice. Either this was, and is, the Son of God, or else a madman or something worse. You can shut him up for a fool or you can fall at his feet and call him Lord and God. But let us not come with any patronizing nonsense about his being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. There

A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic—on a level with the man who says he is a poached egg—or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God: or else a madman or something worse. You can shut Him up for a fool, you can spit at Him and kill Him as a demon; or you can fall at His feet and call Him Lord and God. But let us not come with any patronising nonsense about His being a great human

BULLETPROOF POACHED EGGS WITH SAUTÉED GREENS Poaching is a great Bulletproof method of cooking eggs to retain their nutrients and avoid damaging the proteins. This is a great weekend lunch meal that could easily be substituted for dinner. Try buying an assortment of fresh organic greens and prewash them when you get home so they’re ready when you need them for easy cooking. 2 to 3 cups greens of your choice (kale, collards, chard, etc.) 2 tablespoons grass-fed unsalted butter or ghee Sea salt 2 tablespoons sliced raw cashews or almonds 2 poached eggs Fill a pan with an inch or two of water and add the greens to cook. Once the greens are tender, drain the water and add the butter or ghee. Toss the greens in the butter or ghee until covered. Remove the greens from the heat and sprinkle with salt and nuts. You should poach your eggs so your yolks are runny and the nutrition from the yolks is intact. The restaurant tricks to poaching eggs are to add 2 tablespoons of apple cider vinegar to the water and then swirl the water around before cracking the eggs so they stay in the center of the whirlpool.

Loeser's favourite book in Blimk's shop, where he spent most of his afternoons, was still Dames! And how to Lay them. He referred to it constantly, like a psalter, with an inexhaustible excitement at the notion that it was possible to seduce a woman just by following a rigorous system of instructions. The problem was, there wasn't much in it that he felt he could put to practical use. 'Want to impress a dame with morning after the night before? Run to the kitchen while she's still snoozing fit to bust, and come back with what I like to call the Egg Majestique. That's one of every type of egg on a tray: a soft-boiled egg, a hard-boiled egg, an egg over easy, an egg sunny side up, a poached egg, a devilled egg, a pickled egg, a coddled egg, a scrambled egg, a one-egg omelette, and a shot of egg nog for the hangover. No dame will be able to believe you know so many ways to cook eggs. Egg protein is good for the manly function, and after you've pulled off the Egg Majestique, you'll probably need it, if you know what I mean.' This sounded pretty authoritative to Loeser but he just wasn't quite sure.

She did love Stan, but it was different. A different kind of love. Trusting, sedate. It went with pet fish, in fishbowls – not that they had one of those – and with cats, perhaps. And with eggs for breakfast, poached, snuggled inside their individual poachers. And with babies. Once

A man who was merely a man and said the sort of thing Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic—on a level with the man who says he is a poached egg—or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God: or else a madman or something worse. You can shut Him up for a fool, you can spit at Him and kill Him as a demon; or you can fall at His feet and call Him Lord and God. But let us not come with any patronizing nonsense about His being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.

For the weekend before, we had had a blowout of tarts, a tart bender, tart madness- even, I dare say, a Tart-a-pa-looza, if you will forgive one final usage of the construction before we at last bury that cruelly beaten dead pop-culture horse. Tarte aux Pêches, Tarte aux Limettes, Tarte aux Poires, Tarte aux Cerises. Tarte aux Fromage Frais, both with and without Pruneaux. Tarte aux Citron et aux Amandes, Tarte aux Poires à la Bourdalue, and Tarte aux Fraises, which is not "Tart with Freshes," as the name of the Tarte aux Fromage Frais ("Tart with Fresh Cheese," of course) might suggest, but rather Tart with Strawberries, which was a fine little French lesson. (Why are strawberries, in particular, named for freshness? Why not blackberries? Or say, river trout? I love playing amateur- not to say totally ignorant- etymologist....) I made two kinds of pastry in a kitchen so hot that, even with the aid of a food processor, the butter started melting before I could get it incorporated into the dough. Which work resulted in eight tart crusts, perhaps not paragons of the form, but good enough. I made eight fillings for my eight tart crusts. I creamed butter and broke eggs and beat batter until it formed "the ribbon." I poached pears and cherries and plums in red wine.

Day 1 Breakfast Half a Grapefruit or 8 Ounces Fresh Squeezed Grapefruit Juice Black Coffee or Unsweetened Tea Lunch Half a Grapefruit or 8 Ounces Fresh Squeezed Grapefruit Juice 1 Egg, Boiled or Poached Salad From The Super Skinny Salad List Your Choice of Approved Salad Dressings 1 Grain From The Super Skinny Grain List Black Coffee or Unsweetened Tea Dinner Half a Grapefruit or 8 Ounces Fresh Squeezed Grapefruit Juice 2 Eggs, Boiled or Poached Salad From The Super Skinny Salad List Your Choice of Approved Salad Dressings 1 Grain From The Super Skinny Grain List Black Coffee or Unsweetened Tea   Day 2 Today is Resveratrol Day! Resveratol is

Tender poached egg. Creamy mashed potatoes. And the thick layer of hot, melted cheese! Those are all incredibly delicious, but what takes the cake is the roux! It's been made in a VICHYSSOISE style!" VICHYSSOISE Boiled potatoes, onions, leeks and other ingredients are pureed with cream and soup stock to make this potage. It's often served chilled. Its creation is generally credited to Louis Diat, a French chef at the Ritz Carlton in New York, who first put it on the hotel's menu in 1917. "Amazing! It looks like a thick, heavy dish that would sit in the stomach like lead, but it's so easy to eat!" "The noodles! It's the udon noodles, along with the coriander powder, that makes it feel so much lighter! Coriander is known for its fresh, almost citrusy scent and its mildly spicy bite. It goes exceptionally well with the cumin kneaded into the noodles, each spice working to heighten the other's fragrance. AAAH! It's immensely satisfying!" "I have also included dill, vichyssoise's traditional topping. Dry roasting the dill seeds together with the cumin seeds made a spice mix that gave a strong aroma to the roux." "Hm! Fat noodles in a thick, creamy roux. Eating them is much the same experience as having dipping noodles. What an amazing concept to arrive at from a century-old French soup recipe!

When Jasmine woke that morning she'd been dreaming of breakfast. Not cornflakes or melba toast, skim milk and a sorry slice of apple. No, Jasmine was elbow deep in creamy oatmeal slathered with brown sugar and hot cream. Next, a plate of eggs Sardou: poached eggs nestled sweetly in the baby-smooth bottoms of artichokes and napped with a blushing spiced hollandaise sauce. Jasmine stared up at the ceiling, her mouth a swamp of saliva as she mentally mopped the rest of the hollandaise sauce with a crust of crusty French bread before taking a sip of nutty chicory coffee and reaching for a freshly fried beignet so covered with powdered sugar it made her sneeze.

There were poached eggs, broiled grapefruit halves, a rasher of bacon, and a basket of small oblong cakes that appeared to have been twisted and turned partially inside out before they had been deep-fried to golden brown. "What are these?" Cassandra asked the waiter. "Those are called Jersey Wonders, milady. They've been made on the island since before I was a boy." After the waiter had finished setting out the food and left, Cassandra picked up one of the cakes and took a bite. The outside was lightly crisp, the inside soft and flavored with ginger and nutmeg. "Mmm." Tom chuckled. He came to seat her at the table, and bent to kiss her temple. "A cake that's shaped like a shoe," he murmured. "How perfect for you.

His antipasto was the classic Roman fritto misto---tiny morsels of mixed offal, including slivers of poached brains and liver, along with snails, artichokes, apples, pears, and bread dipped in milk, all deep-fried in a crisp egg-and-bread-crumb batter. This was to be followed by a primo of rigatoni alla pajata---pasta served with intestines from a baby calf so young that they were still full of its mother's milk, simmered with onions, white wine, tomatoes, cloves, and garlic. For the secondo they would be having milza in umido--- a stewed lamb's spleen, cooked with sage, anchovies, and pepper. A bitter salad of puntarelle al' acciuga---chicory sprouts with anchovy---would cleanse the palate, to be followed by a simple dolce of fragole in aceto, gorella strawberries in vinegar.

He worked at a feverish pace. He experimented with all manner of pies: tortoises, eel, chicken, frog, mushroom, artichoke, apricot, cherry, and his favorite of all, a luscious strawberry pie. He made omelets, stuffed eggs, and poached eggs with rosemary over toast. There were soups galore: fennel, tortellini, Hungarian milk, millet, kohlrabi, pea, and his famous Venetian turnip soup, which this time he made with apples instead. He molded jelly into the shapes of the cardinali crests, colored with wine, carrot, and saffron. He delighted most in the moments when he worked with his favorite knife, carving and slicing roasted cockerel, peacock, capons, turtledoves, ortolans, blackbirds, partridges, pheasants, and wood grouse. Every slice of the knife gave him greater confidence and belief in his power to make the world his.

I AM TRYING HERE TO PREVENT ANYONE SAYING THE REALLY FOOLISH THING THAT PEOPLE OFTEN SAY ABOUT HIM: “I’M READY TO ACCEPT JESUS AS A GREAT MORAL TEACHER, BUT I DON’T ACCEPT HIS CLAIM TO BE GOD.” THAT IS THE ONE THING WE MUST NOT SAY. A MAN WHO WAS MERELY A MAN AND SAID THE SORT OF THINGS JESUS SAID WOULD NOT BE A GREAT MORAL TEACHER. HE WOULD EITHER BE A LUNATIC—ON A LEVEL WITH THE MAN WHO SAYS HE IS A POACHED EGG—OR ELSE HE WOULD BE THE DEVIL OF HELL. YOU MUST MAKE YOUR CHOICE. EITHER THIS MAN WAS, AND IS, THE SON OF GOD: OR ELSE A MADMAN OR SOMETHING WORSE. YOU CAN SHUT HIM UP FOR A FOOL, YOU CAN SPIT AT HIM AND KILL HIM AS A DEMON; OR YOU CAN FALL AT HIS FEET AND CALL HIM LORD AND GOD. BUT LET US NOT COME UP WITH ANY PATRONISING NONSENSE ABOUT HIS BEING A GREAT HUMAN TEACHER. HE HAS NOT LEFT THAT OPEN TO US. HE DID NOT INTEND TO.6

the case is even stronger, and the parallel with madness is yet more strange. For it was our case against the exhaustive and logical theory of the lunatic that, right or wrong, it gradually destroyed his humanity. Now it is the charge against the main deductions of the materialist that, right or wrong, they gradually destroy his humanity; I do not mean only kindness, I mean hope, courage, poetry, initiative, all that is human. For instance, when materialism leads men to complete fatalism (as it generally does), it is quite idle to pretend that it is in any sense a liberating force. It is absurd to say that you are especially advancing freedom when you only use free thought to destroy free will. The determinists come to bind , not to loose . They may well call their law the "chain" of causation. It is the worst chain that ever fettered a human being. You may use the language of liberty, if you like, about materialistic teaching, but it is obvious that this is just as inapplicable to it as a whole as the same language when applied to a man locked up in a mad-house. You may say, if you like, that the man is free to think himself a poached egg. But it is surely a more massive and important fact that if he is a poached egg he is not free to eat, drink, sleep, walk, or smoke a cigarette. Similarly you may say, if you like, that the bold determinist speculator is free to disbelieve in the reality of the will. But it is a much more massive and important fact that he is not free to raise, to curse, to thank, to justify, to urge, to punish, to resist temptations, to incite mobs, to make New Year resolutions, to pardon sinners, to rebuke tyrants, or even to say "thank you" for the mustard.

Night by night, he led her through Saturnus's gardens, describing the dishes that might come from each one. 'Poached collops of venison,' he whispered in her ear. 'A quaking pudding with raisins, honey and saffron. Custards flavored with conserve of roses and a paste of quinces. Beef wrapped about a mash of artichoke and pistachio, then hollowed manchet rolls filled with minced eggs, sweet herbs and cinnamon...' He described the foaming forcemeat of fowls then set before her a dish. He watched her scoop up a little of the pale orange mash. 'I confess that to this poor palate your forcemeats taste strongly of turnips.' 'Ah, but I have not yet described the seasonings of cumin and saffron, the beaten egg whites and the folding of the forcemeats into the pipkin.' He scooped more of the turnip mash and held out the spoon. 'Taste again, your ladyship. Imagine the spices...

Now alongside Scovell, John eased preserved peaches out of galliot pots of syrup and picked husked walnuts from puncheons of salt. He clarified butter and poured it into rye-paste coffins. From the Master Cook, John learned to set creams with calves' feet, then isinglass, then hartshorn, pouring decoctions into egg-molds to set and be placed in nests of shredded lemon peel. To make cabbage cream he let the thick liquid clot, lifted off the top layer, folded it then repeated the process until the cabbage was sprinkled with rose water and dusted with sugar, ginger and nutmeg. He carved apples into animals and birds. The birds themselves he roasted, minced and folded into beaten egg whites in a foaming forcemeat of fowls. John boiled, coddled, simmered and warmed. He roasted, seared, fried and braised. He poached stock-fish and minced the meats of smoked herrings while Scovell's pans steamed with ancient sauces: black chawdron and bukkenade, sweet and sour egredouce, camelade and peppery gauncil. For the feasts above he cut castellations into pie-coffins and filled them with meats dyed in the colors of Sir William's titled guests. He fashioned palaces from wafers of spiced batter and paste royale, glazing their walls with panes of sugar. For the Bishop of Carrboro they concocted a cathedral. 'Sprinkle salt on the syrup,' Scovell told him, bent over the chafing dish in his chamber. A golden liquor swirled in the pan. 'Very slowly.' 'It will taint the sugar,' John objected. But Scovell shook his head. A day later they lifted off the cold clear crust and John split off a sharp-edged shard. 'Salt,' he said as it slid over his tongue. But little by little the crisp flake sweetened on his tongue. Sugary juices trickled down his throat. He turned to the Master Cook with a puzzled look. 'Brine floats,' Scovell said. 'Syrup sinks.' The Master Cook smiled. 'Patience, remember? Now, to the glaze...

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

The next mode is magical thinking, or the open embrace of contradiction. The president’s campaign involved the promises of cutting taxes for everyone, eliminating the national debt, and increasing spending on both social policy and national defense. These promises mutually contradict. It is as if a farmer said he were taking an egg from the henhouse, boiling it whole and serving it to his wife, and also poaching it and serving it to his children, and then returning it to the hen unbroken, and then watching as the chick hatches.

This hollandaise sauce that's been generously drizzled over the whole dish... I can taste yuzu kosho and soy sauce in it. That's a decidedly Japanese twist on a typically very European sauce! The heavy savoriness of thick sliced pork grilled to a crusty golden brown... ... balances perfectly with the briskly tart Shio Konbu seaweed and shiso leaves mixed into the rice! Then there's the centerpiece of his dish, the tempura egg! It's crispy on the outside and delectably soft and gooey on the inside! Instead of freezing it, he must have poached the egg before deep-frying it this time! The whites are unbelievably tender, and the soft-boiled yolk is so creamy you might not believed it's cooked! To batter and deep-fry a poached egg that delicate without crushing it... ... you'd need skill and a touch bordering on the superhuman! Just how much has he trained?! How hard has he practiced... ... to make this single dish?! "Sure does take you back, doesn't it? This Eggs Benedict. I switched the muffin out for some seasoned rice, a family-restaurant staple. Then there's the poached egg that I deep-fried. Pork chops for the bacon. Japanese-style hollandaise sauce.

If, by the virtue of charity or the circumstance of desperation, you ever chance to spend a little time around a Substance-recovery halfway facility like Enfield MA’s state-funded Ennet House, you will acquire many exotic new facts…That certain persons simply will not like you no matter what you do. That sleeping can be a form of emotional escape and can with sustained effort be abused. That purposeful sleep-deprivation can also be an abusable escape. That you do not have to like a person in order to learn from him/her/it. That loneliness is not a function of solitude. That logical validity is not a guarantee of truth. That it takes effort to pay attention to any one stimulus for more than a few seconds. That boring activities become, perversely, much less boring if you concentrate intently on them. That if enough people in a silent room are drinking coffee it is possible to make out the sound of steam coming off the coffee. That sometimes human beings have to just sit in one place and, like, hurt. That you will become way less concerned with what other people think of you when you realize how seldom they do. That there is such a thing as raw, unalloyed, agendaless kindness. That it is possible to fall asleep during an anxiety attack. That concentrating intently on anything is very hard work. That 99% of compulsive thinkers’ thinking is about themselves; that 99% of this self-directed thinking consists of imagining and then getting ready for things that are going to happen to them; and then, weirdly, that if they stop to think about it, that 100% of the things they spend 99% of their time and energy imagining and trying to prepare for all the contingencies and consequences of are never good. In short that 99% of the head’s thinking activity consists of trying to scare the everliving shit out of itself. That it is possible to make rather tasty poached eggs in a microwave oven. That some people’s moms never taught them to cover up or turn away when they sneeze. That the people to be the most frightened of are the people who are the most frightened. That it takes great personal courage to let yourself appear weak. That no single, individual moment is in and of itself unendurable. That other people can often see things about you that you yourself cannot see, even if those people are stupid. That having a lot of money does not immunize people from suffering or fear. That trying to dance sober is a whole different kettle of fish. That different people have radically different ideas of basic personal hygiene. That, perversely, it is often more fun to want something than to have it. That if you do something nice for somebody in secret, anonymously, without letting the person you did it for know it was you or anybody else know what it was you did or in any way or form trying to get credit for it, it’s almost its own form of intoxicating buzz. That anonymous generosity, too, can be abused. That it is permissible to want. That everybody is identical in their unspoken belief that way deep down they are different from everyone else. That this isn’t necessarily perverse. That there might not be angels, but there are people who might as well be angels.

Thick and creamy egg, fragrant roast quail... and the rice! It all makes such a hearty, satisfying combination! Wait, something just crunched? "See, there are five parts to a good chicken-and-egg rice bowl. Chicken... eggs... rice... onions... and warishita. *Warishita is a sauce made from a combination of broth, soy sauce and sugar.* "I seared the quail in oil before putting it in the oven to roast. That made the skin nice and crispy... while leaving the meat inside tender and juicy. For the eggs, I seasoned them with salt and a generous pinch of black pepper to give them some bite and then added cream to make them thick and creamy! It's the creaminess of the soft-boiled egg that makes or breaks a good chicken-and-egg bowl, y'know. Some milk made the risotto extra creamy. I then mixed in onions as well as ground chicken that was browned in butter. I used the Suer technique on the onions. That should have given some body to their natural sweetness. For the sauce, I sweetened some Madeira wine with sugar and honey and then added a dash of soy sauce. Like warishita in a regular chicken-and-egg rice bowl, this sauce ties all the parts of the dish together. Try it with the poached egg. It's seriously delicious! Basically I took the idea of a Japanese chicken-and-egg rice bowl... ... and rebuilt it using only French techniques!" "Yukihira! I wanna try it too!" "Oh, uh, sorry. I only made that one." "Awww! You've gotta make one for me someday!" "There is one thing I still don't understand. When you stuff a bird, out of necessity the filling has to remain firm to stay in place. Something soft and creamy like risotto should have fallen right back out! "How did you make this filling work?!" "I know! The crunch!" "Yep! It's cabbage! I quickly blanched a cabbage leaf, wrapped the risotto in it... ... and then stuffed it inside the quail!" "Aha! Just like during the Camp Shokugeph!" It's the same idea behind the Chou Farci Shinomiya made! The cabbage leaf is blanched perfectly too. He brought out just enough sweetness while still retaining its crispy texture. And it's that very sweetness that softly ties the fragrant quail meat together with the creamy richness of the risotto filling!

Gadgetry will continue to relieve mankind of tedious jobs. Kitchen units will be devised that will prepare ‘automeals,’ heating water and converting it to coffee; toasting bread; frying, poaching or scrambling eggs, grilling bacon, and so on. Breakfasts will be ‘ordered’ the night before to be ready by a specified hour the next morning. Communications will become sight-sound and you will see as well as hear the person you telephone. The screen can be used not only to see the people you call but also for studying documents and photographs and reading passages from books. Synchronous satellites, hovering in space will make it possible for you to direct-dial any spot on earth, including the weather stations in Antarctica. [M]en will continue to withdraw from nature in order to create an environment that will suit them better. By 2014, electroluminescent panels will be in common use. Ceilings and walls will glow softly, and in a variety of colors that will change at the touch of a push button. Robots will neither be common nor very good in 2014, but they will be in existence. The appliances of 2014 will have no electric cords, of course, for they will be powered by long- lived batteries running on radioisotopes. “[H]ighways … in the more advanced sections of the world will have passed their peak in 2014; there will be increasing emphasis on transportation that makes the least possible contact with the surface. There will be aircraft, of course, but even ground travel will increasingly take to the air a foot or two off the ground. [V]ehicles with ‘Robot-brains’ … can be set for particular destinations … that will then proceed there without interference by the slow reflexes of a human driver. [W]all screens will have replaced the ordinary set; but transparent cubes will be making their appearance in which three-dimensional viewing will be possible. [T]he world population will be 6,500,000,000 and the population of the United States will be 350,000,000. All earth will be a single choked Manhattan by A.D. 2450 and society will collapse long before that! There will, therefore, be a worldwide propaganda drive in favor of birth control by rational and humane methods and, by 2014, it will undoubtedly have taken serious effect. Ordinary agriculture will keep up with great difficulty and there will be ‘farms’ turning to the more efficient micro-organisms. Processed yeast and algae products will be available in a variety of flavors. The world of A.D. 2014 will have few routine jobs that cannot be done better by some machine than by any human being. Mankind will therefore have become largely a race of machine tenders. Schools will have to be oriented in this direction…. All the high-school students will be taught the fundamentals of computer technology will become proficient in binary arithmetic and will be trained to perfection in the use of the computer languages that will have developed out of those like the contemporary “Fortran". [M]ankind will suffer badly from the disease of boredom, a disease spreading more widely each year and growing in intensity. This will have serious mental, emotional and sociological consequences, and I dare say that psychiatry will be far and away the most important medical specialty in 2014. [T]he most glorious single word in the vocabulary will have become work! in our a society of enforced leisure.

(Israeli-style eggs poached in tomato

All that can accurately be said about a man who thinks he is a poached egg is that he is in the minority.

You may use the language of liberty, if you like, about materialistic teaching, but it is obvious that this is just as inapplicable to it as a whole as the same language when applied to a man locked up in a mad-house. You may say, if you like, that the man is free to think himself a poached egg. But it is surely a more massive and important fact that if he is a poached egg he is not free to eat, drink, sleep, walk, or smoke a cigarette. Similarly you may say, if you like, that the bold determinist speculator is free to disbelieve in the reality of the will. But it is a much more massive and important fact that he is not free to praise, to curse, to thank, to justify, to urge, to punish, to resist temptations, to incite mobs, to make New Year resolutions, to pardon sinners, to rebuke tyrants, or even to say "thank you" for the mustard.

The egg-man looks over my shoulder. “Those wings aren’t the only proof of your heritage. You’re a traitor, sending us all up river so you could save your petty mortal half. You’re nothing short of a—” “Benedict,” I interrupt between clenched teeth. Hubert’s eyes narrow—curious and hate-filled. “Eggs Benedict.” I point to a picture on the menu. “Poached eggs. Canadian bacon. Hollandaise sauce and an English muffin. And I’d like a side of fruit.”

In the summers we swam in the river and caught minnows with jam pots; on Sunday evenings my father fished in it, bringing home each time a bag of trout. In winter salmon came up to this quiet backwater to spawn and, of course, there was a certain amount of poaching, to which my father objected strongly. Once, when a generous neighbour gave us a present of a poached salmon, he lined us all up around the kitchen table and proceeded to open up the fish. As the eggs poured out he explained about the huge loss of fish life due to the poaching of this one salmon. In my father's world nature possessed a balance and man had no right to upset that balance to satisfy his own greed; killing this fish was going against the laws of nature.

God liked eggs in the morning. It didn’t really matter which kind. Poached, fried, scrambled. Sometimes he had them bring him what he called a bird’s nest: a piece of toast with an egg stuck in the middle.

Guests came and went as they pleased, filling their gold-banded plates with hot breads, poached eggs on toast, smoked quail, fruit salad, and slices of charlotte russe made with sponge cake and Bavarian cream. Footmen crossed through the entrance hall as they headed outside with trays of coffee, tea, and iced champagne. Ordinarily this was the kind of event Cassandra would have enjoyed to no end. She loved a nice breakfast, especially when there was a little something sweet to finish off, and charlotte russe was one of her favorite desserts. However, she was in no mood to make small talk with anyone. Besides, she'd eaten far too many sweets lately... the extra jam tart at teatime yesterday, and all the fruit ices between dinner courses last night, and that entire éclair, stuffed with rich almond cream and roofed with a crisp layer of icing. And one of the little decorative marzipan flowers from a platter of puddings.

For our first course, we have a play on biscuits and gravy, a classic Southern dish that's also popular in the Midwest." Chef Laurent picked up his fork and cutter into the biscuit. "Here, we have a miniature biscuit topped a boudin blanc sawmill gravy and a poached quail egg." Chef Martinet poked at the quail egg until the yolk burst. Probably looking for egg flaws. Rosie decided to just keep talking. If she kept talking, she wouldn't be thinking about what they were eating. "I first had biscuits and gravy at the restaurant where my mom works." "Your mother, she is a chef?" Chef Laurent asked. He was going back in for another bite. That had to be a good sign. "No. She, um, manages the store... at the restaurant... where she works." No matter how much time Chef Laurent may have spent in Ohio, Rosie was pretty sure he hadn't experienced a Cracker Barrel. But he nodded like a combined restaurant and gift store was nothing out of the ordinary. "I put my own spin on sawmill gravy by using boudin blanc instead of breakfast sausage to incorporate some of the flavors I've discovered living here, and I kept the biscuit small and used a quail egg to keep the portion appropriate for a first course." "The biscuit is excellent," Chef Laurent said. "Fluffy, light, buttery- it is everything a biscuit should be. I should tell Marcus that this exactly the kind of appetizer he should serve." He must have meant Marcus Samuelsson. Rosie felt her hopes start to rise. "For our next course, we have a burger topped with Gruyère and caramelized onions on a brioche bun.

The nest is made of butter-poached mushrooms," Hampus was saying. Henry had been so busy fuming he'd missed Chef Martinet's first bite of Hampus's dish: creamy scrambled eggs spilling out of eggshells inside a nest that was, apparently made of butter-poached foraged mushrooms. It looked so much like a real bird's nest Henry could hardly believe it was mushrooms. "In Sweden, we like our scrambled eggs very, very creamy," Hampus continued. "I have added a simple salad of foraged dandelion greens to offset the richness of the dish." "This is inspired," Chef Martinet said. "You have made the mushroom the star.

Our breakfast menu featured some special soups, including a spicy tomato mixture with fresh oysters, a light cream of potato soup with a poached egg, served with crisp, buttered toast, and a creamy oatmeal soup with chicken stock and sliced leek and crisp bacon tidbits.

POTATO CHEESE PANCAKES Coarsely grate onions and potatoes, drain and squeeze out absolutely all moisture. Add shredded Gruyère, flour, and puréed garlic to beaten eggs, then incorporate potatoes and onions to create a thick batter. Fry three-inch rounds of batter in oil until golden brown, then flip and finish. Serve with dip of seasoned spinach poached in heavy cream and mixed with sour cream. 23 MARBLE was too sensitive an asset to involve the Station in New York. ROD

Omegas & Alphas raw & cooked soft & hard whole & scrambled pure & deviled shirred & coddled poached & painted in rebirth baskets & natal nogs on our faces & in our noodles— eggs are words & words are eggs first & last last & first

A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic-on a level with the man who says he is a poached egg-or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God: or else a madman or something worse.

... a health drink company called Fuel, founded by a former tank commander in the British Army and an extreme-sports enthusiast, offers a liquid fry-up combining the flavors of bacon, sausage, poached egg, fried tomatoes, baked beans, mushrooms, toast, salt and pepper, and brown sauce. It's only 230 calories, and it packs twenty grams of protein (assuming you can keep it down).

It is nine o'clock, and London has breakfasted. Some unconsidered tens of thousands have, it is true, already enjoyed with what appetite they might their pre-prandial meal; the upper fifty thousand, again, have not yet left their luxurious couches, and will not breakfast till ten, eleven o'clock, noon; nay, there shall be sundry listless, languid members of fast military clubs, dwellers among the tents of Jermyn Street, and the high-priced second floors of Little Ryder Street, St. James's, upon whom one, two, and three o'clock in the afternoon shall be but as dawn, and whose broiled bones and devilled kidneys shall scarcely be laid on the damask breakfast-cloth before Sol is red in the western horizon. I wish that, in this age so enamoured of statistical information, when we must needs know how many loads of manure go to every acre of turnip-field, and how many jail-birds are thrust into the black hole per mensem for fracturing their pannikins, or tearing their convict jackets, that some M'Culloch or Caird would tabulate for me the amount of provisions, solid and liquid, consumed at the breakfasts of London every morning. I want to know how many thousand eggs are daily chipped, how many of those embryo chickens are poached, and how many fried; how many tons of quartern loaves are cut up to make bread-and-butter, thick and thin; how many porkers have been sacrificed to provide the bacon rashers, fat and streaky ; what rivers have been drained, what fuel consumed, what mounds of salt employed, what volumes of smoke emitted, to catch and cure the finny haddocks and the Yarmouth bloaters, that grace our morning repast. Say, too, Crosse and Blackwell, what multitudinous demands are matutinally made on thee for pots of anchovy paste and preserved tongue, covered with that circular layer - abominable disc! - of oleaginous nastiness, apparently composed of rancid pomatum, but technically known as clarified butter, and yet not so nasty as that adipose horror that surrounds the truffle bedecked pate  de  foie gras. Say, Elizabeth Lazenby, how many hundred bottles of thy sauce (none of which are genuine unless signed by thee) are in request to give a relish to cold meat, game, and fish. Mysteries upon mysteries are there connected with nine o'clock breakfasts.

Gia turned on the burner and reached for a saucepan. She lightly crushed two cloves of garlic with the side of a knife, then minced and sautéed them in olive oil and a knob of butter. She whisked in a little flour, toasting it in the oil, added a pinch of salt, then raised the heat and whisked it in a cup of homemade chicken broth from the fridge until the soup began to thicken. She beat two eggs together in a bowl with some grated Parmesan and added them gently to the soup, where they poached into gold and white strands of savory-soft egg and cheese. Gia selected a big earthenware bowl, ladled in her soup, ground in some fresh black pepper, and placed it in front of Angelina with a napkin and a spoon. "Stracciatella. For you." Angelina leaned over the bowl with her eyes closed and let the delicious wisps of steam rise up to her face. She picked up the spoon and sulkily nicked off a piece of egg. Gia returned to her cup of coffee, with an experienced parent's complete indifference as to whether the meal she'd prepared was eaten or not. Angelina stole a glance from her and dipped into the bowl, seduced by the aroma of toast laced with sweet and savory garlic, mingled with the soothing sustenance of good chicken broth. She sipped and felt warm comfort spread into her belly, across the bridge of her nose and the back of her neck.

She dipped a clean pinkie into the hollandaise in the bowl. It coated her finger like a sheath of yellow velvet. Despite her nerves, she plated swiftly and surely. She lifted the poached eggs clear from the shimmering, hot water with a safecracker's touch, laying each one with infinite care in place on top of its foundation of English muffin and Canadian bacon. Silky drizzle of hollandaise, sprinkle of fresh parsley, grind of black pepper, framed with creamed spinach, dusted with paprika. Done.

She always had a big pot of oatmeal going on the stove and was happy to whip up a short stack of pancakes at the drop of a hat, but she pretty much made the rest of the plates to order. After the first week she had a good handle not only on what each man liked for his morning meal, but what he needed. Mr. Cupertino still loved the occasional inspired omelet and once she had made him Eggs Meurette, poached eggs in a red wine sauce, served with a chunk of crusty French bread, which was a big hit. She balanced him out other mornings with hot cereal, and fresh fruit with yogurt or cottage cheese. Johnny mostly went for bowls of cereal washed down with an ocean of cold milk, so Angelina kept a nice variety on hand, though nothing too sugary. The Don would happily eat a soft-boiled egg with buttered toast every day for the rest of his life, but she inevitably got him to eat a little bowl of oatmeal just before or after with his coffee. Big Phil was on the receiving end of her supersize, stick-to-your-ribs special- sometimes scrambled eggs, toast, potatoes, and bacon, other times maybe a pile of French toast and a slice of ham. Angelina decided to start loading up his plate on her own when she realized he was bashful about asking for seconds. On Sundays, she put on a big spread at ten o'clock, after they had all been to church, which variously included such items as smoked salmon and bagels, sausages, broiled tomatoes with a Parmesan crust, scrapple (the only day she'd serve it), bacon, fresh, hot biscuits and fruit muffins, or a homemade fruit strudel. She made omelets to order for Jerry and Mr. Cupertino. Then they'd all reconvene at five for the Sunday roast with all the trimmings.

PIBIL EGGS BENEDICT 1 English muffin 2 slow-poached eggs 4 ounces pulled pork, cochinita pibil-style A pinch of chopped cilantro FOR THE HABANERO HOLLANDAISE: 2 habanero chilies, deveined and seeded 3 egg yolks 1 tablespoon lemon juice 1/4 teaspoon Dijon mustard 1/2 cup butter

People always ask why cartoon-me has an egg on her sweater. To me, eggs are a super inspiring example of versatility because they can be anything they set their minds to scrambled, sunny-side up, poached, you name it! An egg doesn't just decide to be these things on its own though; it needs a little guidance. And that's what this chapter is about: guidance to help you become the best egg you can possibly be.

Fish poached in water, wine, olive oil, or any combination of the three will emerge with an exceptionally tender texture and clean flavor. A poached or coddled egg can turn toast, salad, or soup into a meal. Poach eggs in spicy tomato sauce and you’ll have shakshuka, the popular North African dish. Use leftover marinara sauce for the endeavor and garnish with abundant Parmesan or pecorino Romano

For perfect poached eggs, add a capful of vinegar into boiling water to help speed up coagulation of the white and strengthen the outer texture, while preserving the runny yolk.

The Sun Also Rises takes place mostly in Paris and a little in Spain. Tons of wine, Pernod, villagers' wine... but the food is spare like the writing: a suckling pig, a roasted chicken, shrimp, bread and olive oil. Simple food, uncomplicated tastes." I chewed my lip. "That's it. Let's stay with simple food. Hemingway loved Spain, so let's drift toward those flavors, but no spice. And we can make them mix and match like tapas. Tyler will have flexibility." It felt good to collaborate with Jane. We listed fruits and vegetables that we could blend into smoothies. We then listed different flours to give the meals more taste, texture, and nutrients, like the coconut and almond flours I'd used for Jane's potpies and Peter's cake. We decided to alter the egg dishes and quiches that I'd been making for her into cleaner, simpler hashes and scrambles. We developed vegetable dishes----poached, roasted, fresh and lightly seasoned.

Caterina's townhouse sat a couple of blocks from a well-stocked grocery store. At about ten each morning, I bundled up, walked down, and purchased whatever ingredients amused me. Back in Caterina's kitchen, I baked chocolate babkas with quinoa flour, tartlets with cream and lychee fruit, roasted vegetables with poached eggs on top.

avocado toast with a slice of ripe hothouse tomato, a perfectly poached egg, and flaky sea salt on the excellent sourdough

The boys, who had had no time to prepare any homework, reminded their father that a note from him to the principal would be a great help. The detective smiled, and as soon as they reached home he wrote one out, then said good night. Frank and Joe felt as if their eyes had hardly closed when they opened them again to see their father standing between their beds. “Time to get up if you want to be in on the search,” he announced. The boys blinked sleepily, then sprang out of bed. Showers awakened them fully and they dressed quickly. Mrs. Hardy was in the kitchen when they entered it and breakfast was ready. The sun was just rising over a distant hill. “Everything hot this morning,” Mrs. Hardy said. “It’s chilly outside.” The menu included hot applesauce, oatmeal, poached eggs on toast, and cocoa. Breakfast was eaten almost in silence to avoid any delay, and within twenty minutes the three Hardy sleuths were on their way.

Poached eggs are the single most annoying order in any busy restaurant.

As far as he was concerned, Testaccio, not the Via del Corso or the Piazza del Campidoglio, was the real heart of Rome. For centuries animals had been brought here to be butchered, with the good cuts going to the noblemen in their palazzos and the cardinals in the Vatican. The ordinary people had to make do with what little was left---the so-called quinto quarto, the "fifth quarter" of the animal: the organs, head, feet, and tail. Little osterie had sprung up that specialized in cooking these rejects, and such was the culinary inventiveness of the Romans that soon even cardinals and noblemen were clamoring for dishes like coda all vaccinara, oxtail braised in tomato sauce, or caratella d' abbachio, a newborn lamb's heart, lungs, and spleen skewered on a stick of rosemary and simmered with onions in white wine. Every part of the body had its traditional method of preparation. Zampetti all' aggro were calf's feet, served with a green sauce made from anchovies, capers, sweet onions, pickled gherkins, and garlic, finely chopped, then bound with potato and thinned with oil and vinegar. Brains were cooked with butter and lemon---cervello al limone---or poached with vegetables, allowed to cool, then thinly sliced and fried in an egg batter. Liver was wrapped in a caul, the soft membrane that envelops a pig's intestines, which naturally bastes the meat as it melts slowly in the frying pan. There was one recipe for the thymus, another for the ear, another for the intestines, and another for the tongue---each dish refined over centuries and enjoyed by everyone, from the infant in his high chair to the nonnina, the little grandmother who would have been served exactly the same meal, prepared in the same way, when she herself was a child.

His appetite was enormous: he would eat a breakfast of haddock, poached eggs, bacon, chicken and woodcock before a day’s shooting, lunch and dinner of ten to fourteen courses, elaborate teas, snacks of lobster salad or cold chicken, with a cold chicken left by his bed at night in case he became hungry.

We poach eggs. The trick is to use a frying pan with water rather than a big pot; it’s the only way for perfect poached eggs every time. That way you don’t have to crack the egg into a glass first. You just drop it in with confidence. You let the little angel bob around for a while, skimming the scum off the surface with one of those spoons with the holes in it, before placing the egg on a piece of bread to soak up all the unwanted excess water—you don’t want that going on your toast.

Now that was a dinner party, Marguerite thought. Beef tartare with capers on garlic croutons, moules marineres, and homemade frites, a chicory and endive salad with poached eggs and lardons, and crème caramel.

His cuisine struck me as delicate, for the Pudding, which had always been known for its delicious but none-too-daring gentleman's club cuisine, the richer, the better. Gus's dishes included dabs of steak tartare placed on top of thinly peeled cucumbers and studded with quail eggs; poached sea bass on top of a scoop of asparagus puree; potatoes mousseline whipped so smooth you could not detect even the flecks of pepper.

fried behemoth, behemoth soup, roasted behemoth. You can grill 'em, broil 'em, braise 'em, sauté 'em.” He began counting off on his fingers, his grin growing wider. “Behemoth gumbo, behemoth pot pie, behemoth and potatoes. Deep-fried behemoth, pan-fried behemoth, stir-fried behemoth. There's behemoth kebabs, behemoth creole, behemoth etouffee. You can make behemoth burgers, behemoth meatloaf, even behemoth jerky.” Ellie shook her head, her lips pressed together to suppress her irritation. “You sure are excited to eat behemoths, Ridge.” He chuckled. “That's not even the half of it. There's behemoth nuggets, behemoth casserole, behemoth tacos, behemoth burritos. You can have 'em in a salad, in a sandwich, in a wrap. And let's not forget about the behemoth eggs. Boiled, scrambled, poached, fried, you name it.

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

Sweat began to pour off me and the contents of my stomach–soft serve ice cream, peach schnapps, and a handful of wax potpourri I’d earlier mistaken for Gummi bears–roiled in an unholy stew. The smell of poached eggs was overwhelming. Without benefit of loafers or coat, I ran outside to vomit in a snowbank. All I could think the entire time was, “Nancy Reagan was right.” After that, I just said no to smoking pot, and, for quite a while, poaching eggs.

This year, Merida saw rashers, poached eggs in a fragrant sauce, canceled wedding buns spread with a bit of dripping butter, boar meat made into warm, onion-scented drinking broth. Tarts golden and fragrant with cheese and scraps of pastry, mushrooms simmered in broth and browned with leeks in goose fat. Preserved pears in bowls, figs soaked in whisky, even little biscuits with rabbits stamped on them. Their private feast was always all the bits and bobs and failed experiments left over from preparing the public one. If this was the odd-ends, Merida could only imagine what the proper feast would be like later. Cranky Aileen was a wonder.

The setting sun spread out on the horizon like a lightly-poached egg.

Poaching an egg: In a saucepan, boil 4 cups of water and add 2 tablespoons of red wine vinegar. Break the egg into a ramekin. When the water begins to boil, lower the heat until the water simmers gently, and then softly drop the egg into the water. When the egg white begins to congeal, use a spoon to shape into a ball and cook for 2 more minutes. Use a slotted spoon to remove the egg from the pan and place it in ice water or serve immediately.

You want some breakfast?” “Home fries?” There are potatoes in a bag on the counter, the Yukon gold kind. “Check.” He smiles again. “Poached eggs?” I open the fridge, stare inside it. A carton of eggs wait happily on the shelf, ready to be cracked. “Double check.” “Orange juice?” I pull out the plastic container. “Apple cranberry.” He mock frowns, pulls himself off the couch, strides over. “Oh, I don’t know. Apple cranberry is so . . .” “So what?” “It’s not really manly.” “What? There are manly juices? Orange is more manly than apple cranberry?” He grabs the edge of the counter and leans back, stretching out his calves. I plop the juice container on the counter. He looks at me. His eyes are confused. “Really, Nick. That is silly. You’re already having poached eggs.” “So?” “So how are poached eggs manly?” He tilts his head. “They aren’t manly? Quiche isn’t manly, I know. But that’s egg in pie form. Poached eggs should be fine. Although fried eggs are probably the manliest. Maybe we should fry them.

As Yasu popped open a giant Kirin- the champagne of Japanese beers- Tomiko placed bowls of special buckwheat noodle soup at everyone's place, since the noodles represent long life. They are also said to bring prosperity, because in the past silversmiths and goldsmiths used to pick up the scraps of metal in their workshops with soba noodle dough. A salty seafood vapor wafted up from my soup bowl, holding a wobbly poached egg in a nest of gray noodles. A pink wheat gluten flower and sprig of Japanese chervil lay submerged in the hot dashi broth, along with two round slices of kamaboko, the springy sweet fish paste eaten all over Japan.