Ribs Food Quotes

Maybe everyone else thinks your aversion to food is cute- but not me. I've watched you watch Jill. Here's some tough love: you will never, ever have her body. Ever. It's impossible. She's Moroi. You're human. That's biology. You have a great one, one that most humans would kill for- and you'd look even better if you put on a little weight. Five pounds would be a good start. Hide the ribs. Get a bigger bra size

I was born with music inside me. Music was one of my parts. Like my ribs, my kidneys, my liver, my heart. Like my blood. It was a force already within me when I arrived on the scene. It was a necessity for me-like food or water.

All life is but a skull-bone and A rack of ribs through which we keep passing food & fuel- just so's we can burn so furious beautiful.

Pop music is like fast food. It's always available quickly and might even taste good while you're eating it...but eventually you're going to shit it out and see it for what it really is--all the packaging in the world can't cover up the fact that it's excrement.

On those luminous mornings Adela returned from the market, like Pomona emerging from the flames of day, spilling from her basket the coloful beauty of the sun –the shiny pink cherries full of juice under their transparent skins, the mysterious apricots in whose golden pulp lay the core of long afternoons. And next to that pure poetry of fruit, she unloaded sides of meat with their keyboard of ribs swollen with energy and strength, and seaweeds of vegetables like dead octopuses and squids–the raw material of meals with a yet undefined taste, the vegetative and terrestrial ingredients of dinner, exuding a wild and rustic smell.

Grits are hot; they are abundant, and they will by-gosh stick to your ribs. Give your farmhands (that is, your children) cold cereal for breakfast and see how many rows they hoe. Make them a pot of grits and butter, and they’ll hoe till dinner and be glad to do it.

No matter how old you are, there is nothing so comforting as your mother's arms.

Life goes on, and you want it to. But you also want to hit pause for a moment, so you can feel one thing at a time.

We feign disinterest and laugh, and creep into the kitchen some nights, a triangle of light spilled on the floor form the fridge, shoveling cold casseroles, ice cream, jelly, cheese, into our mouths, swallowing without chewing as we listen to the steady, echoing tisk-tisk-tisk of the clock. I have done this. Millions of people have done this. There is an empty space in many of us that gnaws at our ribs and cannot be filled by any amount of food. There is a hunger for something, and we never know quite what it is, only that it is a hunger, so we eat.

He felt an appetite for once, one that it'd take more than a drink or two to satisfy. He strolled along for breakfast at Harga's House of Ribs, the habit of years, and got another unpleasant surprise. Normally the only decoration in there was in Sham Harga's vest and the food was good solid stuff on a cold morning, all calories and fat and protein and maybe a vitamin crying softly because it was all alone.

I was born with music inside me. Music was one of my parts. Like my ribs, my kidneys, my liver, my heart. Like my blood. It was a force already within me when I arrived on the scene. It was a necessity for me-like food or water

While the egg yolks cooled, he directed the beaters at the egg whites, setting the mixer on high speed that sent small bubbles giggling to the side of the bowl, where a few became many until they were a white froth rising up and then lying down again in patters and ridges, leaving an intricate design like the ribs of a leaf in the wake of the beaters

Have you seen the state of some of these vegetarians? They look like they’re going to drop down dead any minute. We didn’t fight our way to the top of the food chain to be vegetarians, did we? Can you imagine a fry-up without the sausage and bacon? Or not being able to order steak, egg and chips? Can you imagine Christmas dinner without the turkey? Or a barbeque without the ribs?

All life is but a skull-bone and A rack of ribs through which we keep passing food & fuel – just so’s we can burn so furious beautiful.

In the window I smelled all the food of San Francisco. There were seafood places out there where the buns were hot, and the baskets were good enough to eat too; where the menus themselves were soft with foody esculence as though dipped in hot broths and roasted dry and good enough to eat too. Just show me the bluefish spangle on a seafood menu and I’d eat it; let me smell the drawn butter and lobster claws. There were places where they specialized in thick and red roast beef au jus, or roast chicken basted in wine. There were places where hamburgs sizzled on grills and the coffee was only a nickel. And oh, that pan-fried chow mein flavored air that blew into my room from Chinatown, vying with the spaghetti sauces of North Beach, the soft-shell crab of Fisherman’s Wharf — nay, the ribs of Fillmore turning on spits! Throw in the Market Street chili beans, redhot, and french-fried potatoes of the Embarcadero wino night, and steamed clams from Sausalito across the bay, and that’s my ah-dream of San Francisco…

An artist must regulate his life. Here is a time-table of my daily acts. I rise at 7.18; am inspired from 10.23 to 11.47. I lunch at 12.11 and leave the table at 12.14. A healthy ride on horse-back round my domain follows from 1.19 pm to 2.53 pm. Another bout of inspiration from 3.12 to 4.7 pm. From 5 to 6.47 pm various occupations (fencing, reflection, immobility, visits, contemplation, dexterity, natation, etc.) Dinner is served at 7.16 and finished at 7.20 pm. From 8.9 to 9.59 pm symphonic readings (out loud). I go to bed regularly at 10.37 pm. Once a week (on Tuesdays) I awake with a start at 3.14 am. My only nourishment consists of food that is white: eggs, sugar, shredded bones, the fat of dead animals, veal, salt, coco-nuts, chicken cooked in white water, mouldy fruit, rice, turnips, sausages in camphor, pastry, cheese (white varieties), cotton salad, and certain kinds of fish (without their skin). I boil my wine and drink it cold mixed with the juice of the Fuschia. I have a good appetite but never talk when eating for fear of strangling myself. I breathe carefully (a little at a time) and dance very rarely. When walking I hold my ribs and look steadily behind me. My expression is very serious; when I laugh it is unintentional, and I always apologise very politely. I sleep with only one eye closed, very profoundly. My bed is round with a hole in it for my head to go through. Every hour a servant takes my temperature and gives me another.

More laying hens are slaughtered in the United States than cattle or pigs. Commercial laying hens are not bred for their flesh, but when their economic utility is over the still-young birds are trucked to the slaughterhouse and turned into meat products. In the process they are treated even more brutally than meat-type chickens because of their low market value. Their bones are very fragile from lack of exercise and from calcium depletion for heavy egg production, causing fragments to stick to the flesh during processing. The starvation practice known as forced molting results in beaded ribs that break easily at the slaughterhouse. Removal of food for several days before the hens are loaded onto the truck weakens their bones even more. Currently, the U.S. egg industry and the American Veterinary Medical Association oppose humane slaughter legislation for laying hens on the basis that their low economic value does not justify the cost of 'humane slaughter' technology. The industry created the inhumane conditions that are invoked to rationalize further unaccountability and cruelty.

He was too busy attacking the buffet table- tenderloin, crab claws, gravlax, mushrooms, cherrystones on the half shell. He held one out to Adrienne. "Eat this," he said. "No, thanks." "Come on." "I'm not hungry." "Not hungry?" he said. He piled his plate with Chinese spare ribs. "This food is incredible.

The Mouser made a very small parry in carte so that the thrust of the bravo from the east went past his left side by only a hair's breath. He instantly riposted. His adversary, desperately springing back, parried in turn in carte. Hardly slowing, the tip of the Mouser's long, slim sword dropped under that parry with the delicacy of a princess curtsying and then leaped forward and a little upward, the Mouser making an impossibly long-looking lunge for one so small, and went between two scales of the bravo's armored jerkin and between his ribs and through his heart and out his back as if all were angelfood cake.

Dinner was a fur muff, a dozen clothespins, and some old dish towels boiled up with carrots. The fact that the meal was served with a bottle of prepared horseradish enabled Sammy to conclude that it was intended to pass for braised short ribs of beef - flanken. Many of Ethel's specialties arrived thus encoded by condiments.

We were all pretty quiet until Jeremiah broke the silence like breaking the top of a crème brulee. He said, “This potato salad tastes like bad breath.” “I think that would be your upper lip,” Conrad said. We all laughed, and it felt like a relief. For it to be okay to laugh. To be something other than sad. Then Conrad said, “This rib has mold on it,” and we all started to laugh again. It felt like I hadn’t laughed in a long time. My mother rolled her eyes. “Would it kill you to eat a little mold? Just scrape it off. Give it to me. I’ll eat it.” Conrad put his hands up in surrender, and then he stabbed the rib with his fork and dropped it on my mother’s plate ceremoniously. “Enjoy it, Laurel.” “I swear, you spoil these boys, Beck,” my mother said, and everything felt normal, like any other last night. “Belly was raised on leftovers, weren’t you, bean?” “I was,” I agreed. “I was a neglected child who was fed only old food that nobody else wanted.” My mother suppressed a smile and pushed the potato salad toward me. “I do spoil them,” Susannah said, touching Conrad’s shoulder, Jeremiah’s cheek. “They’re angels. Why shouldn’t I?” The two boys looked at each other from across the table for a second. Then Conrad said, “I’m an angel. I would say Jere’s more of a cherub.” He reached out and tousled Jeremiah’s hair roughly. Jeremiah swatted his hand away. “He’s no angel. He’s the devil,” he said. It was like the fight had been erased. With boys it was like that; they fought and then it was over. My mother picked up Conrad’s rib, looked down at it, and then put it down again. “I can’t eat this,” she said, sighing.

Waist-to-Height Ratio, or WHtR.120 Instead of a scale, grab a simple measuring tape. Stand up straight and take a deep breath, exhale, and let it all hang out. The circumference of your belly (halfway between the top of your hip bones and the bottom of your rib cage) should be half your height—ideally, less. If that measurement is more than half your height, it’s time to start eating healthier and exercising more regardless of your weight.121

The Skinny Woman Who Is Beautiful and Toned but Also Gluttonous and Disgusting Again, I am more than willing to suspend my disbelief for good set decoration alone. One pristine kitchen from a Nancy Meyers movie like “It’s Complicated” compensates for five scenes of Diane Keaton being caught half naked in a topiary. But I can’t suspend disbelief enough, for instance, if the gorgeous and skinny heroine is also a ravenous pig when it comes to food. And everyone in the movie—her parents, her friends, her boss—are all complicit in this huge lie. They constantly tell her to stop eating. And this actress, this poor skinny actress who obviously lost weight to play the likable lead character, has to say things like “Shut up, you guys! I love cheesecake! If I want to eat an entire cheesecake, I will!” If you look closely, you can see this woman’s ribs through the dress she’s wearing—that’s how skinny she is, this cheesecake-loving cow.

MAKES: 2 quarts COOKING METHOD: stove COOKING TIME: 20 minutes This is an all-purpose barbecue sauce, with a distinct garlic and tomato flavor. We have used this recipe to rave reviews at the James Beard Foundation and the American Institute of Wine and Food’s “Best Ribs in America” competition. Use it as a finishing glaze or serve it on the side as a dip for any type of barbecue. 2 TABLESPOONS OLIVE OIL ¼ CUP CHOPPED ONION 1 TEASPOON FRESH MINCED GARLIC 4 CUPS KETCHUP 1⅓ CUPS DARK BROWN SUGAR 1 CUP VINEGAR 1 CUP APPLE JUICE ¼ CUP HONEY 1½ TABLESPOONS WORCESTERSHIRE SAUCE 1½ TABLESPOONS LIQUID SMOKE 1 TEASPOON SALT 1 TEASPOON BLACK PEPPER 1 TEASPOON CAYENNE PEPPER 1 TEASPOON CELERY SEED Heat the olive oil in a large nonreactive saucepan over medium heat. Add the onion and garlic and lightly sauté. Stir in the remaining ingredients and heat until the sauce bubbles and starts to steam. Remove from the heat and cool to room temperature. Transfer to a tightly covered jar or plastic container and store refrigerated for up to 2 weeks.

It was a standard white-bread hot dog bun oozing with orangey-pink lobster meat, dotted with tiny slices of celery ribs, and held together by globs of creamy mayonnaise. "Careful," Jaime warned, stretching the plate out closer to Hazel's lap. "It's sort of a two-hand situation." Hazel brought the soggy roll to her mouth and bit down at one end. A mouthful of buttery, lemony goodness greeted her, and she swooned. "S'good," she mumbled, wiping the corners of her mouth. It wasn't just good. It was heavenly and tasted exactly the way she'd always thought that summer should.

He’s doing very well. He ate something and now he’s resting.” “What did he have?” Like he was her kid or something. “That ginger and rice—” “Roast beef.” “Oh, that’s great! A serving or two of that can help his iron counts.” “It wasn’t just a serving. He had a whole roast beef. As in . . . a bone-in, standing prime rib roast. I believe they said it weighed sixteen pounds.” Sarah blinked. “Jeez, what was dessert—an entire pie?” “Vanilla ice cream.” “Oh, that’s more reasonable. It’s not like he ate a whole half gallon.” “And the pie.” “What?” “He ate a half gallon of vanilla ice cream with an apple pie. He’s in a food coma now.” Sarah threw her head back and laughed.

There, done! A Petite Loco Moco Bowl! *Loco Moco is traditional Hawaiian fare of hamburger and fried egg over rice.* "Wow, that looks super yummy!" "Huh. Loco Moco at a buffet? How interesting! Ooh, hot! The egg has been coddled to the perfect tenderness... ... and it melds beautifully with the powerful taste of the hamburger made from ground rib roast! Add to that the mild, fluffy rice to tie it all together and it fills the mouth with deliciousness... It's a dish that brings out the strength in you with every bite! Not only that, typical Loco Moco is covered with beef gravy... ... but you've used a vinaigrette instead! The tangy lightness of the white-wine vinegar in the vinaigrette wonderfully accentuates the richness of the egg yolk and the juiciness of the meat.

There are a dozen factors that make Japanese food so special- ingredient obsession, technical precision, thousands of years of meticulous refinement- but chief among them is one simple concept: specialization. In the Western world, where miso-braised short ribs share menu space with white truffle ceviche, restaurants cast massive nets to try to catch as many fish as possible, but in Japan, the secret to success is choosing one thing and doing it fucking well. Forever. There are people who dedicate their entire lives to grilling beef intestines, slicing blowfish, kneading buckwheat into tangles of chewy noodles- microdisciplines with infinite room for improvement. The concept of shokunin, an artisan deeply and singularly dedicated to his or her craft, is at the core of Japanese culture.

O my body! I dare not desert the likes of you in other men and women, nor the likes of the parts of you, I believe the likes of you are to stand or fall with the likes of the soul, (and that they are the soul,) I believe the likes of you shall stand or fall with my poems, and that they are my poems, Man’s, woman’s, child’s, youth’s, wife’s, husband’s, mother’s, father’s, young man’s, young woman’s poems, Head, neck, hair, ears, drop and tympan of the ears, Eyes, eye-fringes, iris of the eye, eyebrows, and the waking or sleeping of the lids, Mouth, tongue, lips, teeth, roof of the mouth, jaws, and the jaw-hinges, Nose, nostrils of the nose, and the partition, Cheeks, temples, forehead, chin, throat, back of the neck, neck-slue, Strong shoulders, manly beard, scapula, hind-shoulders, and the ample side-round of the chest, Upper-arm, armpit, elbow-socket, lower-arm, arm-sinews, arm-bones, Wrist and wrist-joints, hand, palm, knuckles, thumb, forefinger, finger-joints, finger-nails, Broad breast-front, curling hair of the breast, breast-bone, breast-side, Ribs, belly, backbone, joints of the backbone, Hips, hip-sockets, hip-strength, inward and outward round, man-balls, man-root, Strong set of thighs, well carrying the trunk above, Leg fibres, knee, knee-pan, upper-leg, under-leg, Ankles, instep, foot-ball, toes, toe-joints, the heel; All attitudes, all the shapeliness, all the belongings of my or your body or of any one’s body, male or female, The lung-sponges, the stomach-sac, the bowels sweet and clean, The brain in its folds inside the skull-frame, Sympathies, heart-valves, palate-valves, sexuality, maternity, Womanhood, and all that is a woman, and the man that comes from woman, The womb, the teats, nipples, breast-milk, tears, laughter, weeping, love-looks, love-perturbations and risings, The voice, articulation, language, whispering, shouting aloud, Food, drink, pulse, digestion, sweat, sleep, walking, swimming, Poise on the hips, leaping, reclining, embracing, arm-curving and tightening, The continual changes of the flex of the mouth, and around the eyes, The skin, the sunburnt shade, freckles, hair, The curious sympathy one feels when feeling with the hand the naked meat of the body, The circling rivers the breath, and breathing it in and out, The beauty of the waist, and thence of the hips, and thence downward toward the knees, The thin red jellies within you or within me, the bones and the marrow in the bones, The exquisite realization of health; O I say these are not the parts and poems of the body only, but of the soul, O I say now these are the soul!

So what's going on with you and your boyfriend?" Eli asked me right before he shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth during breakfast the next morning. I made a face in the direction of my plate before shooting a glance upward to find Gordo’s eyes on me, a smirk on his face. "Mason?" I asked, going back to my food. Eli made a gagging noise, elbowing me hard in the ribs. "I'm not gonna go into details on how disturbing it is that I say ‘your boyfriend’ and you automatically think of fucking Mase." "He's always calling me his wife, or telling people I don't know that we're getting married," I replied, elbowing him back as hard as he got me. It was partially the truth… but mostly, I didn’t want to talk about the man who had been kissing my shoulder hours ago. "I love Mase, but it'll be a sunny day in my asshole before you and him get together," he mumbled. I snorted, biting into my biscuit. "Who the heck else would you be talking about?" I asked, but I knew. Oh, I knew damn well he was referring to Sacha. Freaking Gordo snickered from across the table before putting his hands up in surrender when I glared at him. "I didn’t say anything." "Sacha, Flabby. Sacha. Your boyfriend. Your snuggle bug." Eliza finally answered. Suddenly the half-eaten biscuit on my plate needed to be eaten immediately. I shoved the entire piece into my mouth to avoid the conversation my brother was trying to edge into. I'd had talks about boys with Eli in the past, and they never ended—or started—well. "There's nothing going on between us. We're just friends." Because we were. Eli made a noise that sounded like “hmmph” deep in his throat. It was incredulous and disbelieving. Then he asked the question to prove it, his attention back on his band mate. "Gordo, do you think I'm blind?" Gordo shook his head. "Gaby, do you think I'm blind?" he asked. "Not blind, just dumb.” I smiled. He shot me a frown. A moment later, he threw his arm over my shoulders and started shoving his plate away with his free hand. "Flabby Gaby, that kid is in love with you." In love. With me? I leaned forward and tried to sniff his breath. “Are you still drunk?” But my brother kept talking before I could keep going. "Anyone with eyes and ears knows that guy thinks you shit out Lucky Charms." Gordo and I burst out laughing. "Is that a good thing?" I asked him. Eliza shoved my face away with his palm, ignoring my commentary again. "And I think that you love him, too." The noise that came out of my mouth sounded like a hybrid “moo” and squawk at the same time. "I—,” I slammed my mouth shut before opening it again with a sputter. “What?

Street food, she saw. Silky pasta, doughy pizza, steaming pho, obnoxiously tall burgers. Benches had been nestled behind the Royal Festival Hall, and they were filled with people eating personal feasts from paper plates: vast thalis; racks of sticky, black ribs; half lobsters with melting garlic butter and bread. Rows of diners craning to read menus wound between food trucks; queues intermingled, new arrivals negotiating for space. Piglet looked around, the National behind her. She had left the office early, she reasoned; she had time before finding a place to work. She edged forward, walking among the tables. The benches were full, some having to stand, juggling their fried chicken with their phones. There were young men who talked too loudly, laughed with their mouths full, and wore round, tortoiseshell glasses; glamorous women in their fifties and sixties, lunching and drinking; and au pairs with charges no older than twelve who ate salt beef bagels, cacio e pepe, and laksa.

I found Chinatown both impossibly sophisticated and unbearably out of vogue. Chinese restaurants were a guilty pleasure of mine. I loved how they evoked the living world- either the Walden-like sense of individualism of the Ocean or Happy Garden, or something more candid ("Yummies!"). Back home they had been a preserve of birthdays and special celebrations: a lazy Susan packed with ribs and Peking duck, rhapsodically spun to the sound of Fleetwood Mac or the Police, with banana fritters drenched in syrup and a round of flowering tea to finish. It felt as cosmopolitan a dining experience as I would ever encounter. Contextualized amid the big-city landscape of politicized microbreweries and sushi, a hearty table of MSG and marinated pork felt at best crass, at worst obscurely racist. But there was something about the gloop and the sugar that I couldn't resist. And Chinatown was peculiarly untouched by my contemporaries, so I could happily nibble at plates of salt and chili squid or crispy Szechuan beef while leafing through pages of a magazine in peace.

THE Oldest Ones of All were gluttons. Probably it was because they seldom had enough to eat. You can read even nowadays a poem written by one of them, which is known as the Vision of Mac Conglinne. In this Vision there is a description of a castle made out of different kinds of food. The English for part of the poem goes like this: A lake of new milk I beheld In the midst of a fair plain. I saw a well-appointed house Thatched with butter. Its two soft door-posts of custard, Its dais of curds and butter, Beds of glorious lard, Many shields of thin pressed cheese. Under the straps of those shields Were men of soft sweet smooth cheese, Men who knew not to wound a Gael, Spears of old butter had each of them. A huge cauldron full of meat (Methought I’d try to tackle it), Boiled, leafy kale, browny-white, A brimming vessel full of milk. A bacon house of two-score ribs, A wattling of tripe—support of clans— Of every food pleasant to man, Meseemed the whole was gathered there. Of chitterlings of pigs were made Its beautiful rafters, Splendid the beams and the pillars Of marvellous pork.

In the window I smelled all the food of San Francisco. There were seafood places out there where the buns were hot, and the baskets were good enough to eat too; where the menus themselves were soft with foody esculence as though dipped in hot broths and roasted dry and good enough to eat too. Just show me the bluefish spangle on a seafood menu and I’d eat it; let me smell the drawn butter and lobster claws. There were places where they specialized in thick red roast beef au jus, or roast chicken basted in wine. There were places where hamburgs sizzled on grills and the coffee was only a nickel. And oh, that pan-fried chow mein flavored air that blew into my room from Chinatown, vying with the spaghetti sauces of North Beach, the soft-shell crab of Fisherman’s Wharf—nay, the ribs of Fillmore turning on spits! Throw in the Market Street chili beans, redhot, and french-fried potatoes of the Embarcadero wino night, and steamed clams from Sausalito across the bay, and that’s my ah-dream of San Francisco. Add fog, hunger-making raw fog, and the throb of neons in the soft night, the clack of high-heeled beauties, white doves in a Chinese grocery window . . .

So certain were experts that neonates felt no pain that through the mid-1980s major surgeries on newborn babies were sometimes performed without anesthesia. These included major cardiovascular procedures requiring prying open rib cages, puncturing lungs, and tying off major arteries. Though provided with no pharmacologic agents to blunt the pain that cracking ribs or cutting through the sternum might have induced, babies were given powerful agents to induce paralysis—ensuring an immobile (and undoubtedly terrified) patient on whom to operate. Jill Lawson’s remarkable story of her premature son, Jeffrey, and his unanesthetized heart surgery provides a heartbreaking account of such a procedure. After Jeffrey’s death in 1985, Lawson’s campaign to educate the medical profession about the need to treat pain in the young literally changed the field. And likely led to improved awareness of pain in animals, too. bA technique called clicker training pairs a metallic tick-tock! with a food treat every time the animal performs a desired behavior. Eventually the animal comes to associate the sound of the clicker with the feel-good neurochemical rewards of the food. When the treat is discontinued, the animal will continue doing the behavior, because

It's a parade of flawless tuna deliciousness! But by far, the most dangerous piece... is the one that looks like a bomb of pure tuna goodness, the straw-grilled, seared noten sushi! The noten- a cut of meat from the top of the tuna's head- is one of the priciest cuts. Extravagantly fatty, its richness melds with the fragrant searing into a powerful duo! Yet there isn't the first hint of fishiness! Searing it using aromatic straw burned it away, leaving only pure savory flavor behind to please both nose and palate!" "His Trace was dead-on. Looks like it really will be his arrangements on that Gunkan Maki that decide this card." "I can't even begin to guess what it tastes like." What's this on top of the minced tuna and leeks?! Is it... meringue?! "Aah! Now I see! I know what Subaru Mimasaka took out at that moment! It was the same smoked soy sauce he passed to Kuga!" The mellow, full-bodied aroma of smoked soy sauce has seeped into every crevice of the minced tuna... ... while the differing textures of the meringue and the negitoro create deeper, more complex layers to the flavor! If I were to name it, I would call it the "Ultimate Negitoro Eggs-over-Rice Gunkan Sushi"! Minced tuna rib meat mixed with leeks and smoked soy sauce, topped with quail-egg yolk

I want more, I said, putting a hand to my stomach, which rides higher than most know. Closer to the heart. I want the jiang bing that vendor will make when she runs out of nut butter. I don't think she's arrogant. I think she's right. I want to sample jian bing from every cart in Beijing, and I want to taste what those kids are eating at home, what they don't teach in cookbooks at Le Cordon Bleu. There's so much out there--- Helplessly, I said, I haven't even told you how much I love foods wrapped in other foods. Then tell me. I tried. I tried. Banh xeo in Hanoi, I said, and duck folded in the translucent bing of northern China. I spoke of tacos in Mexico City: suadero, al pastor, gringas. South Indian dosas as long as my arm, thinner than a rib of a feather. Oh, Aida, I said when I fumbled the names of the chutneys. How can I know all I've ever want? Something will get left out. I was wrong about cilantro. Tlayudas, she said stubbornly, as if she hadn't heard. Blini. Crêpes. They're basically French jian bing, I said with a strangled laugh. Pita sandwiches. Pickle roll-ups. Calzone. Bossam! I yelled, and the dogs barked and the children cheered and the streets of old Milan rang with the imported memory of pork kissed by brine, earthy with Korean bean paste, safe in its bed of red leaf lettuce.

So this is what a black pepper pork bun really tastes like!" The bun is flaky, and crispy, like a piecrust! The juicy pork filling is seasoned with just enough black pepper to give it a good bite! All the minced green onion mixed in with it makes it even better! The whole thing is overflowing with the mellow and meaty umami goodness of ground pork! "IT'S SOOO GOOD!" "Look! There it is! That's Soma Yukihira's booth!" "Really? Interesting! Wasn't he one of the finalists in this year's Classic?" "Hmm. This meat filling is way too weak as is. Juiciness, richness, umami... it's way short on all of those. The bun itself is probably good enough. Maybe I should up the ratio of rib meat..." "Yo. How're the test recipes going? There are a whole lot of other exclusively Chinese seasonings you can try, y'know. Oyster sauce, Xo spicy seafood sauce and a whole mountain of spices. I did a Dongpo Pork Bowl for the Classic, so I know all too well how deep that particular subject gets." "Oh, right! Now I see it. Chinese "Ma-La" flavor is just another combination of spices! Everything I learned about spices from my curry dish for the Prelims... ... I should be able to use in this too! Thanks, Nikumi!" "H-hey! Don't grab my hand like that!" How about this? Fresh-ground black pepper... ... and some mellow, fragrant sesame oil! When you're making anything Chinese, you can't forget the five-spice powder. I'll also knead in some star anise to enhance the flavor of the pork! Then add sliced green onions and finish by wrapping the mixture in the dough

When you buy from an independent, locally owned business, as opposed to nationally owned businesses, you strengthen the economic base of our city. And of course there’s no doubt that you’ll receive a better quality product or service. I share John Roeser’s amazement that people today tend to prefer saving a dollar or too two on a birthday cake, for example, by purchasing a sub-par cake made with artificial, cheap ingredients from a mass retailer, when Roeser’s Bakery offers some of the most delectable, housemade cakes in the world. How could anyone step into a fast food joint when we live in a city that has Lem’s barbecque rib tips, Kurowski’s kielbasa, Manny’s matzo ball soup, and Lindy’s chili within reach? You can’t even compare the products and services of the businesses featured in this book with those of mass retailers, either: Jjust try putting an Optimo hat on your head—you’ll ooze with elegance. Burn a beeswax lambathe from Athenian Candle and watch it glow longer than any candle you’ve ever lit. Bite into an Andersonville coffeecake from the Swedish Bakery—and you’ll have a hard time returning to the artificial ingredient– laden cakes found at most grocers. Equally important, local, family- owned businesses keep our city unique. In our increasingly homogenized and globalized world, cities that hold on tightly to their family-owned, distinctive businesses are more likely to attract visitors, entrepreneurs, and new investment. Chicago just wouldn’t be Chicago without these historic, one-of-a-kind places, and the people that run them from behind the scenes with nothing but love, hard work, and pride.

Every few months or so at home, Pops had to have Taiwanese ’Mian. Not the Dan-Dan Mian you get at Szechuan restaurants or in Fuchsia Dunlop’s book, but Taiwanese Dan-Dan. The trademark of ours is the use of clear pork bone stock, sesame paste, and crushed peanuts on top. You can add chili oil if you want, but I take it clean because when done right, you taste the essence of pork and the bitterness of sesame paste; the texture is somewhere between soup and ragout. Creamy, smooth, and still soupy. A little za cai (pickled radish) on top, chopped scallions, and you’re done. I realized that day, it’s the simple things in life. It’s not about a twelve-course tasting of unfamiliar ingredients or mass-produced water-added rib-chicken genetically modified monstrosity of meat that makes me feel alive. It’s getting a bowl of food that doesn’t have an agenda. The ingredients are the ingredients because they work and nothing more. These noodles were transcendent not because he used the best produce or protein or because it was locally sourced, but because he worked his dish. You can’t buy a championship. Did this old man invent Dan-Dan Mian? No. But did he perfect it with techniques and standards never before seen? Absolutely. He took a dish people were making in homes, made it better than anyone else, put it on front street, and established a standard. That’s professional cooking. To take something that already speaks to us, do it at the highest level, and force everyone else to step up, too. Food at its best uplifts the whole community, makes everyone rise to its standard. That’s what that Dan-Dan Mian did. If I had the honor of cooking my father’s last meal, I wouldn’t think twice. Dan-Dan Mian with a bullet, no question.

In a civilization frankly materialistic and based upon property, not soul, it is inevitable that property shall be exalted over soul, that crimes against property shall be considered far more serious than crimes against the person. To pound one's wife to a jelly and break a few of her ribs is a trivial offence compared with sleeping out under the naked stars because one has not the price of a doss. The following illustrative cases are culled from the police court reports for a single week: South-western Police Court, London. Before Mr. Rose. John Probyn, charged with doing grievous bodily harm to a constable. Prisoner had been kicking his wife, and also assaulting another woman who protested against his brutality. The constable tried to persuade him to go inside his house, but prisoner suddenly turned upon him, knocking him down by a blow on the face, kicking him as he lay on the ground, and attempting to strangle him. Finally the prisoner deliberately kicked the officer in a dangerous part, inflicting an injury which will keep him off duty for a long time to come. Six weeks. Lambeth Police Court, London. Before Mr. Hopkins. 'Baby' Stuart, aged nineteen, described as a chorus girl, charged with obtaining food and lodging to the value of 5s., by false pretences, and with intent to defraud Emma Brasier. Emma Brasier, complainant, lodging-house keeper of Atwell Road. Prisoner took apartments at her house on the representation that she was employed at the Crown Theatre. After prisoner had been in her house two or three days, Mrs. Brasier made inquiries, and, finding the girl's story untrue, gave her into custody. Prisoner told the magistrate that she would have worked “had she not had such bad health. Six weeks hard labor.

While I was deep in my fantasy, in yet another episode of perfect timing, Marlboro Man called from the road. “Hey,” he said, the mid-1990s spotty cell phone service only emphasizing the raspy charm of his voice. “Oh! Just the person I want to talk to,” I said, grabbing paper and a pen. “I have a question for you--” “I bought your wedding present today,” Marlboro Man interrupted. “Huh?” I said, caught off guard. “Wedding present?” For someone steeped in the proper way of doing things, I was ashamed that a wedding gift for Marlboro Man had never crossed my mind. “Yep,” he said. “And you need to hurry up and marry me so I can give it to you.” I giggled. “So…what is it?” I asked. I couldn’t even imagine. I hoped it wasn’t a tennis bracelet. “You have to marry me to find out,” he answered. Yikes. What was it? Wasn’t the wedding ring itself supposed to be the present? That’s what I’d been banking on. What would I ever get him? Cuff links? An Italian leather briefcase? A Montblanc pen? What do you give a man who rides a horse to work every day? “So, woman,” Marlboro Man said, changing the subject, “what did you want to ask me?” “Oh!” I said, focusing my thoughts back to the reception. “Okay, I need you to name your absolute favorite foods in the entire world.” He paused. “Why?” “I’m just taking a survey,” I answered. “Hmmm…” He thought for a minute. “Probably steak.” Duh. “Well, besides steak,” I said. “Steak,” he repeated. “And what else?” I asked. “Well…steak is pretty good,” he answered. “Okay,” I responded. “I understand that you like steak. But I need a little more to work with here.” “But why?” he asked. “Because I’m taking a survey,” I repeated. Marlboro Man chuckled. “Okay, but I’m really hungry right now, and I’m three hours from home.” “I’ll factor that in,” I said. “Biscuits and gravy…tenderloin…chocolate cake…barbecue ribs…scrambled eggs,” he said, rattling off his favorite comfort foods. Bingo, I thought, smiling. “Now, hurry up and marry me,” he commanded. “I’m tired of waiting on you.” I loved it when he was bossy.

The man was naked. He was all bones and ribs and snarling mouth. The front of him was caked in blood, a smear of charcoal black in the dim red glow of Palmer’s dive light. There was just a flash of this grisly image before the man crashed into Palmer, knocking him to the ground, desperate hands clenching around his throat. Palmer saw pops of bright light as his head hit the floor. He couldn’t breathe. He heard his own gurgles mix with the raspy hisses from the man on top of him. A madman. A thin, half-starved, and full-crazed madman. Palmer fought for a breath. His visor was knocked from his head. Letting go of the man’s wrists, he reached for his dive knife, but his leg was pinned, his boot too far away. He pawed behind himself and felt his visor, had some insane plan of getting it to his temples, getting his suit powered on, overloading the air around him, trying to shake the man off. But as his fingers closed on the hard plastic—and as the darkness squeezed in around his vision—he instead swung the visor at the snarling man’s face, a final act before the door to that king’s crypt sealed shut on him. A piercing shriek returned Palmer to his senses. Or it was the hands coming off his neck? The naked man howled and lunged again, but Palmer got a boot up, caught the man in the chest, kicked him. He scrambled backward while the man reeled. The other diver. Brock’s diver. Palmer turned and crawled on his hands and knees to get distance, got around a desk, moving as fast as he could, heart pounding. Two divers. There had been two divers. He waited for the man’s partner to jump onto his back, for the two men to beat him to death for his belly full of jangling coin— —when he bumped into the other diver. And saw by his dive light that he was no threat. And the bib of gore on the man chasing him was given sudden meaning. Palmer crawled away, sickened. He wondered how long the men had been down here, how long one had been eating the other. Hands fell onto his boots and yanked him, dragging him backward. A reedy voice yelled for him to be still. And then he felt a tug as his dive knife was pulled from its sheath, stolen. Palmer spun onto his back to defend himself. His own knife flashed above him traitorously, was brought down by those bone-thin arms, was meant to skewer him. There was a crunch against his belly. A painful blow. The air came out of Palmer. The blade was raised to strike him again, but there was no blood. His poor life had been saved by a fistful of coin. Palmer brought up his knee as the man struck again—and shin met forearm with a crack. A howl, and the knife was dropped. Palmer fumbled for it, his dive light throwing the world into pale reds and deep shadows. Hand on the hilt, his knife reclaimed, he slashed at the air, and the man fell back, hands up, shouting, “Please, please!” Palmer scooted away, keeping the knife in front of him. He was weak from fitful sleep and lack of food, but this poor creature before him seemed even weaker. Enraged and with the element of surprise, the man had nearly killed him, but it had been like fighting off a homeless dune-sleeper who had jumped him for some morsel of bread. Palmer dared to turn his dive light up so he could see the man better. “Sorry. I’m sorry,” the man said. “Thought you were a ghost.” The

Spicy Jambalaya Serves 6 A Creole specialty that’ll make you feel like you’re dining in New Orleans, this is a stick-to-the-ribs dish that boasts shrimp, turkey sausage, and chicken breast. Adjust the cayenne pepper according to how much heat you like in your food. If you’re following the 1,200-calorie plan, be sure to remove your portion before adding the rice to the pot. Cooking spray 2 teaspoons olive oil 1 medium onion, peeled and chopped 2 ribs celery, no leaves, chopped ½ green pepper, seeded, cored, and chopped 2 tablespoons tomato paste 1½ teaspoons dried basil ¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper 1 teaspoon salt 3 garlic cloves, peeled and chopped ½ pound turkey sausage, sliced ½ pound boneless chicken breast, cut into large cubes 2 cans (14.5 ounces each) stewed tomatoes prepared with garlic and pepper 2 ounces diced pimiento, well drained 2 bay leaves 3 cups cooked white rice ½ pound medium shrimp, peeled and deveined (thawed if frozen) 1. Spray a large heavy nonstick skillet with cooking spray. Add the olive oil, onion, celery, and green pepper. Cook over medium-high heat, stirring, for 5 minutes. 2. Stir in the tomato paste, basil, cayenne pepper, salt, garlic, turkey sausage, and chicken. Cook for 5 minutes, stirring. Add the stewed tomatoes, pimiento, and bay leaves and cook for another 5 minutes, or until the meat is thoroughly cooked. 3. Remove the bay leaves. Stir in the rice1 and the shrimp and cook for another 5 minutes, or until the shrimp is cooked and the jambalaya is thoroughly hot.

DR. FUHRMAN’S FAMOUS ANTI-CANCER SOUP SERVES 10 ½ cup dried split peas ½ cup dried beans (can use any variety) 4 cups water 4 medium onions chopped 6–8 medium zucchini, cut into 1-inch pieces 3 leek stalks, coarsely chopped 2 bunches kale, collard greens, or other greens, tough stems and center ribs removed and leaves chopped 5 pounds carrots, juiced (5–6 cups juice; see note) 2 bunches celery, juiced (2 cups juice; see note) 2 tablespoons Dr. Fuhrman’s VegiZest or Mrs. Dash 1 cup raw cashews 8 ounces fresh mushrooms (shiitake, cremini, and/or oyster), chopped Place the split peas, beans, and water in a very large pot over low heat. Bring to a boil and simmer for 30 minutes. Add the onions, zucchini, leeks, and kale to the pot. Add the carrot juice, celery juice, and VegiZest. Simmer until the onions, zucchini, and leeks are soft, about 40 minutes. Remove 2 cups of the soup liquid, being careful to leave the beans and at least half of the kale in the pot. Using a high-powered blender or food processor, blend the soup liquid with the cashews. Return the creamy mixture to the pot. Add the mushrooms and simmer for 30 minutes, or until the beans are soft. Note: Freshly juiced organic carrots and celery will maximize the flavor of this soup.

see it was finally his turn to enjoy his favorite meal - prime rib, twice-baked potatoes, green beans with bacon pieces, homemade yeast rolls with berry jam and fried apples. He could barely wait to dig in. Viv and Denni contributed a few salads and side dishes and the table looked like it might buckle under the weight of all the good food. Once everyone was seated, Trey asked them to bow their heads and led them in a heartfelt prayer of thanks that ended with, “We thank thee for every gift from thy loving hands, especially for our own precious child, Cass. Please bless this food, bless the hands that prepared it, bless each one gathered around this table and bless our time together. In Jesus name we pray.” Soft whispers of “amen” echoed around the table.

Was Zeb asking if Silver wanted to come home with him? He had to squeeze the pad hard against his scrape so the pain would shut away the idea of climbing into Zeb’s bed. The most horrible part was realizing the longing wasn’t centered in Silver’s dick, but higher. Something hollow right below his ribs, like the constant gnaw of hunger he remembered from when he’d been living on the street. The thought of being pressed up close to Zeb’s skin, the familiar arms around him, the brush of hair against his neck. The idea hurt worse than when Silver had smelled fried food back then. Because there was no way he was ever going to be able to feed this rumble of want. “Oh. Back to Quinn’s. I’m still staying with them.

Nash could do it all: play the piano, sing, rap, drums, guitar, violin, but to keep money in his pocket and food on the table, he hustled.

If the name or shape weren’t odd enough, the McRib has a strange “here today, gone tomorrow” existence. Like a serial deadbeat dad, the McRib arrives with great fanfare only to skip town without warning.

I really love being able to make a big pot of hearty soup for dinner. It’s a time-saver and the cleanup is always easier. This corn chowder is one of my family’s favorites. The East and West Coasts have their seafood chowders, but we prairie folk raise a lot of corn. No prairie cookbook would be complete without a corn chowder recipe. Serves 4 8 ears fresh corn, shucked 8 slices bacon, chopped ¼ cup (½ stick/55 g) unsalted butter 4 cloves garlic, finely chopped 2 ribs celery, finely chopped 1 yellow onion, finely chopped 1 tablespoon finely chopped fresh thyme 1 fresh or dried bay leaf 6 cups (1.4 L) milk 3 new potatoes (about 1½ pounds/680 g), peeled and cut into ½-inch (12-mm) cubes Salt and freshly ground black pepper ¼ cup (7 g) thinly sliced fresh basil or 4 sprigs thyme, for serving • Working over a large shallow bowl, slice the corn kernels off the cobs, scraping the cobs with the knife to extract the flavorful juices. Halve 5 of the bare corncobs crosswise, discarding the rest. Set the corn and cobs aside. • Cook the bacon in a large pot over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until crisp, about 12 minutes. Reserve 3 tablespoons of the bacon for garnish, leaving the remaining bacon in the pot. Add the butter, garlic, celery, onion, thyme, and bay leaf. Cover the pot and cook, stirring occasionally, until the onion softens, about 6 minutes. Add the reserved corn kernels and cobs, the milk, and potatoes. Cover, bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to low and simmer, stirring occasionally, until the potatoes are tender, about 25 minutes. • Skim any foam from the surface of the soup. Discard the cobs and bay leaf. Transfer 1½ cups (360 ml) of the soup to a blender and puree. Stir the puree back into the chowder to thicken it. Season with salt and pepper and serve garnished with the basil or thyme and the reserved bacon.

C’mon. Just a plate of food, and I promise, you don’t have to talk to anyone. You can just perch yourself in the corner, eat a plate of ribs, and glower.” She winked. “You know, be your usual self.

At seven, Liam runs out to pick up some food for us. Her returns forty minutes later with seventy pounds of Chinese food from Orange Garden. "I didn't know what everyone liked. Plus none of us had lunch." He shrugs, unpacking egg rolls, pot stickers, barbecue ribs, pork lo mein, vegetable fried rice, sesame chicken, beef and broccoli, ma po tofu, cashew chicken, shrimp with peapods and water chestnuts, combination chow fun, and mushroom egg foo young. White rice, plenty of sauces, and about forty-two fortune cookies. A six-pack of Tsingtao beer.

When she had her mind set on something, though, she was like a dog with a prime rib bone wrapped in bacon and dipped in peanut butter.

Before long our entire table was covered in food: an earthenware ramekin of pearly-pink prawns bathed in garlic butter; translucent, paper-thin slices of cured ham fanned out on the plate; tortilla espanola with nuggets of potato and sweet onion; candy-stripe beets studded with goat cheese and almond slivers; slow-cooked short ribs almost silky in their tenderness; thick chorizo stew.

Mini Chicago hot dogs, with all seven of the classic toppings for people to customize. Miniature pita breads ready to be filled with chopped gyro meat and tzatziki sauce. Half-size Italian beef sandwiches with homemade giardiniera my mom put up last summer. We did crispy fried chicken tenders atop waffle sticks with Tabasco maple butter, and two-inch deep-dish pizzas exploding with cheese and sausage. Little tubs of cole slaw and containers of spicy sesame noodles. There are ribs, chicken adobo tacos, and just for kicks, a macaroni and cheese bar with ten different toppings.

We'll start with oysters on the half shell and homemade salt-and-pepper potato chips, just to whet the appetites. Then a wedge salad with homemade ranch dressing and crumbled peppered bacon. For the main course, a slow-roasted prime rib, twice-baked potatoes, creamed spinach, tomato pudding baked into tomato halves, and fresh popovers instead of bread. For dessert, the world's most perfect chocolate cream pie. Marcy and I went on a Sunday boondoggle to Milwaukee last year and had lunch at this terrific gastropub called Palomino, and while the whole meal was spectacular, notably the fried chicken, the chocolate cream pie was life changing for us both. Marcy used her pastry-chef wiles to get the recipe, and we both love any excuse to make it. It's serious comfort food, and I can't think of a better way to ring in the New Year.

You've got braised short ribs in the big oven, and that potato, leek, and prune gratin that Brad loves in the warming drawer underneath. There is asparagus prepped in the steamer- Ian can just turn it on and set it for eight minutes." When I helped redesign their kitchen, the Gaggenau rep convinced me to put in two warming drawers, since I'm usually leaving them food that is fully prepared but won't be consumed immediately, and an in-counter steamer, which has been a total game changer when it comes to getting a simple green vegetable on their plates every night, not to mention making the weekly pasta night a cinch. "The perfect thing for a chilly fall night like tonight." "That is what I figured. And there is a chocolate ginger sticky toffee pudding on the counter for dessert. The coffee caramel sauce is in the other warming drawer." "That sounds interesting, a new one?" One of the recipes I've been working on this week, sort of an update of the English classic. I'm loving how the dark chocolate and sweet heat of the ginger take the cake out of the cloying realm, and the bitterness of the coffee in the caramel sauce sets it all off beautifully. "Something I've been playing with.

Gus took a deep breath, taking in the wondrous scent of fresh herbs, ran her eyes over the stalls of red and yellow tulips and the tables mounded with ramps, asparagus, sorrel, chives, and mushrooms. Farther along she could make out the crisp spring lettuces, the romaine and spinach and what was known as a merlot, with its wonderful ruffled edges and bright green ribs. Gus longed to crunch on a few baby carrots, dreamed of giving them a quick blanch and a dab of butter and parsley. Yum! She wanted a chance to wander through the crowd, imagining how she'd put together an early spring vegetable soup, and savor a cup of tea as she people-watched the comings and goings of the green market.

VEGETABLE BEEF SOUP Making this soup with roast beef you’ve saved from another meal (maybe Easy Roast Beef) cuts down on both prep time and cooking time. Even people who think they don’t like leftovers will enjoy this soup, which gets lots of flavor from fresh produce. SERVES 6 | 1 cup per serving Cooking spray 1 medium onion, chopped 1 medium rib of celery, diced 1 medium carrot, sliced 1½ teaspoons chopped fresh oregano or ½ teaspoon dried, crumbled 2 medium garlic cloves, minced ½ teaspoon dried thyme, crumbled 4 cups Beef Broth or commercial fat-free, no-salt-added beef broth 1 cup chopped cooked lean roast beef, cooked without salt, all visible fat discarded 1 cup cut fresh or frozen green beans 1 medium tomato, chopped Pepper to taste Lightly spray a Dutch oven with cooking spray. Cook the onion, celery, carrot, oregano, garlic, and thyme over medium heat for 4 minutes, or until the onion is soft, stirring occasionally. Stir in the remaining ingredients. Bring to a simmer. Reduce the heat and simmer, covered, for 30 minutes, or until the vegetables are tender. COOK’S TIP ON THICKENING SOUP To thicken and enrich most kinds of soup, either add some vegetables if none are called for or use more vegetables than the recipe specifies. Once they’ve cooked, transfer some or all of the vegetables to a food processor or blender and process until smooth, adding a little liquid if needed. Stir the processed vegetables back into the soup. PER SERVING calories 70 total fat 1.0 g saturated 0.5 g trans 0.0 g polyunsaturated 0.0 g monounsaturated 0.5 g cholesterol 13 mg sodium 46 mg carbohydrates 6 g fiber 2 g sugars 3 g protein 9 g calcium 35 mg potassium 304 mg dietary exchanges 1 vegetable 1 very lean meat

The first had been ordinary ground chuck, good and fatty, seasoned with salt and pepper- the most underrated beef seasoning there was- and smashed on the griddle. The second was brisket. Toothsome, but leaner than chuck. If she went with that, she'd have to add some oil to the mix, maybe smoky olive oil, to give it some juice. For now, the buttered bun did some of the work for her and kept the playing field even. But she would probably go with her third option: brisket, chuck, and short rib mixed. It wasn't as expensive as the pure brisket, but she thought it was far better. Then again, the fact that it wasn't as expensive was part of what made it a better option to her, so she wasn't entirely sure she trusted her own taste on this.

Barbecue, vegetable plate, baked beans, sweet tea, fried cherry pie, and an apple I'm almost catatonic as I hold the little slip of paper in my hand now. Harlan, Cody, and I didn't need Shawn to go into what "barbecue" meant. Classic Texas barbecue is a beef brisket, sausage, and ribs. A "vegetable plate" is traditionally a potato salad, raw white onions, and pickles. Not quite what most people would call a healthy vegetable plate, but this is how we do it in Texas.

There is the standing prime rib roast, which I salted three days ago and have left uncovered in the extra fridge to dry out. I place the roast in a large Ziploc bag and put it in the bottom of the first rolling cooler, and then the tray of twice-baked potatoes enriched with cream, butter, sour cream, cheddar cheese, bacon bits, and chives, and topped with a combination of more shredded cheese and crispy fried shallots. My coolers have been retrofitted with dowels in the corners so that I can put thin sheets of melamine on them to create a second level of storage; that way items on the bottom don't get crushed. On the top layer of this cooler I placed the tray of stuffed tomatoes, bursting with a filling of tomato pudding, a sweet-and-sour bread pudding made with tomato paste and orange juice and lots of butter and brown sugar, mixed with toasted bread cubes. I add a couple of frozen packs, and close the top. "That is all looking amazing," Shawn says. "Why, thank you. Can you grab me that second cooler over there, please?" He salutes and rolls it over. I pull the creamed spinach out of the fridge, already stored in the slow cooker container, and put it in the bottom of the cooler, and then add three large heads of iceberg lettuce, the tub of homemade ranch dressing and another tub of crispy bacon bits, and a larger tub of popover batter. I made the pie at Lawrence's house yesterday morning before heading to the airport- it was just easier than trying to transport it- and I'll make the whipped cream topping and shower it with shards of shaved chocolate just before serving. I also dropped off three large bags of homemade salt-and-pepper potato chips, figuring that Lawrence can't eat all of them in one day and that there will hopefully be at least two bags still there when we arrive. Lawrence insisted that he would pick up the oysters himself.

There is a bit of a scrum at the salad stall as fifteen Guardian readers all try to get at the wild rocket at once. We might have a Zen-like appreciation of a single, perfect organic onion, but it makes us no less capable of elbowing a fellow shopper in the ribs when we have to. This is food after all, and we are happy to fight for it if needs be.

Chicken Salad à la Danny Kaye YIELD: 4 SERVINGS TO MOST AMERICANS, Danny Kaye is remembered as a splendid comedian and actor. I think of him as a friend and one of the finest cooks I have ever known. In every way, Danny was equal to or better than any trained chef. His technique was flawless. The speed at which he worked was on par with what you’d find in a Parisian brigade de cuisine. Danny taught me a great deal, mostly about Chinese cuisine, his specialty. Whenever I traveled to Los Angeles, Danny picked me up at the airport and took me to his house, where we cooked Chinese or French food. His poached chicken was the best I have ever had. His method was to put the chicken in a small stockpot, cover it with tepid water seasoned with salt, peppercorns, and vegetables, and cook it at a gentle boil for only 10 minutes, then set it aside off the heat for 45 minutes. As an added touch, he always stuck a handful of knives, forks, and spoons into the cavity of the chicken, to keep it submerged. The result is so moist, tender, and flavorful that I have used the recipe—minus the flatware—ever since. CHICKEN 1 chicken, about 3½ pounds ½ cup sliced carrot 1 cup sliced onion 1 small leek, washed and left whole 1 rib celery, washed and left whole 1 teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon black peppercorns 2 sprigs thyme 2 bay leaves About 7 cups tepid water, or more if needed DRESSING 2 tablespoons Dijon-style mustard 1 tablespoon white wine vinegar 1 teaspoon finely chopped garlic ¼ teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper ½ teaspoon Tabasco hot pepper sauce 5 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil GARNISHES 1 dozen Boston lettuce leaves, cleaned 2 dozen fresh tarragon leaves FOR THE CHICKEN: Place the chicken breast side down in a tall, narrow pot, so it fits snugly at the bottom. Add the remaining poaching ingredients. The chicken should be submerged, and the water should extend about 1 inch above it. Bring to a gentle boil, cover, and let boil gently for two minutes. Remove the pot from the heat, and set it aside to steep in the hot broth for 45 minutes. Remove the chicken from the pot, and set it aside on a platter to cool for a few minutes. (The stock can be strained and frozen for up to 6 months for use in soup.) Pick the meat from the chicken bones, discarding the skin, bones, and fat. Shred the meat with your fingers, following the grain and pulling it into strips. (The meat tastes better shredded than diced with a knife.) FOR THE DRESSING: Mix together all the dressing ingredients in a bowl large enough to hold the chicken salad. Add the chicken shreds to the dressing and toss well. Arrange the Boston lettuce leaves in a “nest” around the periphery of a platter, and spoon the room-temperature chicken salad into the center. Sprinkle with the tarragon leaves and serve.

Chicken Salad à la Danny Kaye YIELD: 4 SERVINGS TO MOST AMERICANS, Danny Kaye is remembered as a splendid comedian and actor. I think of him as a friend and one of the finest cooks I have ever known. In every way, Danny was equal to or better than any trained chef. His technique was flawless. The speed at which he worked was on par with what you’d find in a Parisian brigade de cuisine. Danny taught me a great deal, mostly about Chinese cuisine, his specialty. Whenever I traveled to Los Angeles, Danny picked me up at the airport and took me to his house, where we cooked Chinese or French food. His poached chicken was the best I have ever had. His method was to put the chicken in a small stockpot, cover it with tepid water seasoned with salt, peppercorns, and vegetables, and cook it at a gentle boil for only 10 minutes, then set it aside off the heat for 45 minutes. As an added touch, he always stuck a handful of knives, forks, and spoons into the cavity of the chicken, to keep it submerged. The result is so moist, tender, and flavorful that I have used the recipe—minus the flatware—ever since. CHICKEN 1 chicken, about 3½ pounds ½ cup sliced carrot 1 cup sliced onion 1 small leek, washed and left whole 1 rib celery, washed and left whole 1 teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon black peppercorns 2 sprigs thyme 2 bay leaves About 7 cups tepid water, or more if needed DRESSING 2 tablespoons Dijon-style mustard 1 tablespoon white wine vinegar 1 teaspoon finely chopped garlic ¼ teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper ½ teaspoon Tabasco hot pepper sauce 5 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

Kahnawake August 1704 Temperature 75 degrees “What do you mean--your family?” he said. “Joseph, you do not have a family in this terrible place. You have a master. Do not confuse savages who happen to give you food with family.” Joseph’s face hardened. “They are my family. My father is Great Sky. My mother--” The minister lost his temper. “Your father is Martin Kellogg,” he shouted, “with whom I just dined in Montreal. You refer to some savage as your father? I am ashamed of you.” Under his tan, Joseph paled and his Indian calm left him. He was trembling. “My--my father? Alive? You saw him?” “Your father is a field hand for a French family in Montreal. He works hard, Joseph. He has no choice. But you have choices. Have you chosen to abandon your father?” Joseph swallowed and wet his lips. “No.” He could barely get the syllable out. Don’t cry, prayed Mercy. Be an eagle. She fixed her eyes upon him, giving him all her strength, but Mr. Williams continued to destroy whatever strength the thirteen-year-old possessed. “Your father prays for the day you and he will be ransomed, Joseph. All he thinks of is the moment he can gather his beloved family back under his own roof. Is that not also your prayer, Joseph?” Joseph stared down the wide St. Lawrence in the direction of Montreal. He was fighting for composure and losing. Each breath shuddered visibly through his ribs. The Indian men who never seemed to do anything but smoke and lounge around joined them silently. How runty the French looked next to the six-foot Indians; how gaudy and ridiculous their ruffled and buckled clothing. The Indians were not painted and they wore almost nothing. Neither were they armed. And yet they came as warriors. Two of their children were threatened. It could not be tolerated. Tannhahorens put one hand on Joseph’s shoulder and the other on Mercy’s. He was not ordering them around, and yet he did not seem to be protecting them. He was, it dawned on Mercy, comforting them. In Tannhahorens’s eyes, we are Indian children, thought Mercy. Her hair prickled and her skin turned to gooseflesh. She had spent the summer forgetting to be English--and Tannhahorens had spent the summer forgetting the same thing.

I could definitely rise to the challenge of re-inventing comfort food. Neufchatel and low-fat sour cream were my friends! Low-carb pasta with omega-3s and protein were the greatest inventions ever! I'd had luck using all of them. Granted, even though I couldn't resist a good fatty slice of prime rib every now and then, and Fromager d'Affinois bursting into cream in my mouth was like heaven for me- and certainly I had the curves to show for it- but even if I didn't follow a strict diet, I could certainly cook one!

You will be warm with me in my lodge? I have many buffalo robes. And plenty food. Meat, yes? And my strong arm will protect you, forever into the horizon. There is nothing to fear.” He pressed his hand more firmly against her midriff. “My tongue does not make lies. It is the truth I speak, not penende taquoip, the honey talk, but a promise. I have spoken the words, and they are carried away on the wind to whisper to me always. You will trust? When I go away from you on raids and hunting trips, my brother’s strong arm will be yours. No harm will come to you.” Loretta swallowed. His brother? The man who had helped pour water down her, she guessed. The one he called Warrior. “You can seek death another time. Te-bit-ze, sure enough. But first, you will see what lies on the horizon. It is wisdom.” “I want--” Tension and disuse strung her voice so taut, it twanged like a harp cord. “I want to go home.” “That cannot be. You go with me--to a new place. You are my woman, eh? You have said it, I have said it. Suvate, it is finished.” “I’m not your woman,” she cried. “You stole me from my family.” “I traded many fine horses.” “You bought me, then. And that’s just as--” Loretta craned her neck and stared up at his carved features. “I’m a person, not a thing.” “The white men have slaves, and this is okay, yes? Your Gray Coats fight the great fight so you can own black men. Is this not so? This Comanche has a slave, too. It is good.” “No! It’s not good. It’s monstrous.” She passed a hand over her eyes. “I’ll die before I let you touch me. You hear me?” “Ah, but Blue Eyes, I tough you now.” He slid his hand up her ribs and gently cupped her breast. “You see? I touch you, and you do not die. There is nothing to fear.

Iceberg wedges with a homemade Thousand Island dressing and bacon bits. Prime rib, slow roasted in a very forgiving technique I developed after years of trying to make it for weddings and parties where the timing of the meal can be drastically changed based on length of ceremony, or toasts, or how well the venue staff can change over a room. Twice-baked potatoes, creamed spinach. I have a stack of crepes already made, ready to be turned into crepes suzette with butter and brown sugar and orange zest and flambeed with Grand Marnier, because if you go all old school, something needs to be set on fire. With homemade vanilla bean gelato to cut the richness, of course!

The fact that there were more adults than children at her party didn't seem to faze Dixie. "That child is like a dandelion," Lettie said. "She could grow through concrete." Dixie's birthday party had a combination Mardi Gras/funeral wake feel to it. Mr. Bennett and Digger looped and twirled pink crepe paper streamers all around the white graveside tent until it looked like a candy-cane castle. Leo Stinson scrubbed one of his ponies and gave pony rides. Red McHenry, the florist's son, made a unicorn's horn out of flower foam wrapped with gold foil, and strapped it to the horse's head. "Had no idea that horse was white," Leo said, as they stood back and admired their work. Angela, wearing an old, satin, off-the-shoulder hoop gown she'd found in the attic, greeted each guest with strings of beads, while Dixie, wearing peach-colored fairy wings, passed out velvet jester hats. Charlotte, who never quite grasped the concept of eating while sitting on the ground, had her driver bring a rocking chair from the front porch. Mr. Nalls set the chair beside Eli's statue where Charlotte barked orders like a general. "Don't put the food table under the oak tree!" she commanded, waving her arm. "We'll have acorns in the potato salad!" Lettie kept the glasses full and between KyAnn Merriweather and Dot Wyatt there was enough food to have fed Eli's entire regiment. Potato salad, coleslaw, deviled eggs, bread and butter pickles, green beans, fried corn, spiced pears, apple dumplings, and one of every animal species, pork barbecue, fried chicken, beef ribs, and cold country ham as far as the eye could see.

Scorio awoke to a boot nudging him in the ribs. “Wake up, stinky stranger, your food’s getting cold.” Bleary-eyed, he sat up, He felt as if half his joints had calcified, and a good part of his musculature cramped up for good measure. “Ow. That stone floor’s hard.” “You figure that out all by yourself?” Helena crouched down before him, hands dangling between her knees, her expression somewhere between sympathetic and contemptuous. “Pretty impressive. There’s hope for you yet.

Harper knew Wayne Storr must've told the kitchen staff to go all out with this dinner, because she couldn't believe the quality of every course. Seared scallops with charred scallions, slow-cooked lamb shoulder with fennel ricotta, grass-fed rib eye with polenta and salsa verde, finished with a tiramisu that made her eyes roll back in her head. At least, that's what it felt like, and if Manny's rapturous expression was any indication, he liked it too. "That is categorically the best meal I've ever had." He patted his stomach and groaned. "And I'm not going to eat for the next week, so I'm stuffed." "Me too." But she knew a good way to burn off the calories, and she couldn't wait any longer. While the food may have been delicious, watching Manny eat had been torture. His lips wrapping around a scallop, his tongue flicking out to capture a dab of salsa verde on his lip, the small, satisfied groan as he spooned the final scoop of tiramisu into his mouth. He'd driven her slowly but surely crazy. It seemed like the entire meal had been one giant exercise in foreplay, and she'd been patient long enough. Time for dessert. In her case, greed was good.

From a time even before then, from before James was born, there's a list of frequently requested items in English and Chinese: Egg rolls Wontons Pot stickers Crab rangoons (What are these? Winnie, their mother, annotated in Chinese. Their father wrote underneath, Wontons filled with cream cheese.) Beef with broccoli Following a scattershot statistical analysis, Winnie also compiled a list of things Americans liked: Large chunks of meat Wontons and noodles together in the same soup Pea pods and green beans, carrots, broccoli, baby corn (no other vegetables) Ribs or chicken wings Beef with broccoli Chicken with peanuts Peanuts in everything Chop suey (What is this? Leo wrote. I don't know, Winnie wrote.) Anything with shrimp (The rest of them can't eat shrimp, she annotated. Be careful.) Anything from the deep fryer Anything with sweet and sour sauce Anything with a thick, brown sauce And there is, of course, the list of things the Americans didn't like: Meat on the bone (except ribs or chicken wings) Rice porridge Fermented soybeans

Katherine sits at a table of four. She's a defensive diner, with her back to the wall like Al Capone. James asks for her order. Tea. Spicy tofu. Does she want it with, or without pork? She wants the pork. Would she like brown rice? No, she says, brown rice is an affectation of Dagou's, not authentic. White rice is fine. Whatever her complications, James thinks, they're played out in the real world, not in her palate. But Katherine's appetite for Chinese food is hard-won. She's learned to love it, after an initial aversion, followed by disinclination, and finally, exploration. Everyone knows she grew up in Sioux City eating peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, carrot sticks, and "ants on a log" (celery sticks smeared with peanut butter, then dotted with raisins). Guzzling orange juice for breakfast, learning to make omelets, pancakes, waffles, and French toast. On holidays, family dinners of an enormous standing rib roast served with cheesy potatoes, mashed potatoes, and sweet potatoes with marshmallows, Brussels sprouts with pecans, creamed spinach, corn casserole, and homemade cranberry sauce. Baking, with her mother, Margaret Corcoran, Christmas cookies in the shapes of music notes, jingle bells, and double basses. Learning to roll piecrust. Yet her immersion in these skills, taught by her devoted mother, have over time created a hunger for another culture. James can see it in the focused way she examines the shabby restaurant. He can see it in the way she looks at him. It's a clinical look, a look of data collection, but also of loss. Why doesn't she do her research in China, where her biological mother lived and died? Because she works so hard at her demanding job in Chicago. In the meantime, the Fine Chao will have to do.

Pigs don't fly, but our spare ribs do when you order them.

Teddy knew what everyone would order before they even sat down. It was meat loaf night, which was Charlie's favorite, so of course he'd have that with extra gravy on the side. His mom would stick with the scallops, Gretchen would get the chicken, Jane would either get the scallops or the short ribs (depending on how much red meat she'd eaten that week), and Kay would get the chopped salad with a piece of salmon on top. A calm came over Teddy as his family went around and ordered, one by one, and he had guessed right. He ordered the skirt steak, creamed spinach, and a glass of cabernet. No one got dessert, although Kay and Gail both ordered Baileys on the rocks as they almost always did.

my family’s elemental dish, the food equivalent of DNA. My mother learned it from Mary, my grandmother, who in turn got it from Russ’s sisters. My aunts make it; so do I. In one pan, brown country pork ribs and chicken pieces. In another, brown chopped onions and celery in olive oil; add garlic. Add tomato sauce, tomato puree, tomato paste, basil, oregano, parsley, salt and pepper to the meat. Add the vegetables to the meat. Add a green pepper and let stew. Remove the pepper. The meatballs: ground pork, ground beef, ground veal, stale bread, Romano cheese, chopped onion, celery, parsley, raw egg, salt and pepper. Fry the meatballs, add some to the sauce and keep some separate.

Before I was turned, my human body sustained itself, albeit only for days. Something in me must have kept my heart beating and the muscles in my ribs tightening and relaxing, letting air into and out of my lungs. It's completely possible that that human power is still there, only dormant. Perhaps there is actually a lot of human potential in me. Last night, as my body had been warmed by Ben, I'd felt alive in a way I've never felt before. My heart had woken up and was beating faster than the demon could ever pump it; I'd felt a pleasure better and more intense than eating; I'd felt Ben's blood coursing through his veins but felt no desire to drink it, and only gratitude that he was alive and with me. It had been the duck that had repelled Ben---death had, essentially, repelled him: the remnants of my last meal. If I deny myself blood, perhaps the human side of me will get stronger until I can consume and live off human food, and I'll attract humans to me too, and a human life for myself, and human love.

Jane ordered the short ribs. The meat fell apart as soon as she touched it and she ate each bite with a little bit of the mashed potatoes, which were salty, creamy perfection. If Mike was there, she knew he would've substituted steamed spinach for the potatoes, and just thinking about it made her sad. She always suspected that Mike didn't like Sullivan's. He would never admit this, but he made comments that hinted at it. The food, he said, was too heavy. The decor was too dark. "I always leave Sullivan's smelling like a French fry," Mike said once, years earlier. It was an offhand comment, but it had offended her just the same. "My whole family smells like French fries," she said. It was true---the air of Sullivan's was always filled with the smell of oil from the fryers in the back and it clung to your coat and hair long after you were gone. Jane never minded this---it reminded her of her grandfather; it smelled like home.

This is an eel roll-up skewer. It's thinly sliced eel meat wrapped around a skewer." "What do you mean by the eel meat?" "Take a look at the diagram behind you." "Hmm! It's been separated into so many different parts! It's soft, meaty and fatty... I can enjoy the flavor of the eel to the fullest!" "I must say... this skewer tastes good." "The taste of the eel is a lot richer since it hasn't been steamed like a Tokyo-style kabayaki! And it's a lot more soft and succulent than the kansai-style kabayaki!" "It's the very essence of the eel's flavor." "This is the liver. I can only get one liver out of an eel, so I can only provide the customers with a limited amount each day." "Oh, but isn't the liver the guts?" Ah, look at the diagram. At my place, the liver is one specific part while the guts are the whole thing." "Ooh, I see. That's what it means." "Animal guts have a distinct smell to them. But the eel liver has no smell at all!" "Unlike an ordinary liver skewer... I've taken out the gall bladder, so it's not bitter. Next come the grilled ribs. The ribs are the abdominal bones in the eel that you get rid of when making kabayaki. I skewer and grill them.

At the Afghan restaurant today I identified in myself a burbling in my reservoir of annoyance when I realized that people were going around the buffet in the wrong direction, which was, the annoyance felt, a kind of wretched incivility, a sign of our imminent plummet into lawlessness and misery. The delight is that I can identify that annoyance quickly now, and poke a finger in its ribs (I have shaken up the metaphor, you are right, how annoying), and so hopped into line with all the other deviants, and somehow we all got our food just fine. Same when Stephanie doesn’t turn on the light over the stove to cook, or leaves the light in her bathroom on, or leaves cabinet or closet doors wide open, or doesn’t tighten the lids all the way, all of which the annoyance regards as, if not an obvious sign of sociopathy, indication of some genuine sketchiness. A problem. But somehow no one ever dies of these things, or is even hurt, aside from my sad little annoyance monster, who, for the record, never smiles and always wears a crooked bow tie.

This one is skewered guts. It's all the guts except the liver." "It's got that unique texture of a gut, with a slightly bitter taste!" "The flavor of the guts tends to seep out when you make soup with it, but this retains all its refreshing original flavor!" "This is a fin skewer. As you can guess from its name, it's the dorsal fin of the eel... ... wrapped around a skewer with ribs and garlic chives." "This is my favorite one!" "They throw these parts away when they make kabayaki." "Ah! I understand why this is your favorite, Yamaoka-san! The eel and the garlic chives create a rich, savory flavor!" "I never thought eel and garlic chives would go so well together!" "The dorsal fin of a left-eyed flounder is called an engawa, and it's considered a delicacy. It's the most active part of the fish's body, so it's fatty and good to eat." "The same goes for the eel." "This one is the collar. It's the meat around the neck, below the eyes... ... which I cut open and skewered after taking the head off. The head bone is very tough, so this is the only part of the eel I throw away." "Hmm, so it's called the "collar" because it's the area around the neck." "It has a complex flavor to it too. It's totally different from the stomach meat, the guts or the dorsal fin!" "It kind of tastes like a mixture of fish and lamb meat! There are so many other skewers, right?!" "Yahata-maki, which is eel meat wrapped around burdock. Tanzaku, where the meat has been cut like strips of paper. Smoked eel. And of course, we can't forget the famous kabayaki.

Jewish-Southern culture had also bred the ultimate in fusion food: Gershon Weinberg’s pork and ribs barbecue restaurant in Alabama.

It's... One Batch, Two Batch, Penny and Dime, you know? It was her favorite book. You gotta cross the ocean, and go fight. You see, whole time you're thinking you're gonna be scared, right? But then you're not. See, that part of it was always easy for me. Killing. Even watching my buddies die, it just didn't mean nothing. The first time I got scared was on a plane on the way home. I kept thinking God was gonna pull the rug out from under us, you know? Shit, that's his kind of funny, you know. But the plane landed safe and we were home. Driving through traffic. Yeah, you pass fast food and donut shops and all that greasy shit, the shit you fought to protect, and then the car stops. We were outside her school. I get to her classroom, right? She's in there, but she's got no idea. She's got no idea Daddy's home. I walk in, these kids, they're not even studying, they're-they're doing some kind of yoga. Yeah. You know? She's there. She's doing her poses, you know, she's bending and, you know, she's moving. She looks like a flower. Yeah. And you know, you can't even understand it, you know, how does something like that have... How does something that beautiful have... How does that... how does that come from me, you know? And she looks up and she sees me. I see her. By God, that's real. That's real, Red. Boom. In an instant, she's across that classroom floor, she's in my arms. She's squeezing me so tight, I swear I was gonna bust a rib, you know? We just stayed there like that, we're holding each other. Teacher's filming the whole thing on her phone, you know, she's gonna put it on YouTube or some shit. She can't hold the thing steady, because, you know, she's... she's bawling so hard, and the kids are all wailing, you know, they're screaming. And me? Shit, I'm the worst of all. I'm a... I'm a rubber-faced clown, you know? I cried so hard. But not my baby. Not my girl. You know, she's my girl. She's... she's not crying, she's holding me up. My girl, she's keeping me on my feet. She says, "I knew it, Daddy. I knew it." And then we go home. To the wife, the boy. Place is the exact same, it's like it was just holding its breath waiting for me to get back, you know? Then it hit me. All of it, you know? The first time I felt how tired I was, you know, I was just tired, you know? You ever been tired, Red?

When I was a little girl, I would gorge on her fried tofu with chilies. I was much slimmer back then, you know." "Was the tofu your favorite dish of hers?" I asked. "Oh no, there's too many to count." Celia's tone softened as if she were waxing nostalgic about a lost, grand romance, rather than a recipe. "Everything she cooked was excellent. I still remember every dish that she made: beef noodle soup, braised short ribs, drunken chicken wings, deep-fried shrimp rolls... Your laolao cooked from her heart, and that's why her food was the best in Chinatown.

...it had occurred to me that this whole having-children situation was essentially a process of unspooling. Once [my child] had been so close to me that her feet had gotten stuck in my ribs. We lived literally tethered. And then she was born and screamed if she wasn't being nursed or held. But with each day, she unspooled a little farther away--rolling over, eating food, sitting, walking, screaming, 'Go away, Mommy!'--the crimson thread connecting us unraveling more and more as she wandered out into the woods of the world.

In honor of the new-guy-cooks rule, I made breakfast for the crew on C shift. A Mexican egg skillet, my specialty. I was on probation—the probie. Even though I was five years into the job, I was only five shifts into this station. That meant I was the last one to sit down to eat and the first one to get up and do dishes. I was practically a servant. They had me cleaning toilets and changing sheets. All the grunt work. Sloan and Kristen opted to help me, and Brandon took pity on me, so they all stood in the kitchen wiping counters and scraping food off plates while I washed the dishes and Shawn and Javier played cribbage at the table. Kristen had glared all through the meal, but only when she didn’t think anyone was watching. It was kind of funny, actually. I kept ribbing her. From what I gathered through my prodding, she’d told everyone the shirt was her boyfriend’s. I wasn’t going to say anything. Brandon didn’t need to have the thunder stolen from his new truck by learning it had already been defiled, but I was drawing untold amounts of enjoyment from giving Kristen shit. And she didn’t take any of it lying down either. She matched me tit for tat. “So, Josh, you drive the fire truck, huh?” Kristen asked casually, wiping down the stove. “I do.” I smiled. “Are you any good at it? No problems stopping that thing when you need to?” She cocked her head. “Nope. As long as someone doesn’t slam on the brakes in front of me, I’m good.” Glare. Smirk. Repeat. And Sloan and Brandon were oblivious. It was the most fun I’d had in weeks. Sloan handed me the cutting board to wash. “You’ll be walking Kristen down the aisle at the wedding.” She smiled at her friend. “She’s my maid of honor.” “I hope you walk better than you drive,” Kristen mumbled under her breath.

Gloria’s Pork Ribs and Red Beans YIELD: 4 SERVINGS BEFORE I MARRIED Gloria, I knew nothing about Caribbean cooking—Puerto Rican or Cuban. She introduced me to many dishes that through the years we have transformed into our own family recipes. When Roland, my brother, came to visit, one of the first dishes that Gloria would prepare for him was pork shoulder ribs with red beans, which she usually serves with rice and onion pilaf. This dish is great when made ahead, and any leftovers can be served with fried eggs for breakfast, a type of huevos rancheros. With the bones removed, it can be puréed into a sturdy, flavorful soup in a food processor. Although dried beans are typically presoaked in water before cooking, this is not necessary if the beans are started in cool water. 2 tablespoons good olive oil 4 shoulder pork chops with the bones or country ribs (about 1½ pounds) 1 pound dried red kidney beans 2 cups fresh diced tomato flesh or 1 can (14¾ ounces) whole Italian tomatoes, with juice 3 cups sliced onions 1½ tablespoons chopped garlic 1 jalapeño pepper (or more or less, depending on your tolerance for “hotness”), finely chopped, with or without the seeds (about 1 tablespoon) 2 bay leaves 1 teaspoon herbes de Provence (available in many supermarkets) or Italian seasoning 6 cups cold water 1½ teaspoons salt 1 small bunch cilantro Cooked rice, for serving (optional) Tabasco hot pepper sauce (optional) Heat the oil in a large saucepan (I like enameled cast iron), add the pork chops or ribs, and sauté gently, turning once, for 15 to 20 minutes or until they are browned on both sides. Meanwhile, sort through the beans and discard any broken or damaged ones and any foreign matter. Rinse the beans in a sieve under cold water. When the chops or ribs are browned, remove them from the heat, and add the tomatoes and their juice, onions, garlic, jala-peño, bay leaves, herbs, and water. Stir in the beans and salt, and bring to a boil. Meanwhile, pull the leaves from the cilantro stems. Chop the stems finely (you should have about ¼ cup), and add them to the beans. Reserve the leaves (you should have about 1 cup loosely packed) for use as a garnish. When the bean mixture is boiling, reduce the heat to low, and boil very gently, covered, for 2 to 2½ hours, or until the beans and pork are very tender. Divide among soup bowls, sprinkle the cilantro leaves on top, and serve with rice, if desired. Pass the Tabasco sauce for those who want added hotness.

There were mini Vienna hot dogs with all the classic Chicago toppings. A macaroni 'n' cheese bar with all kinds of fun add-ins. Cold sesame noodles in tiny white cardboard Chinese take-out containers, sliders served with small cones of skinny fries. Fried chicken legs, barbecued ribs, mini gyros in tiny three-inch pitas. All of it the most delicious and perfectly prepared elevated junk food, complete heaven, and just what I love. She gave us each a bamboo tray with a piece of parchment paper on it to use as plates, and large kitchen tea towels instead of napkins. There were cold beers in a tub, endless bottles of rosé, and a massive birthday cake, chocolate with fluffy vanilla frosting, and rainbow sprinkles. And then, after coffee, mini ice-cream sandwiches on chocolate chip cookies.

In a staff meeting, I was discussing a new project with two coworkers. The meeting was winding down, and I realized that it wasn’t clear to the other two that I was the one who had come up with the idea of the project. I immediately thought of a remedy: I would say something like, “When I first came up with the idea for this project . . .” I wouldn’t directly boast, I’d just “clarify” something that would show it was my idea. (In other words, I was going to boast.) But I didn’t. I was quiet because it dawned on me that boasting was like asking Jesus to make breakfast. My food would have been trying to get them to like me. To want their approval was to work for food that spoils. It would leave me still hungry. My two coworkers left the room, and the meeting ended without me saying anything. As I sat there alone, I felt an overwhelming sense of emptiness and pointlessness. Life didn’t seem worth living. I was surprised at how strong the feeling was. I mean, all I did was not boast. Why the feeling? I was feeling my heart, what life is like without God. Boasting gives us a false sense of “really living.” Letting other people know how good we are is a not-so-subtle way of stealing love. When I stopped stealing (by not boasting), I felt my emptiness. As I sat there, I became hungry for God. For real life. For food that sticks to the ribs. Nothing dramatic happened. But I walked out of that room full. I had a real meal instead of my junk-food boasting. I thought about Jesus’ words to the crowd that Saturday morning: “Very truly I tell you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you” (John 6:53).

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

Okay, first there are the angels on horseback and devils on horseback." Blake shakes his head. "Remind me what those are?" "An English thing. Angels on horseback are baked oysters wrapped in bacon. Devils are the same thing with dates instead of oysters." Blake nods. "Got it. What else?" "I'm going to slow-cook the barbecued ribs and serve them as 'skeleton ribs,' and I'll serve up the calamari tentacles as 'deep-fried spiders.' Then I'll roast the shrimp and arrange them in glasses of ice to look like claws or fingers, which people can dip into a 'Bloody Mary' cocktail sauce. And I'll scatter platters of deviled eggs around the living and dining rooms." "Think that'll be enough food?" "Definitely, I'll throw some cheese and crudités into the mix, too. Oh, and dessert- spiced devil's food cupcakes and blood orange sorbet.

It was the kind of feast she loved to fix. She made her falling-apart-tender ribs, smoked on the way-too-fancy patio barbecue and finished in a slow oven. She prepared three kinds of sauce and her very best sides---homemade cornbread with pepper jelly, plates of slow-simmered greens in pot liquor, and a salad of heirloom tomatoes and grilled peaches and herbs from the local farmers’ market, topped with a scoop of burrata cheese. Hummingbird cake for dessert, because who didn't like a hummingbird cake?

I thought the horses would run over me, that any moment their feet would crush my back and head. Something struck me, and I fell and landed on my face; dust filled my eyes. I heard the sound of a man landing from his horse and some shuffling. Then I was in the air. I had been lifted by the man, whose hand was gripping my ribs, the other hand my legs. ... He had put me on his saddle and he tied me onto it. I felt a rope against my back, digging into my skin. He was tying me to the horse. ... Two days later I was thrown onto the ground and told that that was where I would be sleeping. I awoke to the smell of something burning. It smelled like flesh on fire... the Arab was putting a burning metal rod to my head. He was branding me. In my ear he branded the number 8, turned on its side. Moses turned to show me. It was a very rough marking, the symbol raised and purple, scarred into the flesh behind his ear. —Now you will always know who owns you, this man said to me. The pain was so intense that I passed out. I woke when I was being lifted. I was thrown on the saddle again and he tied me down again, this time tighter than before. We rode for two more days. ... It was some kind of military camp. Hundreds “of boys like me were there, all under twelve, Dinka and Nuer boys. I was put in a huge barn with all of these boys, and we were locked inside. There was no food. The barn was full of rats; everyone was being bitten by them. ... Every time there was a battle, the boys would be brought out from the barn and made to give blood. ... I was put on a horse again and we rode for many days. We stopped at a house, a very well-built house. It was the house of an important man, Captain Adil Muhammad Hassan. I learned that I was being given as a gift. Hassan was very thankful and the two of them went inside to eat. I was still tied to the horse outside. They were gone inside all evening and I stayed on the horse. ... The man had two wives, and three children, all the children very young. I thought that the kids would be decent to me, but they were crueler than their parents. The kids were taught to beat me and spit on me. “The kids especially liked to whip me. The oldest boy, when he was left alone with me, would whip me without pause. ... I squatted in the yard like a frog, and he brought his children out and told them to jump on me. They sat on my back and pretended that I was a donkey, and they laughed, and Hassan laughed. They called me a stupid donkey. And the kids fed me garbage. They said I had to eat it, so I ate it—anything they gave me. Animal fat, tea bags, rotten vegetables. ... “There was another Sudanese there, a girl named Akol. She worked in the kitchen, mostly, but she was pregnant with Hassan’s baby so his wife hated her. The wife would find Akol crying for her mother and she would scream at her, threatening to slit her throat with a knife. She called her bitch and slave and animal.

But what Honey and Hickory lacked in ambiance, it made up for in flavor. Meat and potatoes, hearty and addictive, drenched in their signature smoky-sweet sauce. Which meant no one had room for dessert after filling up on Grandpa's award-winning ribs and brisket.

Fortunately, there may be an even better tool than BMI that we can use to gauge the health risks of body fat. It’s called Waist-to-Height Ratio, or WHtR.120 Instead of a scale, grab a simple measuring tape. Stand up straight and take a deep breath, exhale, and let it all hang out. The circumference of your belly (halfway between the top of your hip bones and the bottom of your rib cage) should be half your height—ideally, less. If that measurement is more than half your height, it’s time to start eating healthier and exercising more regardless of your weight.

Foods with Potential Thermogenic Properties Coconut oil Olive oil Green tea Walnuts Mustard (yellow or Dijon)   Foods That Stick to Your Ribs Almonds Raisins Apples Yogurt (nonfat) Chickpeas Eggs Dried plums (prunes) Cod Greens (any kind of leafy greens) Rye Lentils Tofu Peanut butter (natural) Whey protein Pistachios (roasted, unsalted, in the shell)

The Bancroft Peach Bellini 2 ripe peaches, seeded and diced 1 tablespoon freshly squeezed lemon juice 1 teaspoon sugar 1 bottle chilled Prosecco sparkling wine Directions Place the peaches, lemon juice, and sugar in the bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade and process until smooth. Press the mixture through a sieve, and discard the peach solids in the sieve. Place two tablespoons of the peach puree into each champagne glass and fill with cold Prosecco. Serve immediately. Hawaiian BBQ Short Ribs 1 package pork spare ribs 4 tablespoons of your favorite brand of dry rib rub 1 cup light brown sugar 2 cups Welch’s Essentials Orange, Pineapple, Apple Juice Cocktail 1 16-ounce can chunked pineapple, with its juice 4 tablespoons light yellow mustard 1 cup Hawaiian BBQ sauce Directions Sprinkle both sides of the spare ribs with dry rib rub and light brown sugar.

I don't know where to begin on my plate. Everything looks so unfamiliar, yet appetizing. I decide to aim for the starch first, and settle my fork into a generous portion of what turns out to be risotto with bite-sized pieces of suckling pig. I'll take creamy risotto over that vile poi any day. The pork, so tender and juicy, has me humming Mele Kalikimaka, cause it feels like a Hawaiian Merry Christmas gift. I next try the entrée, a tender, flaky and surprisingly un-oily mackerel sprinkled with feta cheese and olives and cloaked in taro leaves. I have to give Telly some credit, I didn't know how this place could pull off merging three such divergent flavors, but somehow it works despite itself. "I can't believe how fantastic this food is," Jess mumbles through a bite of her pineapple-balsamic glazed wild boar spare ribs with tzatziki sauce. "Who'd have thought you could actually assemble a menu with Italian, Hawaiian and Greek food? I honestly thought it was a joke." "Joke's on us, cause this stuff is amazing." After dinner ends, Telly returns with a selection of desserts (including a baklava made with mascarpone cheese, coconut and pine nuts), a tray with sample shots of grappa, ouzo and okolehao, and a somewhat excessive appreciation for his customers.

He's on to sashimi now, fanning and curling slices of snapper and fugu into white roses on his cutting board. Before Toshio can plate the slices, Shunichi reaches over and calmly replaces the serving plate his son has chosen with an Edo-era ceramic rectangle more to his liking. Three pieces of tempura- shrimp, eggplant, new onion- emerge hissing and golden from the black iron pot in the corner, and Toshio arranges them on small plates with wedges of Japanese lime. Before the tempura goes out, Shunichi sneaks in a few extra granules of salt while Toshio's not looking. By now Dad is shadowing his son's every move. As Toshio waves a thin plank of sea cucumber eggs over the charcoal fire, his dad leans gently over his shoulder. "Be careful. You don't want to cook it. You just want to release its aroma." Toshio places a fried silverfish spine on a craggy ceramic plate, tucks grated yuzu and sansho flowers into its ribs, then lays a sliver of the dried eggs over the top. The bones shatter like a potato chip, and the sea cucumber detonates in my mouth.