Rick Cook Quotes

Programming today is a race between software engineers striving to build bigger and better idiot-proof programs, and the Universe trying to produce bigger and better idiots. So far, the Universe is winning.

They want to cook you and eat you," she said distatefully, "which is ridiculous. You'd taste terrible." "Thank you, grandmother.

watching a satyr cook Eggo blueberry waffles on a stick over an open fire.

Leading people is like cooking Don’t stir too much
It annoys the ingredients
And spoils the food

I think it may be fine to live in the past if that is where your people have all disappeared to - if that is a place where things still make some kind of sense to you.

The past is where we go when we are helpless; the past, no matter what the psychiatrists say, can’t really hurt you much more than it already has, not like the future, which comes at you like a train around a blind curve.

Moira nodded vigorously. She didn't know what BASIC or COBOL were, except that Wiz said they caused brain damage in those who used them.

If you asked most kids, “Hey, you want to summon fire or lightning or magical makeup?” they’d think it sounded pretty cool. But those powers went along with hard stuff, like sitting in a sewer in the middle of winter, running from monsters, losing your memory, watching your friends almost get cooked, and having dreams that warned you of your own death.

Jerry thought about what a letter of recommendation from a council of wizards would look like in his resume file. "Totally secret," he said firmly.

Taste this." Rick held out a wooden spoon smothered in sauce, cradling the underside with his free hand. "That's heaven." Laney licked the spoon clean. "When I die, bury me in a vat of that." She kissed Rick on the lips and heaved the groceries onto the counter. "I feel like I'll be too sad to cook that much, what with you dead and all." He turned back to the pot, stirring the sauce as gently as he'd handle a newborn baby. "Though if we have a little advance warning, I could stockpile it in the freezer." "Absolutely. I'll do what I can to die a slow death." Laney smirked. "All in the name of the sauce, of course.

How to make twenty freshmen hyperactive: 1. Give them access to an espresso machine. 2. Offer them a safe haven after seventy-two hours of running from death. 3. Feed them a home-cooked meal made by an orangutan. 4. Tell them that tomorrow, they will get to see a make-believe submarine from the 1800s that is actually not make-believe.

IT’S SO WEIRD HOW A PERSON can be a normal part of your everyday life, and then just disappear. And when they do, you realize that some of those everyday things go with them. Like the smell of food cooking. Or the sound of Rick James, Frankie Beverly, or the Isley Brothers playing as background music in our house. The kettle, whistling. Water running in the kitchen sink. She was always at the kitchen sink, my mom, doing a two-step or something. Her voice, and her voices.

Hazel squinted. “How far?” “Just over the river and through the woods.” Percy raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? To Grandmother’s house we go?” Frank cleared his throat. “Yeah, anyway.” Hazel clasped her hands in prayer. “Frank, please tell me she’ll let us spend the night. I know we’re on a deadline, but we’ve got to rest, right? And Arion saved us some time. Maybe we could get an actual cooked meal?” “And a hot shower?” Percy pleaded. “And a bed with, like, sheets and a pillow?” Frank tried to imagine Grandmother’s face if he showed up with two heavily armed friends and a harpy. Everything had changed since his mother’s funeral, since the morning the wolves had taken him south. He’d been so angry about leaving. Now, he couldn’t imagine going back. Still, he and his friends were exhausted. They’d been traveling for more than two days without decent food or sleep. Grandmother could give them supplies. And maybe she could answer some questions that were brewing in the back of Frank’s mind—a growing suspicion about his family gift. “It’s worth a try,” Frank decided. “To Grandmother’s house we go.” Frank was so distracted, he would have walked right into the ogres’ camp. Fortunately Percy pulled him back.

Peanut butter, or turkey?” “Turkey. Soft on the mayo, extra mustard.” Rick lifted an eyebrow at her. “Do I look like a cook?” “You do until Vilseau comes back. Because anything beyond microwave pizza is your territory, sweetheart.” With a grin he began slathering mustard on one of the slices of bread. “Wonderful. So now I have to negotiate a multimillion-dollar deal and cook? Do you want tomatoes?” “Hell, yes, my darlin’.” “Ahem. Innocent bystander trying not to barf over here.” Stoney waved a hand at them from the doorway. “What’s the gig?” “Food first. Do you want Rick to make you a sandwich?” “Hey,” Rick protested.

In the Mountains, they cooked, too. Joe Godwin made liquor in Muscadine. Moe Shealey made it in Mineral Springs. Junior McMahan had a still in ragland. Fred and Alton Dryden made liquor in Tallapoosa, and Eulis Parker made it on Terrapin Creek. Wayne Glass knew their faces because he drove it, and made more money hauling liquor than he ever made at the cotton mill. He loaded the gallon cans into his car in the deep woods and dodged sheriffs and federal men to get it to men like Robert Kilgore, the bootlegger who sold whiskey from a house in Weaver, about ten minutes south of Jacksonville. "I could haul a hundred and fifty gallons in a Flathead Ford, at thirty-five dollars a load," he said. Wayne lost the end of one finger in the mill, but he was bulletproof when he was running liquor, and only did time once, for conspiracy. "They couldn't catch me haulin' liquor," he said, "so they got me for thinkin' about it.

I cooked with so many of the greats: Tom Colicchio, Eric Ripert, Wylie Dufresne, Grant Achatz. Rick Bayless taught me not one but two amazing mole sauces, the whole time bemoaning that he never seemed to know what to cook for his teenage daughter. Jose Andres made me a classic Spanish tortilla, shocking me with the sheer volume of viridian olive oil he put into that simple dish of potatoes, onions, and eggs. Graham Elliot Bowles and I made gourmet Jell-O shots together, and ate leftover cheddar risotto with Cheez-Its crumbled on top right out of the pan. Lucky for me, Maria still includes me in special evenings like this, usually giving me the option of joining the guests at table, or helping in the kitchen. I always choose the kitchen, because passing up the opportunity to see these chefs in action is something only an idiot would do. Susan Spicer flew up from New Orleans shortly after the BP oil spill to do an extraordinary menu of all Gulf seafood for a ten-thousand-dollar-a-plate fund-raising dinner Maria hosted to help the families of Gulf fishermen. Local geniuses Gil Langlois and Top Chef winner Stephanie Izard joined forces with Gale Gand for a seven-course dinner none of us will ever forget, due in no small part to Gil's hoisin oxtail with smoked Gouda mac 'n' cheese, Stephanie's roasted cauliflower with pine nuts and light-as-air chickpea fritters, and Gale's honey panna cotta with rhubarb compote and insane little chocolate cookies. Stephanie and I bonded over hair products, since we have the same thick brown curls with a tendency to frizz, and the general dumbness of boys, and ended up giggling over glasses of bourbon till nearly two in the morning. She is even more awesome, funny, sweet, and genuine in person than she was on her rock-star winning season on Bravo. Plus, her food is spectacular all day. I sort of wish she would go into food television and steal me from Patrick. Allen Sternweiler did a game menu with all local proteins he had hunted himself, including a pheasant breast over caramelized brussels sprouts and mushrooms that melted in your mouth (despite the occasional bit of buckshot). Michelle Bernstein came up from Miami and taught me her white gazpacho, which I have since made a gajillion times, as it is probably one of the world's perfect foods.

I want you to cook more. It's good for you. You know exactly what you're nourishing yourself with (which for me almost always includes a healthy dose of fresh vegetables). It allows you to feel the natural rhythms of life in a way that microwaved frozen dinners never can. And cooking often draws people to the table, encouraging dialogue and providing a moment to appreciate the good (and truly tasty) things in life. I know: if I want you to cook more, I need to make it easy for you. And to my way of thinking, that means I need to help you with three things: First I need to help wean you from a slavish dependency on recipes - I need to hand you a few go-to recipes that are easily varied depending on what you have on hand, and teach you to look at other recipes with an eye to how they can be varied to suit your own tastes and kitchen. Second, I need to help you know what ingredients and basic preparations to have on hand so that a good meal is never more than a few minutes away. And third, I need to help you know which kitchen equipment will enable you to create delicious food fast (and, of course, I need to guide you in how to use it to its best advantage). I can do all that.

A brick could be used to cook with, as a thickening agent in gravy. But as history proves, the thickest agents work for the government as tax collectors. 


You're not dealing with people," Jerry told him. "These are programmers, boy. Programmers!

Basically, Sam Phillips recorded Bill Haley, Johnny Cash, and all those other Memphis guys; Chuck Berry played the top two strings; Elvis appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show above the waist; the Beatles made all the girls squirm by singing about wanting to hold their “hands”; Ray Davies got lost in a sunset; Pete Townshend smashed his guitar; Brian Wilson heard magic in his head and made it come out of a studio; the Rolling Stones urinated on a garage door; and then (skipping a bit) you’ve got Joey Levine and Chapman-Chinn and Mott the Hoople and Iggy and the Runaways and KISS and the Pink Fairies and Rick Nielsen and Jonathan Richman and Johnny Ramone and Lemmy and the Young brothers and Cook and Jones and Pete Shelley and Feargal Sharkey and Rob Halford … and Foghat. You get what I’m saying. It didn’t happen in a vacuum, but it did happen, and now here we are in the aftermath.

I have a treasured set of matched grain crosscut horns made for me by master American carver Jim Cooke, cut yin-yang from the same block of briar he waited five years to find.

If you asked most kids "Hey, you want to summon fire or lightning or magical makeup?" they'd think it sounded pretty cool. But those powers went along with hard stuff, like sitting in a sewer in the middle of winter, running from monsters, losing your memory, watching your friends almost get cooked, and having dreams that warned you of your own death

The fastest way to a man's heart is through his vagina. A lot of people say it's the stomach. That's the saying, but that's fucking stupid. Men like to eat, sure. But do all men place that much importance on their next meal? You can cook a mean meatloaf and so you've fucking got them wrapped around your little fucking finger? No goddamn way. Men love to fuck. All men. Every goddamn one of them. Young, old, fat, thin, smart, dumb, alive, dead, all men. After a while, a certain kind of man, men like Rick Grimes, they find one vagina they really enjoy being inside. That becomes their vagina. You fuck with that vagina, you can crush a man's heart.

in the days before refrigeration, salt had to be added to butter as a preservative. Salted butter is for spreading; unsalted is for cooking, as it allows for better control of the salt in the recipe.

Some carried clubs or spears. A few confused ogres carried surfboards, like they’d shown up at the wrong party. All of them were in a festive mood—giving each other high fives, tying plastic bibs around their necks, breaking out the knives and forks. One ogre had fired up a portable barbecue and was dancing in an apron that said KISS THE COOK.

The past is where we go when we are helpless; the past, no matter what the psychiatrists say, can't really hurt you much more than it already has, not like the future, which comes at you like a train around a blind curve.

Ten miles to the southeast the war went on, badly, for Drake and his men. With nearly a thousand troops already dug in on Djebel Ksaira, Drake decided to herd the rest of his command—now bivouacked in various wadis southeast of Sidi bou Zid—onto Garet Hadid, a slightly loftier escarpment four miles west of Ksaira. Soon 950 riflemen, musicians, cooks, and clerks were perched on the barren rock like nesting birds. Nearly one-third lacked weapons. After watching the artillery flee near Djebel Lessouda, Drake had called McQuillin at eight A.M. on a field phone to report the makings of a rout. When Old Mac disputed his characterization, Drake snapped, “I know what I’m talking about. I know panic when I see it.” McQuillin hesitated, then told Drake: “You are on the spot. Take command and stop it.” The

Basically, women couldn’t do anything except stay home, cook food, clean house, and look pretty—preferably all at the same time. Now, me—being an awesome modern demigod dude—I can do all that easily. But not everybody can pull it off. (My girlfriend, Annabeth, is reading this over my shoulder and laughing. Why are you laughing?) Athenian

could just make out a tiny hill, with the ant-size figure of Sisyphus struggling to move his boulder to the top. And I saw worse tortures, too—things I don’t want to describe. The line coming from the right side of the judgment pavilion was much better. This one led down toward a small valley surrounded by walls—a gated community, which seemed to be the only happy part of the Underworld. Beyond the security gate were neighborhoods of beautiful houses from every time period in history, Roman villas and medieval castles and Victorian mansions. Silver and gold flowers bloomed on the lawns. The grass rippled in rainbow colors. I could hear laughter and smell barbecue cooking. Elysium. In the middle of that valley was a glittering blue lake, with three small islands like a vacation resort in the Bahamas. The Isles of the Blest, for people who had chosen to

Troops caught nibbling their emergency D- ration chocolate bars were dubbed Chocolate Soldiers and punished by forfeiting two meals. This was a happy penance. The galleys served so much fatty mutton that derisive bleating could be heard throughout the convoy and the 13th Armored Regiment proposed a new battle cry: 'Baaa!' Crunchy raisins in the bread proved to be weevils; soldiers learned to hold up slices to the light, as if candling eggs. The 1st Infantry Division on Reine de Pacifico organized troop details to sift flour through mesh screens in a search for insects. Wormy meat aboard the Keren so provoked 34th Division soldiers that officers were dispatched to keep order in the mess hall. When soldiers aboard Letitia challenged the culinary honor of one French cook, he 'became quite wild and threatened to jump overboard.

Basically, women couldn’t do anything except stay home, cook food, clean house, and look pretty—preferably all at the same time. Now, me—being an awesome modern demigod dude—I can do all that easily. But not everybody can pull it off. (My girlfriend, Annabeth, is reading this over my shoulder and laughing. Why are you laughing?)

Our hostess disappeared behind the snack counter and started cooking. Before we knew it, she’d brought us plastic trays heaped with double cheeseburgers, vanilla shakes, and XXL servings of French fries.

On November 4, while the votes were still being counted, Rick Perry, Trump’s former secretary of energy, wrote Meadows about his “AGRESSIVE STRATEGY.” “Why can’t the states of GA NC PENN and other R controlled state houses declare this is BS […] and just send their own electors to vote,” Perry mused. Perry sent the message to a group chat that included Meadows and two people who were still part of Trump’s cabinet at the time: Secretary of Housing and Urban Development Ben Carson and Secretary of Agriculture George Ervin “Sonny” Perdue III. “Interesting,” Carson wrote. Alternate electors were a central element of various plots to overturn Trump’s loss that were cooked up by his allies in the weeks after the election. There were basically five states that mattered in the 2020 presidential race: Arizona, Pennsylvania, Michigan, Georgia, and Wisconsin. The rest of the results were predictable. It was all coming down to the margin in those swing states. Of course, presidential elections aren’t technically decided in the states. They

boils.” Terrin didn’t jump at the interruption of his thoughts, but only because he’d come to expect it. The voice was perky and upbeat and annoying as all hell. He closed his eyes for a moment, gathered his patience and turned to face Petty Officer Third Class Francesca Hayden, apparently the most cheerful and effervescent computer technician in the whole Spartan Navy. Even when she was standing still, she gave the impression of constantly bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Pardon?” he said, the actual content of her words lost in his irritation. “It’s just a saying my great grandmother used to tell me,” she clarified, still grinning brightly, her teeth almost painfully white in the glare of the temporary lighting they’d set up in the auxiliary control center down on the third level of the Terminus facility. There’d been too much damage to the primary control center from the fight with Starkad, and this one had come with actual, physical input terminals instead of haptic holograms. “If you watch a pot of water on the stove, it seems like it takes forever to boil, you know.” “I don’t believe I’ve ever had the occasion to boil water on a stove,” he admitted. He winced, realizing it made him sound like a privileged douchebag, and he amended the statement. “I mean, in college, I made my own meals sometimes, and in the lab at the university, but those were all just ready-made heat-n-eat bowls.” He shrugged, trailing off. Why did she always have this effect on him? She was no different than any other tech. Okay, maybe she was cute, if you were into the whole pixie look, with her bobbed brown hair and upturned nose and the impish grin. She certainly did nice things to a set of blue Navy utility fatigues but that could have been the effect of months away from civilians. He glanced around the control room to see if any of the other technicians had noticed his embarrassment, but the only two he could see looked to be absorbed in their work. “I love a home-cooked meal,” she went on as if he hadn’t

Darling, when you get going, you're the wickedest witch what ever was

Babka has roots in the cooking of Russia and Poland and, along with some ugly architecture, is one of the few remnants of the Russian years in Prague.

just cook better than anybody else. A Cajun knows he’s got it right when, after it’s done, you can throw away the meat and just eat the gravy.

I don’t suppose any of you can fly?” They shook their heads. “I can cook,” Cecil offered.

Let’s try it again,” Merve said as he tugged on the corpse. He pulled and rocked but she didn’t budge. “Okay, hand me the shovel,” he said. Ellen kept her flashlight trained on Merve, and with the shovel under the torso, he rocked her loose from the floor and she rolled over onto the body bag. When the deceased turned, body fluid shot up into the air like a fountain from the abdomen as an odor of feces and smoked burnt flesh filled the air. The face, nose and eyes were burned away and a bright red cooked tongue protruded out of the front teeth. A collective gasp came from the group. The ligature was still intact, and photographed. And Ellen’s flashlight beam suddenly disappeared. Ellen ran for the doorway. She almost made it, too. She projectile vomited before she hit the safety railing and her flashlight fell from her grasp and tumbled down to the courtyard below. “Holy cow!” exclaimed Officer Chimenti as he grabbed a hold of the detective’s left arm to steady her. “Are you all right, Ellen?” “I’ll be fine,” she replied while holding the railing and gasping for air. “Just give me a moment.” “Ellen?” “Not now, Richie.” Richie patted Ellen on her back softly while she continued to spit over the railing. He then leaned over close and whispered into her ear, “The lady standing behind you is Terri Dillon. She’s here to walk the dead dog. Its name was Buddy.” “Fuck me,” Ellen whispered back while continuing to spit. “Richie, please get her info and ask her to wait down in the lobby. Someone will be with her very soon.

Cook didn’t let his romanticism interfere with negotiations. Before accepting the job, he insisted that Apple commit to paying him the salary and options he was forgoing at Compaq. The total was more than $1 million, greater than anything Apple had offered an executive to that point. Jobs exploded when he heard the demand. “There’s no way Apple can do this!” he screamed at executive recruiter Rick Devine, who had found Cook. “What are you thinking? Do you understand math?

You remind me of Iris,” I said. “She went organic vegan several decades ago.” Rhea made a face—just a ripple of disapproval before regaining her karmic balance. “Iris is a good soul. I dig her. But you know, these younger goddesses, they weren’t around to fight the revolution. They don’t get what it was like when your old man was eating your children and you couldn’t get a real job and the Titan chauvinists just wanted you to stay home and cook and clean and have more Olympian babies.

your poor taste ≠ my cooking is bad.

We are cooking together again, and he asked me to pick up some salad greens and a loaf of something "Italian-ish," so my tote bag is brimming with bunches of peppery arugula and tender lamb's lettuce and a half loaf of Rick's pane pugliese, a crusty Italian peasant bread with a delicate, open crumb and slightly sour, caramel flavor. For dessert, I decided to buy half of one of Rick's rhubarb crumble tarts---vanilla custard encased in a tender shortbread crust and topped with roasted chunks of ruby rhubarb and a buttery oatmeal crumble

The Daniel Plan is a way of life, or as some have called it, a health-style that takes the guessing out of eating and cooking.

We have become food consumers, not food producers or makers. We have outsourced our cooking to corporations.

She can tell if her cornbread is done, and all the rest, by their aromas alone—that, or the angels mumble it straight into her ear. It’s not the clock that tells you when it’s done; the food does.

peoples that made up the Meso-American empires had orchards full of avocados, coconuts, papayas, pineapples, prickly pears and a long list of others whose names don’t ring familiar in our ears. Their farms grew the father of our red tomato and a little green husk “tomato”; there were chiles, manioc, sweet potatoes, four kinds of squash, peanuts and at least five major strains of beans. Epazote was the herb of preference (as it is today), and there were huge quantities of amaranth and chia seeds to make into

By a decade after the 1521 fall of Tenochtitlán, the Mexican natives had already adopted a new set of flavors into their existing large assortment. There seemed to be an “absence of strong cultural resistance to the introduction and use of foreign plants,” as one researcher found recently when he tried to discover what had become of so many of those pre-Columbian crops in modern Mexico.11