Roast Lamb Quotes

We approach the house and I wave at Jimmy. "And if he thinks he's eating with us, he's got another thing coming," my dad says. Jimmy approaches us and takes the shopping bags from me, looking inside them. "Lamb roast. Am I invited?

A human body in no way resembles those that were born for ravenousness; it hath no hawk’s bill, no sharp talon, no roughness of teeth, no such strength of stomach or heat of digestion, as can be sufficient to convert or alter such heavy and fleshy fare. But if you will contend that you were born to an inclination to such food as you have now a mind to eat, do you then yourself kill what you would eat. But do it yourself, without the help of a chopping-knife, mallet or axe, as wolves, bears, and lions do, who kill and eat at once. Rend an ox with thy teeth, worry a hog with thy mouth, tear a lamb or a hare in pieces, and fall on and eat it alive as they do. But if thou had rather stay until what thou eat is to become dead, and if thou art loath to force a soul out of its body, why then dost thou against nature eat an animate thing? There is nobody that is willing to eat even a lifeless and a dead thing even as it is; so they boil it, and roast it, and alter it by fire and medicines, as it were, changing and quenching the slaughtered gore with thousands of sweet sauces, that the palate being thereby deceived may admit of such uncouth fare.

I wanted adventures. I wanted to go up the Nung river to the heart of darkness in Cambodia. I wanted to ride out into a desert on camelback, sand and dunes in every direction, eat whole roasted lamb with my fingers. I wanted to kick snow off my boots in a Mafiya nightclub in Russia. I wanted to play with automatic weapons in Phnom Penh, recapture the past in a small oyster village in France, step into a seedy neon-lit pulqueria in rural Mexico. I wanted to run roadblocks in the middle of the night, blowing past angry militia with a handful of hurled Marlboro packs, experience fear, excitement, wonder. I wanted kicks – the kind of melodramatic thrills and chills I’d yearned for since childhood, the kind of adventure I’d found as a little boy in the pages of my Tintin comic books. I wanted to see the world – and I wanted the world to be just like the movies

If he was going to be boiled for a lamb, then he might as well be roasted for a sheep.

They talked about fishing, food, winds and stonework; about growing tomatoes, keeping poultry and roasting lamb, catching crayfish and scallops; telling tales, jokes; the meaning of their stories nothing, the drift of them everything; the brittle and beautiful dream itself.

If you think, from this prelude, that anything like a romance is preparing for you, reader, you never were more mistaken. Do you anticipate sentiment, and poetry, and reverie? Do you expect passion, and stimulus, and melodrama? Calm you expectations; reduce them to a lowly standard. Something real, cool, and solid lies before you; something unromantic as Monday morning, when all who have work wake with the consciousness that they must rise and betake themselves thereto. It is not positively affirmed that you shall not have a taste of the exciting, perhaps toward the middle and close of the meal, but it is resolved that the first dish set upon the table shall be one that a Catholic - ay, even an Anglo-Catholic - might eat on Good Friday in Passion Week: it shall be cold lentils and vinegar without oil; it shall be unleavened bread with bitter herbs, and no roast lamb.

roast lamb from Sisteron, “the best lamb in France,

A friend's mother ate nothing but clams for six months. Morning, noon, and night, nothing but clams. 'I don't know what it is - I can't seem to get enough of them' she told her son. He shakes his head, but I understand. I eat nothing but broccoli for a month, then yogurt for six days, then (for one glorious week) lamb chops. One day I roasted a chicken and had seven chicken sandwiches before nightfall. If I like something, I like it a lot. Just one doesn't cut it. I don't know what it is I can't get enough of.

Harry’s mouth fell open. The dishes in front of him were now piled with food. He had never seen so many things he liked to eat on one table: roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and, for some strange reason, peppermint humbugs. The Dursleys had never exactly starved Harry, but he’d never been allowed to eat as much as he liked. Dudley had always taken anything that Harry really wanted, even if it made him sick. Harry piled his plate with a bit of everything except the peppermints and began to eat. It was all delicious. “That does look good,” said the ghost in the ruff sadly, watching Harry cut up his steak.

Cars do not reflect the character of a person. A car is tangible, while a soul is spiritual. How can one represent the other? If cars represent our character, then we should all be driving convertibles. Because people change depending on if things are good or bad, and so are as fickle as the weather. A car can never fulfill someone the way a solid friendship, memorable experience or a good lamb roast can.

When I was shipwrecked recently, for instance, I had the fortune to wash aboard a barge where I enjoyed a late supper of roast leg of lamb with creamed polenta and fricassee of baby artichokes, followed by some aged Gouda served with roasted figs, and finished up with some fresh strawberries dipped in milk chocolate and crushed honeycomb, and I found this to be a wonderful antidote to being tossed like a rag doll in the turbulent waters of a particularly stormy creek.

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

We began with dates, the traditional way of breaking fast at Ramadan. Then, harissa and rose-petal soup, with crêpes mille trous, saffron couscous and roast spiced lamb. Almonds and apricots for dessert, with rahat loukoum and coconut rice.

A whole roasted lamb—stuffed with lamb sausages, organ and glandbreads, dried fruits and currants, tomato/garlic/onion mush, the entirety cardamomated, corianderized, cumined, cloved—was brought out on a spit, danced around. The carcassbearers were women, further gorgeous bursting Slavs,

The dinner itself might well have been planned by the same mind that had devised the décor: black bean soup, crab meat and slivers of crab shell done in cream, roasted crown of lamb with bone tips decently encased in little paper drawers, tiny hard potatoes, green peas ruined by chopped carrots, asparagus instead of salad, and the dessert called, perhaps a shade hysterically, Cherries Jubilee.

Each course was more delectable than the last. Phoebe would have thought nothing could have surpassed the efforts of the French cook at Heron's Point, but this was some of the most delicious fare she'd ever had. Her bread plate was frequently replenished with piping-hot milk rolls and doughy slivers of stottie cake, served with thick curls of salted butter. The footmen brought out perfectly broiled game hens, the skin crisp and delicately heat-blistered... fried veal cutlets puddled in cognac sauce... slices of vegetable terrine studded with tiny boiled quail eggs. Brilliantly colorful salads were topped with dried flakes of smoked ham or paper-thin slices of pungent black truffle. Roasted joints of beef and lamb were presented and carved beside the table, the tender meat sliced thinly and served with drippings thickened into gravy.

A chilled pea soup of insane simplicity, garnished with creme fraiche and celery leaves. Roasted beet salad with poached pears and goat cheese. Rack of lamb wrapped in crispy prosciutto, served over a celery root and horseradish puree, with sautéed spicy black kale. A thin-as-paper apple galette with fig glaze. Everything turned out brilliantly, including Patrick, who roused himself as I was pulling the lamb from the oven to rest before carving. He disappeared into the bathroom for ten minutes and came out shiny; green pallor and under-eye bags gone like magic. Pink with health and vitality, polished and ridiculously handsome, he looked as if he could run a marathon, and I was gobsmacked. He came up behind me just as I was finishing his port sauce for the lamb with a sprinkle of honey vinegar and a bit of butter, the only changes I made to any of his recipes, finding the sauce without them a bit one-dimensional and in need of edge smoothing.

He went upstairs and opened the telegram; it was addressed to a department in the British Consulate, and the figures which followed had an ugly look like the lottery tickets that remained unsold on the last day of a draw. There was 2674 and then a string of five-figure numerals: 42811 79145 72312 59200 80947 62533 10605 and so on. It was his first telegram and he noticed that it was addressed from London. He was not even certain (so long ago his lesson seemed) that he could decode it, but he recognised a single group, 59200, which had an abrupt and monitory appearance as though Hawthorne that moment had come accusingly up the stairs. Gloomily he took down Lamb's 'Tales from Shakespeare' - how he had always detested Elia and the essay on Roast Pork. The first group of figures, he remembered, indicated the page, the line and the word with which the coding began. 'Dionysia, the wicked wife of Cleon,' he read, 'met with an end proportionable to her deserts'. He began to decode from 'deserts'. To his surprise something really did emerge. It was rather as though some strange inherited parrot had begun to speak.

Thanksgiving dinner is vast and steaming, crowded over the tabletop in hot platters bumping against each other. There are three open bottles of wine, all different colors, and there seem to be far more plates and silverware than are actually needed. Among the guests' contributions, there's a big round fatayer- a lamb pie- that Aziz bought from the green-eyed girl at the Iranian bakery; six sliced cylinders of cranberry sauce from Um-Nadia; whole roasted walnuts in chili sauce from Cristobal; plus Victor brought three homemade pumpkin pies and a half-gallon of whipping cream.

Don't believe vegetarians who tell you that meat has no flavor, that it comes from the spices or the marinade. The flavor is already there: earth and metal, salt and fat, blood. My favorite meat is chicken. I can eat a whole bird standing up in the kitchen, straight from the oven, burning my bare hands on its flesh. Anyone can roast a chicken, it is a good animal to cook. Lamb, on the other hand, is much harder to get right. You have to lock in the flavor, rubbing it with sea salt like you are exfoliating your own drying skin, tenderly basting it in its own juices, hour after hour. You have to make small slits across the surface of the leg, through which you can insert sprigs of rosemary, or cloves of garlic, or both. These incisions should run against the grain, in the opposite direction to which the muscle fibers lie. You can tell the direction better when the meat is still uncooked, when it is marbled and raw. It is worth running your finger along those fibers, all the way from one end to the other. This doesn't help with anything. It won't change how you cook it. But it is good to come to terms with things as they are. Preparing meat is always an act of physical labor. Whacking rib eye with a rolling pin. Snapping apart an arc of pork crackling. And there is something inescapably candid about it, too. If you've ever spatchcocked a goose- if you've pressed your weight down on its breastbone, felt it flatten and give, its bones rearranging under your hands- you will know what I am talking about. We are all capable of cruelty. Sometimes I imagine the feeling of a sliver of roast beef on my tongue: the pink flesh of my own body cradling the flesh of something else's. It makes sense to me that there is a market for a vegetarian burger that bleeds.

A private car was waiting for us and Renée and I were driven back to the Pleasure Prison. As we rode along I was thinking, “Why do I feel so inflated, so pumped up, so on edge? I have been here eight weeks and worked only eight days.” I mean, talk about mad dogs and Englishmen, the British were incredible. A sixty-year-old makeup man stood for hours each day in the burning sun, just to press ice packs on our necks so we wouldn’t faint, and I was complaining? I was feeling ravaged, all spoiled and puffed up. But, oh, how I was going to miss it. How I was going to miss it. Riding in the car, I said a silent farewell. Farewell to the fantastic breakfasts, the pineapple like I’d never tasted and probably never will taste again. Farewell to the fresh mango and papaya, farewell to the Thai maid and the fresh, clean, cotton sheets on the king-size bed every night. Farewell to the incredible free lunches under the circus tent with fresh meat flown in from America every day. Roast lamb, roast potatoes and green beans at 110 degrees, in accordance with British Equity. Farewell to the cakes and teas and ices at four. Farewell to the Thai driver with the tinted glasses and the Mercedes with the one-way windows. Farewell to the single fresh rose in the glass on my bureau every morning. And just as I was dozing off in the Pleasure Prison, I had a flash. An inkling. I suddenly thought I knew what it was that killed Marilyn Monroe.

The last meal aboard the Titanic was remarkable. It was a celebration of cuisine that would have impressed the most jaded palate. There were ten courses in all, beginning with oysters and a choice of Consommé Olga, a beef and port wine broth served with glazed vegetables and julienned gherkins, or Cream of Barley Soup. Then there were plate after plate of main courses- Poached Salmon and Cucumbers with Mousseline Sauce, a hollandaise enriched with whipped cream; Filet Mignon Lili, steaks fried in butter, hen topped with an artichoke bottom, foie gras and truffle and served with a Périgueux sauce, a sauté of Chicken Lyonnaise; Lamb with Mint Sauce; Roast Duckling with Apple Sauce; Roast Squash with Cress and Sirloin Beef. There were also a garden's worth of vegetables, prepared both hot and cold. And several potatoes- Château Potatoes, cut to the shape of olives and cooked gently in clarified butter until golden and Parmentier Potatoes, a pureed potato mash garnished with crouton and chervil. And, of course, pâté de foie gras. To cleanse the palate, there was a sixth course of Punch à la Romaine, dry champagne, simple sugar syrup, the juice of two oranges and two lemons, and a bit of their zest. The mixture was steeped, strained, fortified with rum, frozen, topped with a sweet meringue and served like a sorbet. For dessert there was a choice of Waldorf Pudding, Peaches in Chartreuse Jelly, Chocolate and Vanilla Èclairs and French ice cream.

The cheerful array of fruits and vegetables, all so much larger and more vividly colored than those you could find in a regular supermarket, made Rika feel as if she were visiting a market in a far-flung land. She was drawn by the look of the kebabs and various kinds of bread, but it was the rice that called to her the most powerfully. The lamb pilaf, stuffed vine-leaves, and roast peppers filled with pilau particularly caught her attention. The smooth, boiled dumplings with their savory yoghurt sauce fired up her appetite. At each bite of the bean salad, she could feel resolve rising up from the pit of her stomach. The teeth-tingling sweetness of the small hard pies lit up a honey-colored light in a part of her brain she didn't usually use, so that it felt ready to melt.

Sirine learned about food from her parents. Even though her mother was American, her father always said his wife thought about food like an Arab. Sirine's mother strained the salted yogurt through cheesecloth to make creamy labneh, stirred the onion and lentils together in a heavy iron pan to make mjeddrah, and studded joints of lamb with fat cloves of garlic to make roasted kharuf. Sirine's earliest memory was of sitting on a phone book on a kitchen chair, the sour-tart smell of pickled grape leaves in the air. Her mother spread the leaves flat on the table like little floating hands, placed the spoonful of rice and meat at the center of each one, and Sirine with her tiny fingers rolled the leaves up tighter and neater than anyone else could- tender, garlicky, meaty packages that burst in the mouth.

I was always crazy about any Chinese takeout since everything on those long menus is so tempting, but when the craving really hit, the folks at Panda Delight over on Richmond almost knew without asking to pack me up an order of wings, a couple of egg rolls, shrimp dumplings, pork fried rice, and the best General Tso's chicken this side of Hong Kong. When my friend at the shelter, Eileen Silvers, got married at Temple Beth Yeshurum, I had a field day over the roast turkey and lamb and rice and baked salmon and jelly cakes on the reception buffet, and when me and Lyman would go out to Pancho's Cantina for Mexican, nothing would do but to follow up margaritas and a bowl of chunky guacamole and a platter of beef fajitas with a full order of pork carnitas and a few green chile sausages. And don't even ask about the barbecue and links and jalapeño cheese bread and pecan pie at Tinhorn BBQ. Just the thought still makes me drool.

SHE HAD WATCHED THEM in supermarkets and she knew the signs. At seven o'clock on a Saturday evening they would be standing in the checkout line reading the horoscope in Harper's Bazaar and in their carts would be a single lamb chop and maybe two cans of cat food and the Sunday morning paper, the early edition with the comics wrapped outside. They would be very pretty some of the time, their skirts the right length and their sunglasses the right tint and maybe only a little vulnerable tightness around the mouth, but there they were, one lamb chop and some cat food and the morning paper. To avoid giving off the signs, Maria shopped always for a household, gallons of grapefruit juice, quarts of green chile salsa, dried lentils and alphabet noodles, rigatoni and canned yams, twenty-pound boxes of laundry detergent. She knew all the indices to the idle lonely, never bought a small tube of toothpaste, never dropped a magazine in her shopping cart. The house in Beverly Hills overflowed with sugar, corn-muffin mix, frozen roasts and Spanish onions. Maria ate cottage cheese.

The conversation lightened during the midday banquet the king hosted for our delegation. It was a lavish affair, like something out of a fairy tale, the fifty-foot table laden with whole roasted lambs and heaps of saffron rice and all manner of traditional and Western delicacies. Of the sixty or so people eating, my scheduling director, Alyssa Mastromonaco, and senior advisor Valerie Jarrett were two of the three women present. Alyssa seemed cheery enough as she chatted with Saudi officials across the table, although she appeared to have some trouble keeping the headscarf she was wearing from falling into the soup bowl. The king asked about my family, and I described how Michelle and the girls were adjusting to life in the White House. He explained that he had twelve wives himself—news reports put the number closer to thirty—along with forty children and dozens more grandchildren and great-grandchildren. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, Your Majesty,” I said, “but how do you keep up with twelve wives?” “Very badly,” he said, shaking his head wearily. “One of them is always jealous of the others. It’s more complicated than Middle East politics.

The night before, Um-Nadia came over with her small wooden box stuffed with handwritten recipes, dishes Um-Nadia hadn't prepared or eaten in the thirty-five years since she and Mireille had left Lebanon. Some were recipes for simple, elegant dishes of rice pilafs and roasted meats, others were more exotic dishes of steamed whole pigeons and couscous or braised lambs' brains in broth. And they discussed ingredients and techniques until late in the night. Um-Nadia eventually fell asleep on the hard couch in the living room, while Sirine's uncle dozed across from her in his armchair. But Sirine stayed up all night, checking recipes, chopping, and preparing. She looked up Iraqi dishes, trying to find the childhood foods that she'd heard Han speak of, the sfeehas- savory pies stuffed with meat and spinach- and round mensaf trays piled with lamb and rice and yogurt sauce with onions, and for dessert, tender ma'mul cookies that dissolve in the mouth. She stuffed the turkey with rice, onions, cinnamon, and ground lamb. Now there are pans of sautéed greens with bittersweet vinegar, and lentils with tomato, onion, and garlic on the stove, as well as maple-glazed sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, and pumpkin soufflé.

But between them and the foot of the sky there was something so white on the green grass that even with their eagles’ eyes they could hardly look at it. They came on and saw that it was a Lamb. “Come and have breakfast,” said the Lamb in its sweet milky voice. Then they noticed for the first time that there was a fire lit on the grass and fish roasting on it. They sat down and ate the fish, hungry now for the first time for many days. And it was the most delicious food they had ever tasted. “Please, Lamb,” said Lucy, “is this the way to Aslan’s country?” “Not for you,” said the Lamb. “For you the door into Aslan’s country is from your own world.” “What!” said Edmund. “Is there a way into Aslan’s country from our world too?” “There is a way into my country from all the worlds,” said the Lamb; but as he spoke his snowy white flushed into tawny gold and his size changed and he was Aslan himself, towering above them and scattering light from his mane. Oh, Aslan,” said Lucy. “Will you tell us how to get into your country from our world?” “I shall be telling you all the time,” said Aslan. “But I will not tell you how long or short the way will be; only that it lies across a river. But do not fear that, for I am the great Bridge Builder.

Chicken Francese, or lamb chops, or plump spinach gnocchi that she'd roll out by hand and drop into boiling salt water. When her brothers came home for the holidays, she'd spend days in the kitchen, preparing airy latkes and sweet and sour brisket; roast turkey with chestnut stuffing; elaborately iced layer cakes. She'd stay in the kitchen for hours, cooking dish after dish, hoping that all the food would somehow conceal their father's absence; hoping that the meals would take the taste of grief out of their mouths. "After my father died, I think cooking saved me. It was the only thing that made me happy. Everything else felt so out of control. But if I followed a recipe, if I used the right amounts of the right ingredients and did everything I was supposed to do..." She tried to explain it- how repetitive motions of peeling and chopping felt like a meditation, the comfort of knowing that flour and yeast, oil and salt, combined in the correct proportions, would always yield a loaf of bread; the way that making a shopping list could refocus her mind, and how much she enjoyed the smells of fresh rosemary, of roasting chicken or baking cookies, the velvety feel of a ball of dough at the precise moment when it reached its proper elasticity and could be put into an oiled bowl, under a clean cloth, to rise in a warm spot in the kitchen, the same step that her mother's mother's mother would have followed to make the same kind of bread. She liked to watch popovers rising to lofty heights in the oven's heat, blooming out of their tins. She liked the sound of a hearty soup or grain-thickened stew, simmering gently on a low flame, the look of a beautifully set table, with place cards and candles and fine china. All of it pleased her.

The store smells of roasted chicken and freshly ground coffee, raw meat and ripening stone fruit, the lemon detergent they use to scrub the old sheet-linoleum floors. I inhale and feel the smile form on my face. It's been so long since I've been inside any market other than Fred Meyer, which smells of plastic and the thousands of people who pass through every day. By instinct, I head for the produce section. There, the close quarters of slim Ichiban eggplant, baby bok choy, brilliant red chard, chartreuse-and-purple asparagus, sends me into paroxysms of delight. I'm glad the store is nearly empty; I'm oohing and aahing with produce lust at the colors, the smooth, shiny textures set against frilly leaves. I fondle the palm-size plums, the soft fuzz of the peaches. And the berries! It's berry season, and seven varieties spill from green cardboard containers: the ubiquitous Oregon marionberry, red raspberry, and blackberry, of course, but next to them are blueberries, loganberries, and gorgeous golden raspberries. I pluck one from a container, fat and slightly past firm, and pop it into my mouth. The sweet explosion of flavor so familiar, but like something too long forgotten. I load two pints into my basket. The asparagus has me intrigued. Maybe I could roast it with olive oil and fresh herbs, like the sprigs of rosemary and oregano poking out of the salad display, and some good sea salt. And salad. Baby greens tossed with lemon-infused olive oil and a sprinkle of vinegar. Why haven't I eaten a salad in so long? I'll choose a soft, mild French cheese from the deli case, have it for an hors d'oeuvre with a beautiful glass of sparkling Prosecco, say, then roast a tiny chunk of spring lamb that I'm sure the nice sister will cut for me, and complement it with a crusty baguette and roasted asparagus, followed by the salad. Followed by more cheese and berries for dessert. And a fruity Willamette Valley Pinot Noir to wash it all down. My idea of eating heaven, a French-influenced feast that reminds me of the way I always thought my life would be.

In preparation for a feast to welcome the newlyweds, crates of melons, eggplants, tomatoes, basil, apricots, and figs were stacked in the shade. Naneh Goli sat at a table set outside the kitchen, stringing green beans to cook with minced beef in a bright tomato sauce for lubia polo- a favorite dish of Zod's boyhood. Forty game hens already lay in their saffron yogurt marinade, and tomorrow they would roast them over an open fire to serve with mounds of jeweled rice. All morning Yanik shaped lamb koofteh (meatballs) mixed with allspice and thyme, browning them in small batches and infringing on Nina's burners, which she needed to simmer mulberry preserves for parfait.

They camped at night among evergreens, and George showed her how to make use of her herbs for a lentil stew for breakfast. She already was thinking longingly of the food back in the Palace- though, she was ravenous enough to have eaten almost anything. But their fare was plain in the extreme and even though there was quite enough to keep her from feeling hungry, still, images of roast fowl, lamb, bowls of ripe fruit and yogurt, fresh bread and honeycomb, and sweet wine kept intruding between her and her plain flatbread and crumbled goat cheese and olives.

She looks over, still smiling, to Sirine behind the counter, and says, "Roasted lamb, rice and pine nuts, tabbouleh salad, apricot juice." Then she blows a kiss. Hanif glances at Sirine. She looks down, quick, a bunch of parsley pinched in her fingertips, rocks the big cleaver through a profusion of green leaves, onions, cracked wheat. Suddenly she remembers the leben and hurries to the big potful of yogurt sauce, which is just on the verge of curdling.

Farther on she came upon a feast of corpses. Savagely slaughtered, the feasters lay strewn across overturned chairs and hacked trestle tables, asprawl in pools of congealing blood. Some had lost limbs, even heads. Severed hands clutched bloody cups, wooden spoons, roast fowl, heels of bread. In a throne above them sat a dead man with the head of a wolf. He wore an iron crown and held a leg of lamb in one hand as a king might

roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, chips, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup and, for some strange reason, mint humbugs.

Quick, what was my favorite thing to cook at the Green Onion that I can make in this time limit? The Green Onion's menu had been plant-focused, not much red meat, with lots of fresh Pacific Northwest seafood. Which was good, because I didn't have a ton of time to spend roasting a full rack of lamb or simmering a brisket. A salad was too simple, falafel was too complicated, and---- Scallops. My mind whirred, gears clicking into place. Scallops cooked quickly. The Green Onion had a scallop special that people really loved. Seared scallops with a green, herby broth and tempura-fried vegetables. I could put my own spin on it and do a fried artichoke instead of the tempura, and make the broth more of a buttery green sauce. Yes. That would be delicious.

I pop into Barrett's, ducking beneath the bright-red awning into the tiny shop, which is packed with fresh cuts of everything, from delicate lamb chops to meaty pork roasts covered in thick layers of fat. Mountains of fat sausages beckon from within the glass case, in more varieties than I could ever imagine---wild boar and apple, venison, chicken and sage, beef and garlic. A musty funk fills the store, giving the place an air of rustic authenticity. I order three Cornish hens (or, as the British call them, poussin) and then head back toward Pomona, the small food shop I visited this morning, remembering the fresh, crusty loaves of bread on their shelves. I grab a loaf of challah, its braided crust shiny and golden brown, along with some celery, an onion, some mushrooms, and a few spices. Before I pay, I also throw a bunch of speckled bananas, a pot of Greek yogurt, and some flour and sugar into my basket. The ingredients are slightly different here than they are back home---"self-raising flour," "caster sugar"---but I'm sure I can re-create the banana bread I developed for a famous morning-show host back in Chicago. It's one of my most popular recipes to date, and I'm sure it would taste great with a cup of tea.

string. There was a roast lamb to

PLUTARCH HEAVENSBEE’S ROASTED SUCKLING PIG SURPRISE One

The current fast food fuss obscures the reality that such foods are ancient. Fried kibbeh, sausages, olives, nuts, small pizzas, and flat breads have been sold on the streets of Middle Eastern and North African cities for a cycle of centuries; Marco Polo reported barbequed meats, deep-fried delicacies, and even roast lamb for sale in Chinese markets.

His fantasies were nurturing, not predatory. If he could have Jess, he would feed her. Laughable, antique, confusingly paternal, he longed to nourish her with clementines, and pears in season, fresh whole-wheat bread and butter, wild strawberries, comte cheese, fresh figs and oily Marcona almond, tender yellow beets. He would sear red meat, if she would let him, and grill spring lamb. Cut the thorns off artichokes and dip the leaves in fresh aioli, poach her fish- thick Dover sole in wine and shallots- julienne potatoes, and roast a whole chicken with lemon slices under the skin. He would serve a salad of heirloom tomatoes and fresh mozzarella and just-picked basil. Serve her and watch her savor dinner, pour for her, and watch her drink. That would be enough for him. To find her plums in season, and perfect nectarines, velvet apricots, dark succulent duck. To bring her all these things and watch her eat.

Sentimentally, he thought of Jess. Irrationally, he despaired of having her. But this was not a question of pursuit. Raj would laugh at him, and Nick would look askance. His fantasies were nurturing, not predatory. If he could have Jess, he would feed her. Laughable, antique, confusingly paternal, he longed to nourish her with clementines, and pears in season, fresh whole-wheat bread and butter, wild strawberries, comte cheese, fresh figs and oily Marcona almonds, tender yellow beets. He would sear red meat, if she would let him, and grill spring lamb. Cut the thorns off artichokes and dip the leaves in fresh aioli, poach her fish- thick Dover sole in wine and shallots- julienne potatoes, and roast a whole chicken with lemon slices under the skin. He would serve a salad of heirloom tomatoes and fresh mozzarella and just-picked basil. Serve her and watch her savor dinner, pour for her, and watch her drink. That would be enough for him. To find her plums in season, and perfect nectarines, velvet apricots, dark succulent duck. To bring her all these things and watch her eat.

TOPPING 1 cup (lightly packed) fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves 2 garlic cloves, peeled and coarsely crushed 2 shallots, peeled and thinly sliced 4 slices good white bread (4 ounces) 2 tablespoons good olive oil About ⅓ cup water Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Rub the leg of lamb with the butter, and sprinkle it with the salt and pepper. Place in a roasting pan top side up, and bake for 20 minutes. FOR THE TOPPING: Meanwhile, put the parsley, garlic, shallots, and bread into a food processor, and process just enough to finely chop all the ingredients, or chop them by hand. Transfer to a bowl, and mix in the olive oil, gently tossing it with the other topping ingredients until the bread mixture is coated. (This will help hold the topping together on the roast, and the oil makes the bread crumbs brown beautifully.) After the lamb has baked for 20 minutes, tilt the pan, and use the fat that collects on one side to baste the lamb. Pat the crumb mixture gently but firmly over the top and sides of the lamb to make it adhere. Return the lamb to the oven, and reduce the heat to 400 degrees. Cook for another 30 minutes or so, or until the internal temperature registers 125 to 130 degrees for medium-rare meat. Transfer the lamb to an ovenproof platter, and keep it warm in a 150-degree oven. It should rest for 15 to 20 minutes before carving. Meanwhile, pour the water into the pan, and stir well with a wooden spatula to melt the solidified juices and mix the water with the drippings. Slice the lamb and serve it with these natural juices.

said Percy airily. ‘He’s a genius! Best wizard in the world! But he is a bit mad, yes. Potatoes, Harry?’ Harry’s mouth fell open. The dishes in front of him were now piled with food. He had never seen so many things he liked to eat on one table: roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, chips, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup and, for some strange reason, mint humbugs. The Dursleys had never exactly starved Harry, but he’d never been allowed to eat as much as he liked. Dudley had always taken anything that Harry really wanted, even if it made him sick. Harry piled his plate with a bit of everything except the humbugs and began to eat.

Harry's mouth fell open. The dishes in front of him were now piled with food. He had never seen so many things he liked to eat on one table; roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon, and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, chips, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup and, for some strange reason, mint humbugs.

Do you still like roast lamb? You always loved the way I cooked it, with lots of rosemary from the garden.” “And you’d make your mint sauce,” Clea said with a slight smile.

We set out the hot trays of mansaf, tender lamb in spicy white yogurt broth on a bed of saffron rice, topped with roasted almonds, parsley, and pine nuts.

She asked what I had learned in Sunday school and I always said, “Jesus wept.” I didn’t want to go into my feelings about a God who put a father to a test to see if he’d kill his own son like a lamb to roast, and then sent his only child to be nailed onto a cross and fed vinegar

For lamb, stick with chops, ribs and shank. For pork, the best cuts are shoulder, pork belly, ribs and butt roasts. For poultry, your best options are wings, thighs and drumsticks. As far as seafood is concerned, try shrimp, scallops, lobster, crab, sardines, mackerel, trout and salmon.

We’re going to have roast spring lamb for dinner, but you didn’t consider it necessary to visit the slaughter-house.

Stella turned through the pages and saw the pikelets, pea-and-ham soup and the boiled mutton and capers of her childhood. Here was her mother's wimberry pie, her damson jam and her gooseberry fool. Where recipes came from relatives and friends, her mother's handwriting noted the case: the method for hot-water pastry had been handed down from her grandmother; the parsley in her suet dumplings came from her cousin; the parkin was her great-aunt's recipe. Stella remembered how she and her mother would always share the first slice of roast lamb at the stove and the secret glass of sherry they'd drink as they made a trifle.

There is something about the first frost that brings out the caveman--- one might even say the vampire--- in me. I want to wear fur and suck the meat off lamb bones, and on comes my annual craving for boudin noir, otherwise known as blood sausage. You know you've been in France for nearly a decade when the idea of eating congealed blood sounds not only normal, but positively delightful. When I was pregnant, my body craved iron in silly amounts. I could have eaten a skyscraper. It's a shame that it's not on the French pregnancy diet--- forbidden along with charcuterie, liver, and steak tartare. It's true that boudin noir is not the sort of thing I'd buy at any old supermarket. Ideally, you want a butcher who prepares his own. I bought mine from the mustached man with the little truck in Apt market, the same one I'd spotted during our first picnic in Provence. Since our first visit, I'd returned many times to buy his delicious, very lean, saucisses fraîches and his handmade andouillettes, which I sauté with onions, Dijon mustard, and a bit of cream. I serve my boudin with roasted apples--- this time, some Golden Delicious we picked up from a farm stand by the side of the road. I toasted the apple slices with olive oil, sprinkled the whole lot with sea salt, and added a cinnamon stick and a star anise to ground the dish with cozy autumn spices. Boudin is already cooked through when you buy it, but twenty minutes or so in a hot oven gives it time to blister, even burst. I'm an adventurous eater, but the idea of boiled (or cold) boudin makes me think about moving back to New Jersey. No, not really. I admit, when you first take it out of the oven, there are some visual hurdles. There's always a brief moment--- particularly when I serve the dish to guests--- that I think, But that looks like large Labrador shit on a plate. True enough. But once you get past the aesthetics, you have one of the richest savory tastes I can imagine. Good boudin has a velveteen consistency that marries perfectly with the slight tartness of the roasted apples. Add mashed potatoes (with skin and lumps), a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, and wake me in the spring.

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

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

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

What would she eat? Meat? Vegan? Vegetarian? Pescatarian? More important, would her taste buds be open to spices? I call this research ocular reconnaissance. The woman meanders toward one of the butchers and points to a goliath-sized leg of lamb---definitely a carnivore. I wonder how she'd prepare her meal---perhaps with slices of garlic stuffed into the meatiest parts of the top, slow roasted with rosemary, with potatoes on the side, the juices, the herbs, infusing into everything. Served with a mint sauce? Or is she the type who colors outside the lines and does something less traditional?

1.    Preheat the oven to 350°F. Combine the endive, parsley, ½ cup of the mint, the greens, bread crumbs, 1 tablespoon of the caraway seeds, 1 tablespoon of the coriander seeds, the citrus peel, nutmeg, dates, ½ cup of the capers, the egg, brown sugar, verjuice, and marrow in a large bowl and season with salt and pepper. Season both sides of the lamb with salt and pepper. Spoon the mixture into the center of the lamb and tie closed with kitchen string. Place in a baking pan and bake for 1¼ hours, or until the internal temperature reaches 160°F for medium. Remove the lamb from the pan and let rest for 10 minutes. Meanwhile, bring the stock to a boil in a small sauce pan, until reduced by half. 2.    Add the orange juice to the baking pan and stir well to loosen the pan drippings. Purée the pan drippings with the Renaissance Stock, the remaining 2 tablespoons of mint, the remaining 2 tablespoons of capers, and the granulated sugar until smooth. Stir in the orange zest and warm in a small saucepan. 3.    Place the leg of lamb in the center of a serving platter and spoon the sauce over the lamb. Sprinkle the remaining ½ tablespoon of caraway and coriander seeds over the lamb and around the platter. ORIGINAL RECIPE: A Legge of Lambe searst with Hearbes Strue it as before shewed, with sweet Hearbes and grated Bread, Bisket seeds, a few Coriander-seeds, Lemmon pills minst fine, Nutmeg sliced, sliced Dates, a little grosse pepper, Capers washt cleane: put all together with sixe or seven yolkes of new layd Egges, hard roasted and whole, & put them in your stuffe and worke them with Sugar, Rosewater and verjuyce, and the Marrow of a bone or two, Salt and pepper, put all together into the Skin: Carrawayes and Orangado are fittest garnish for your Dish. MURRELLS TWO BOOKES OF COOKERIE AND CARVING, BOOK 1, 1615

Page after page of sauces. Page after page of soups. Bisque of snipe à la bonne bouche. Bisque of crab à la Fitzhardinge, which included adding a pint of boiling cream. Puree of asparagus à la St George involved three dozen small quenelles of fowl and half a pint of small fillets of red tongue. Mercy me. I flicked on. What on earth was ragout of cock's kernels à la soubise, or ragout of ox palates? At the Tilleys' residence, we rarely ate offal. Mr Tilley was fond of liver and bacon, but Mrs Tilley saw offal as food of the lower classes, for those who could afford nothing better. So our meals were good old-fashioned roast beef, leg of lamb, chops and steaks, with thee occasional steak and kidney pie. These recipes looked horribly complicated: Put about half a pound of cock's kernels, with cold water, into a stewpan, let it stand by the side of a slow fire to remove the little blood they contain, taking care that the water does not become too warm. I read on. As soon as they whiten... pat of butter... simmer... drain them on a napkin... small stewpan, with a ragout-spoonful of Soubise sauce and a little Allemande sauce...

Between ourselves, I think they use too many rich sauces. One never gets the true flavor of the meat or vegetable. Her Majesty's favorite accompaniment to roast beef is a horseradish cream sauce that is so hot the meat must taste like paper. Most of the vegetables the queen eats are made into purees. And her meat is often turned into ragouts and terrines. Some dishes mix too many flavors. The queen loves butter and cream with everything. So bad for her." And I grinned. He nodded as if he understood. "So you have a palate that appreciates the taste of good ingredients?" "I do." "And how did you develop this?" "I must have inherited it from my father, who had lived well and appreciated fine food. I was apprenticed to a good cook who produced simple English fare- pork chops, roast lamb, roast pheasant, chicken, sole, lobster. There was a sauce to accompany them, but it never overwhelmed the flavor of the meat or fish.

EASY FIRST FINGER FOODS FOR BABIES • steamed (or lightly boiled) whole vegetables, such as green beans, baby corn, and sugar-snap peas • steamed (or lightly boiled) florets of cauliflower and broccoli • steamed, roasted or stir-fried vegetable sticks, such as carrot, potato, egg plant, sweet potato, parsnip, pumpkin, and zucchini • raw sticks of cucumber (tip: keep some of these ready prepared in the fridge for babies who are teething—the coolness is soothing for their gums) • thick slices of avocado (not too ripe or it will be very squishy) • chicken (as a strip of meat or on a leg bone)—warm (i.e., freshly cooked) or cold • thin strips of beef, lamb or pork—warm (i.e., freshly cooked) or cold • fruit, such as pear, apple, banana, peach, nectarine, mango—either whole or as sticks • sticks of firm cheese, such as cheddar or Gloucester •breadsticks • rice cakes or toast “fingers”—on their own or with a homemade spread, such as hummus and tomato, or cottage cheese And, if you want to be a bit more adventurous, try making your own versions of: • meatballs or mini-burgers • lamb or chicken nuggets • fishcakes or fish fingers • falafels • lentil patties • rice balls (made with sushi rice, or basmati rice with dhal) Remember, you don’t need to use recipes specifically designed for babies, provided you’re careful to keep salt and sugar to a minimum.

My Easter smells are the cinnamon and mixed spices in the hot cross buns, and the rosemary and mint sauce with the roast lamb. The grassy tang of rhubarb and real muddy wet grass from the egg rolling. And of course, lots and lots of milk chocolate. My scents for Easter are: Angel by Thierry Mugler Anima Dulcis by Arquiste Musc Maori by Parfumerie Générale Blue North by Agonist Opium by Yves Saint Laurent English Pear & Freesia by Jo Malone London La Tulipe by Byredo

Even with the quirky presentation, the food, Gemma had to admit, had been divine. From the creamy, smoky trout spread, to the delicate salad with roasted pears, caramel, and a local blue cheese, to the meltingly tender lamb and white beans served in camping tins, it had been of absolute star quality. What, Gemma had to wonder, was a chef so talented doing in this tiny village? She nibbled at the last bit of her pudding. The little jam jar she'd chosen had held a mixed berry crumble with a tangy layer of creme fraîche- a dessert she suspected she'd find herself dreaming about. All round her, spoons were being laid down and empty jars examined in hopes of finding a smidgen more.

When I plan a menu I consider color, texture, taste, and balance: Color: A red vegetable next to a yellow one looks unappetizing. Two white ones, like celery and cauliflower, look awful. Texture: Creamed chicken with mashed potatoes makes too much mush. Always serve something crisp with something soft. Taste: Never team two sours, two sweets, or two bitters. Candied yams and cranberry sauce are both delectable, but served together they break two of these rules, color and taste contrast. Balance: Courses shouldn't be uniformly rich nor light. A too rich menu might consist of a heavy cream soup, a roast with thickened gravy and potatoes, and a heavy cream soup, a roast with thickened gravy and potatoes, and a heavy whippedcreamtopped dessert. If the main course is substantial, the first should be light, crisp and appetizing, and the dessert an airy sherbet or a compote of fresh fruit. I decide first on the main course. For a buffet for twelve there should be two warm dishes. If you're going to be a relaxed hostess choose two that can be made the day before. Most of them improve with reheating. Some of the possibilities are beef bourguignon, boned and skinned breasts of chicken in a delicate cream sauce, a shrimp-lobster-and-scallop Newburg, lamb curry with all its interesting accompaniments. With any of these, serve a large, icy bowl of crisp salad with a choice of two or three dressings in little bowls alongside. Hot dishes must be kept hot in chafing dishes or on a hot tray so that they’re just as good for the second helping. Plates should be brought warm to the buffet table just before the guests serve themselves. I like to have a complete service at each end of the table so that people won’t have to stand in line forever, and there should be an attractive centerpiece, though it can be very simple. A bowl of flowers, carefully arranged by the hostess in the afternoon, and candles—always candlelight. The first course for a buffet supper should be an eye-catching array of canapés served in the living room with the drinks. I think there should be one interesting hot thing, one at room temperature, and a bouquet of crisp raw vegetables. The raw vegetables might include slim carrot sticks, green pepper slices, scallions, little love tomatoes, zucchini wedges, radishes, cauliflowerettes, olives, and young turnips. Arrange them colorfully in a large bowl over crushed ice and offer a couple of dips for non-dieters. [...] It’s best to serve hot hors d’oevres in two batches, the second ones heating under the broiler while the first round of drinks is served. [...] After people have had their second helpings the maid clears the buffet and puts out the dessert. Some people like an elaborate ice-cream concoction — so many men like gooey, sweet things. Pander to them, and let them worry about their waistlines. Some people like to end dinner with cheese and fruit. Other two kinds — one bland and one forthright, and just ripe. French bread and crackers on the side. For diet watchers gave a pretty bowl of fresh fruits, dewy and very cold. Serve good, strong coffee in pretty demitasses and let the relaxed conversation take over.

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

The small glass jars filled with a spread made from local smoked trout were packed into a cool box. Earlier in the week, Grace had helped her make the labels for the jars, as well as for the two puddings which she would serve the same way. The guests would be encouraged to take home any that were left, as well as the larger jars of pickled vegetables. She'd fermented cabbage with radishes, and cauliflower with haricots vests and carrots. The spice mixtures were not as hot as traditional kimchee- a concession to the bland English palate- but still had a good bit of pop. The spicy, crunchy veg made a perfect counterpoint to the soft creaminess of the smoked lamb and beans. Those she was serving together, in individual camping tins, to be warmed just before lunch in the Beck House warming ovens. It was all a bit precious, the jars and the tins, but she wanted the meal to be something people would remember. She'd made a seeded crispbread for the potted trout course, and flatbreads to serve warm with the lamb and pickles. In between the trout and the lamb she planned a salad course- fresh greens, topped with roasted pear halves she'd done the previous day, a local soft blue cheese, and a drizzle of caramel.

The servant girl presented her with slivers of spicy fowl roasted in cumin and jife nuts; fluffy barley cakes stuffed with yam, currants, and hekeh seeds; gingered lamb and tamban patties in rich gravy; and more.

Christmas banquet, served over two courses. The first course included: Oysters, brawn, mutton stew with marrow bone, a grand salad, capon pottage, breast of veal, boiled partridges, roast beef, mince pies, mutton in anchovy sauce, sweetbreads, roasted swan, venison pasties, a kid with a pudding in his belly, a steak pie, chickens in puff pastry, two geese (one roast, one larded) [covered with bacon or fat while cooking], roast venison, roast turkey stuck with cloves, two capons, and a custard. If guests had any room left after all that, the second course comprised: Oranges and lemons, a young Lamb or Kid, Rabbits, two larded, a pig sauced with tongues, ducks, some larded, two pheasants, one larded, a Swan or goose pie cold, partridges, some larded, Bologna sausages, anchovies, mushrooms, caviar, pickled oysters, teales, some larded, a gammon of Westphalia [smoked] bacon, plovers, some larded, a quince or warden pie, woodcocks, some larded, a tart in puff pastry, preserved fruit and pippins, a dish of larks, neats’ [ox] tongues, sturgeon and anchovies, and jellies.

Dashing by Maisie Aletha Smikle On my farm I keep a firearm The deer I charm And then disarm To feed my family venison And stay away from medicine Sheep so sweet We love to eat Young lambs we chop To get lamb chops Pigs in wigs Dished their wigs to do a jig Pigs skinny dip Floated and strip So turkey chicken and rabbit May be covered with bacon strips Cows roaming in the valleys Cats left in the Alleys Bring the cows It's time to chow Beef for steak Make no mistake Mince it grind it chop it We must have it We plant dashene To cook and steam To feed the animals so they keep lean Fit and ready to consume Eat we must Or we'd be dust Knead the dough for the pie crust Get the pan it will not rust We will dine Without wine We will roast eat then toast Thanking God that He is our Host

As the lamb roasted slowly for hours, Roland turned it and rubbed it with a mixture of olive oil, paprika, cayenne, salt, rosemary, and sage, so that the outside crusted into a beautiful reddish mahogany color. We cut it up before our guests on a large wooden picnic table. The inside was pink and moist, the outside charred and crusty, and the couscous accompaniment flavorful, hot, and plentiful. We also served tomatoes with basil from the garden, red beets with shallots, a pâté of chicken and duck livers, homemade saucisson, wild mushrooms à la grecque (marinated in olive oil and lemon juice with coriander seed), and breads that Loulou had baked fresh. We washed all of this down with cooled Beaujolais and half-gallons of Almadén white wine. For dessert, we had summer fruits with cognac, a chocolate mousse, and a pound cake made by Jean-Claude.

You know in most fantasy books the main meat is venison? Ever wonder how it tastes? I can tell you from first hand experience that venison tastes delicious. So does roasted duck, lamb and mutton.

There is a wide variety of good meat available, often simply grilled or roasted on the spit, and the preference is for farmyard animals, such as rabbit, lamb, chicken, duck and wood pigeons. The famous bistecca alla fiorentina, a T-bone steak, is always cooked over charcoal, and rosticciana is grilled spare ribs. In Tuscany, meat dishes are often stewed slowly in a tomato sauce, called in umido (stracotto is beef cooked in this way or in red wine). In the Maremma, wild boar (cinghiale) is sometimes prepared alla cacciatora, marinated in red wine, with parsley, bay leaves, garlic, rosemary, onion, carrot, celery, sage and wild fennel. It is then cooked slowly at a low heat in a terracotta pot with oil, lard, hot spicy pepper, and a little tomato sauce.

In each portside town, enticing aromas waft from every harborside taverna, mountaintop inn, and home. Not only do the Greeks appreciate good food, it is central to their culture. Produce markets spill over with fragrant local provender: grapes, cucumbers, lemons, and tomatoes, as well as sardines, shellfish, and lamb. Lunch--usually the largest meal of the day--begins after 2 P.M., and is followed by an ample siesta. The long work day resumes, and dinner begins after 9 P.M. It may last well into the night among friends: a glass of ouzo--accompanied by singing, guitar playing, and dancing--often ends the evening meal, postponing bedtime until the wee hours. Laughter and conversation flavor the food at every meal. The Mediterranean climate is conductive to year-round outdoor eating. In each home, a table on the patio or terrace takes pride of place. Many home cooks build outdoor ovens and prepare succulent roasted meats and flavorful, herb-scented potatoes that soak up the juice of the meat and the spritz of a lemon. Tavernas, shaded by grape arbors, are synonymous with Greece and its outdoor culinary culture. One of the greatest pleasures of the Greek Isles is enjoying a relaxing meal while breathing the fresh sea air and gazing out on spectacular vistas and blue waters.

Meals are occasions to share with family and friends. The ingredients are often simple, but the art lies in orchestrating the sun-warmed flavors. Courses follow in artful and traditional succession, but the showpiece of the meal is tender, juicy meat; this often means lamb or goat grilled or roasted on a spit for hours. Souvlaki--melting pieces of chicken or pork tenderloin on skewers, marinated in lemon, olive oil, and a blend of seasonings--are grilled to mouthwatering perfection. Meze, the Greek version of smorgasbord, is a feast of Mediterranean delicacies. The cooks of the Greek Isles excel at classic Greek fare, such as spanakopita--delicate phyllo dough brushed with butter and filled with layers of feta cheese, spinach, and herbs. Cheeses made from goat’s milk, including the famous feta, are nearly ubiquitous. The fruits of the sun--olive oil and lemon--are characteristic flavors, reworked in myriad wonderful combinations. The fresh, simple cuisine celebrates the waters, olive groves, and citrus trees, as well as the herbs that grow wild all over the islands--marjoram, thyme, and rosemary--scenting the warm air with their sensuous aromas. Not surprisingly, of course, seafood holds pride of place. Sardines, octopus, and squid, marinated in olive oil and lemon juice, are always popular. Tiny, toothsome fried fish are piled high on painted ceramic dishes and served up at the local tavernas and in homes everywhere. Sea urchins are considered special delicacies. Every island has its own specialties, from sardines to pistachios to sesame cakes. Lésvos is well-known for its sardines and ouzo. Zakinthos is famous for its nougat. The Cycladic island of Astypalaia was called the “paradise of the gods” by the ancient Greeks because of the quality of its honey. On weekends, Athenians flock to the nearby islands of Aegina, Angistri, and Evia by the ferryful to sample the daily catch in local restaurants scattered among coastal villages. The array of culinary treats is matched by a similar breadth of local wins. Tended by generation after generation of the same families, vineyards carpet the hillsides of many islands. Grapevines have been cultivated in the Greek Isles for some four thousand years. Wines from Rhodes and Crete were already renowned in antiquity, and traders shipped them throughout the Greek Isles and beyond. The light reds and gently sweet whites complement the diverse, multiflavored Greek seafood, grilled meats, and fresh, ripe fruits and vegetables. Sitting at a seaside tavern enjoying music and conversation over a midday meze and glass of retsina, all the cares in the world seem to evaporate in the sparkling sunshine reflected off the brightly hued boats and glistening blue waters.

As soon as the plank-walking was finished, the Pirate Captain pointed the boat towards England, and all the remaining pirates and their guests went below decks for a feast. For a change the pirates had lamb instead of ham, with the usual accompaniment of green mint sauce and a salad. As a nice added touch the roast lamb was sprinkled with a little minced parsley. A few of Darwin’s monkeys had also been served up as an appetiser. There had been some debate as to the best way to cook a monkey, but eventually the pirates had decided to treat the monkeys as if they were turkeys, so after the sinews had been drawn from the legs and thighs, and the monkeys carefully trussed, they were stuffed with sausage meat and veal. It was all served with gravy and bread sauce. Too late the Pirate Captain realised that he had invited Mister Bobo to the feast, but if the creature was put out at being offered a slice of his chimpanzee brethren he was far too polite to say anything.

an onion shared with guests tastes better than roast lamb.