Rosemary Brown Quotes

Agatha surveys the garden, its rows of crinkled spring cabbages and beanstalks entwining bowers of hawthorn and hazel. The rosemary is dotted with pale blue stars of blossom and chives nod heads of tousled purple. New sage leaves sprout silver green among the brittle, frost-browned remains of last year's growth. Lily of the valley, she thinks, that will be out in the cloister garden at Saint Justina's by now.

The best time to harvest herbs was after the early-morning dew dried, and Nellie had a long list of things to do, starting with her herb garden. While the sun rose higher and Richard kept sleeping, Nellie used her kitchen shears to trim leaves and stalks from her herb plants to later dry for her seasoning mix. Rosemary. Sage. Parsley. Dill. Lemon balm. Mint. Marjoram.

A girl and a boy, sitting lazily cross-legged under a pale green willow, picking at the grass. She is lying with her head in his lap, long red hair fanned against his knee. Her skin is not my unnatural red but like honeyed cream. She grins up at him, his eyes the color of an evergreen forest, of dragonfly wings, his corn-gold, too-long hair falling over his forehead. And she laughs. When she does her back, her throat arches slightly, and he blushes. He smells of wheat fields and fallen autumn apples soft against the earth, and it is a smell she knows like her own. Under the filmy reed-curtain of the old willow tree, they hold hands and talk quietly, shoes discarded like peach pits. The sun is low in the sky, warm and orange-gold on their young faces, their strong white smiles and freshly washed hair. The light spills onto their shoulders like water from a well. There are sharp-smelling rosemary branches braided into her hair, with their little blue blossoms, and the oil is on their brown fingers. The boy whispers something in the girl’s ear, and she closes her eyes, lashes smoking cheekbones like bundles of sage.

Then a soft air, a simple melody, rose to the ears of the suddenly hushed court; and for me, it was May Day again, and I was no longer cold, for the sun burned bright and the grass smelled of its sour-sweet bruisings and an old man fashioned a ballad for the Nut-Brown maid, who would ever be true to her lover. I leaned towards the brightness and, in an abandonment of joy and because there was none to see, tore off my henin and let my nut-brown hair fall to my knees. For I would be a child again, for five minutes, and remember the time when men stopped to gaze at me, with my chaplet of flowers crowning that at which they all marvelled, and longed to touch and stroke and possess.

Who are you?" Rosemary said in amazement. She had never seen men like these before. Cloaks of green and brown fell from their broad shoulders and every hand gripped a round shield an evil-looking spear. Beneath the thick yellow hair, eyes glinted hard and wild. One of the men rode near and peered down at Rosemary. Unlike the rest, he was clean-shaven and pleasant-looking, and she was surprised to see that he was no older than herself. Nonetheless his blond-red hair was bound with golden circlet and he was obviously the leader. He suddenly smiled at her and his eyes were bright with humour and curiosity. "It is hardly your place to question us, girl." He reached out and touched her hair. "Hair like the night...and such strange clothing. But you are fair-faced. Whose slave might you be?

Once inside the hedge, the garden, though sleeping for the winter, nevertheless seemed to glimmer with hidden life. A winding flagstone path made its leisurely way to the door of the house, lined on both sides with tufts of sage, thyme, rosemary, and lavender, grayed with cold. In place of grass, the earth on either side of the path was a riot of plants in varying stages of hibernation and decay. To this side, the dried stalks of full-grown asparagus rustled together. In the far corner, their roots sunk into the wood of the house, an array of nightshades — tomato plants, dried and brown, the gnarled tangles of henbane and moonshade lying in wait for spring. The webbed vines overhead cast the garden in long blue shadow, blurred at the corners, hard to make out, and yet strangely the air inside the garden was not as bitingly cold as it was in the outside world.

Beneath the window, set between gravel walkways, a few woody lavenders, etiolated rosemary bushes, and ornamental thyme made up the aromatherapy garden that he had seen described in the brochure. Beyond this, however, running a long arc down the gentle slope of lawn, camellias in unrestrained bloom provided an alternative tonic. The lawn gave way to a flower garden, itself fringed by a wood, so that the incarcerated had at least the consolation of a pleasant enough outlook. Gabe stood in front of the fireplace and examined the painting that hung above the mantelpiece. It was a still life. It showed two apples and a brown and white feather laid on a velvet cloth on a table placed by a window. Although the picture was not, Gabriel assumed, of the highest artistic value, and was cheap enough to reside at Greenglades, and though it could not be said to have a photographic reality, and though he suspected it of not being "good," he was drawn to look at it and could see the ripeness of the velvet, reckon the bursting crispness of the apples, and the feather had a certain quality that he had never before observed, just as the painted window offered something that he had failed to notice at all when looking through the real one: the texture, the tone, the way the light fell, the very glassness of the glass.

And what of all these spices? They're worth a pretty fortune." She waves a juddering arm across the table, at the tins and glass jars and earthenware pots. All at once a shaft of thin northern light swoops over them, jolting them into luminous life: bubbled glass jars of briny green peppercorns, salted capers, gleaming vanilla pods, rusted cinnamon sticks, all leaping and glinting. The sudden startling beauty of it, the palette of hues--ocher, terra-cotta, shades of earth and sand and grass---the pale trembling light. All thoughts of running a boardinghouse vanish. I reach for a jar, lift its cork lid. The scent of bark, earth, roots, sky. And for a second I am somewhere else. "The mysterious scent of a secret kingdom," I murmur. The jar contains little pellets, brown, spherical, unexotic. How marvelous that something so plain can have such an enthralling perfume, I think. "Oh, Miss Eliza. Always the poetess! It's only allspice." Cook gives a wan smile and gestures at the ceiling, where long bunches of herbs hang from a rack. Rosemary, tansy, sage, nettles, woodruff. "And what of these? All summer I was collecting these and they still ain't properly dry." "May I lower it?" Not waiting for an answer I wind down the rack until the drying herbs are directly in front of me---a farmyard sweetness, a woody sappy scent, the smell of bruised apples and ripe earth and crushed ferns.

Bruno reappeared with two baskets swathed in white linen napkins and a ramekin of something bright yellow. Thatcher unveiled one basket. "Pretzel bread," he said. He held up a thick braid of what looked to be soft pretzel, nicely tanned, sprinkled with coarse salt. "This is served with Fee's homemade mustard. So right away the guest knows this isn't a run-of-the-mill restaurant. They're not getting half a cold baguette here, folks, with butter in the gold foil wrapper. This is warm pretzel bread made on the premises, and the mustard ditto. Nine out of ten tables are licking the ramekin clean." He handed the bread basket to a waiter with a blond ponytail (male- everyone at the table was male except for Adrienne, Caren, and the young bar back who was hanging on to Duncan's arm). The ponytailed waiter- name?- tore off a hunk of bread and dipped it in the mustard. He rolled his eyes like he was having an orgasm. The appropriate response, Adrienne thought. But remembering her breakfast she guessed he wasn't faking it. "The other basket contains our world-famous savory doughnuts," Thatcher said. He whipped the cloth off like a magician, revealing six golden-brown doughnuts. Doughnuts? Adrienne had been too nervous to think about eating all day, but now her appetite was roused. After the menu meeting, they were going to have family meal. The doughnuts were deep-fried rings of a light, yeasty, herb-flecked dough. Chive, basil, rosemary. Crisp on the outside, soft on the inside. Savory doughnuts. Who wouldn't stand in line for these? Who wouldn't beg or steal to access the private phone line so that they could make a date with these doughnuts?

The classic recipes are goat, lamb, vegetable, and/or chicken biriyani. But when I was in New Orleans, at this restaurant, they served Louisiana barbecue shrimp, which was simply delicious. When I asked the waiter what was in the shrimp sauce, he rattled off a number of spices (rosemary, thyme, basil, oregano, et cetera) and so, I went with memory. I marinated the raw prawns in mashed garlic, rosemary, basil, oregano, thyme, sage, paprika, black pepper, white pepper, cayenne, and onion powder, along with a dash of Worcestershire sauce. I decided to cook the rice in the pressure cooker, added crushed cloves, cardamom, and cinnamon, and a bay leaf for a minute or so. Then I added some onions and fried until the onions became golden brown. Then went in the rice, and enough water, and I closed the pressure cooker. The rice was ready in ten minutes. In a separate pan, I sautéed the marinated prawns in butter, along with extra chopped garlic and the marinade, and added them to the cooked rice. I garnished it with chopped fresh coriander and voilà, Cajun prawn biriyani. I served it with some regular cucumber raita. Mama had been so sure that Daddy would hate prawns but I saw him clean out each one on his plate and even get a second helping. Sometimes we forget why we don't like some things and then when we try them again, we realize that we had been wrong.

Almond Flatbread Autophagy activators: SP, SA, SU, PO, VIT Makes 4 servings • Prep time: 5 minutes • Cook time: 25 minutes This flatbread uses high-protein almond flour instead of wheat or other grain-based flour, giving you a bread that won’t cause a spike in your blood sugar. Enjoy it with Tahini. 1 cup almond flour 1 teaspoon sea salt 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 4 tablespoons tea seed oil, plus more for brushing ½ large onion, thinly sliced 1 cup finely chopped kale 2 teaspoons chopped fresh rosemary 1. Preheat the oven to 450°F. Put a well-seasoned cast-iron skillet in the oven to preheat. 2. In a large bowl, combine the almond flour, salt, and pepper. While whisking, slowly add 1 cup lukewarm water and whisk to eliminate lumps. Stir in 2 tablespoons of the oil. Cover and let sit while the oven heats, or for up to 12 hours. The batter should have the consistency of heavy cream. 3. Carefully remove the hot pan from the oven, pour the remaining 2 tablespoons oil into the pan, and swirl to coat. Add the onion and return the pan to the oven. Bake, stirring once or twice, until the onion is well browned, 6 to 8 minutes. Add the kale and rosemary and stir to combine. 4. Carefully remove the pan from the oven and transfer the onion-kale mixture to the bowl with the batter. Stir to combine, then immediately pour the batter into the pan. 5. Bake for 10 to 15 minutes, until the edges look set. Remove from the oven and switch the oven to broil, with a rack a few inches away from the heating element. 6. Brush the top of the bread with 1 to 2 tablespoons oil. Broil just long enough for the bread to brown and blister a little on top. 7. Cut the bread into four wedges, and serve hot or warm with some grass-fed ghee or butter. Nutritional analysis per serving (¼ flatbread): fat 28g, protein 6g, carbohydrate 8g, net carbs 4g

Day 8 after coming home from the hospital The classic recipes are goat, lamb, vegetable, and/or chicken biriyani. But when I was in New Orleans, at this restaurant, they served Louisiana barbecue shrimp, which was simply delicious. When I asked the waiter what was in the shrimp sauce, he rattled off a number of spices (rosemary, thyme, basil, oregano, et cetera) and so, I went with memory.  I marinated the raw prawns in mashed garlic, rosemary, basil, oregano, thyme, sage, paprika, black pepper, white pepper, cayenne, and onion powder, along with a dash of Worcestershire sauce. I decided to cook the rice in the pressure cooker, always quick and easy. I heated some ghee in the pressure cooker, added crushed cloves, cardamom, and cinnamon, and a bay leaf for a minute or so. Then I added some onions and fried until the onions became golden brown. Then went in the rice, and enough water, and I closed the pressure cooker. The rice was ready in ten minutes. In a separate pan, I sautéed the marinated prawns in butter, along with extra chopped garlic and the marinade, and added them to the cooked rice. I garnished it with chopped fresh coriander and voila, Cajun prawn biriyani. I served it with some regular cucumber raita. Mama had been so sure that Daddy would hate prawns but I saw him clean out each one on his plate and even get a second helping. Sometimes we forget why we don’t like some things and then when we try them again, we realize that we had been wrong. Giving Serious Though to Adultery Girish was a classical music buff and in the beginning of their marriage, Shobha joined him for a few musical events and lectures.

Laethrig is my father's first son, and Sulian is already knotted in a girl's long hair, while I- I am free, and have an itch to the soles of my feet that I shall not find easement for, here in my father's hall." I looked at him in the clear upland light, the set of his head that matched that of the hawk on his fist, the hot red-brown eyes under the black brows; and I thought that he might be well right in that, and thought also that it would be good to have this frowning youngster among my captains. "I can maybe find the means for easing the soles to your feet," I said. "And if there is a like itching in the palm of your sword hand, I can find you a fine way to appease that also.

Speckled brown eggs that the farmer promised had been laid just that morning, two dark loaves of sourdough that crackled when I squeezed them gently. Meaty bacon from happy pigs, a chunk of salmon glowing coral and smelling like the sea. Little waxy potatoes firm to my touch, dirt-skinned onions, bouquets of fresh herbs. As I inhaled the scent of a bunch of rosemary, hot dusty summer captured in its needles, I felt my worries loosen their grip on me for a second, pleasure taking their place.

Faith Springer-Brown’s Christmas Roast Chicken   1 whole chicken, with skin Vegetables: Potatoes, carrots, parsnips, celery, mushrooms A few cloves of garlic 2 onions Olive oil and butter One lemon Stuffing or herbs: Bay, sage, rosemary, fennel Defrost your chicken and bring it to room temperature before cooking. Turn the oven on to 240 C so it becomes nice and hot for the chicken. Prepare your chicken and the vegetables. Wash and chop the vegetables, and remove the skin from the garlic and smash it to let it release flavours. Mix them up, splash some olive oil over them and sprinkle some salt over the mixture as well. Remove the giblets and anything else from inside the cavity of the chicken. Roll the lemon on the

She understood that becoming a nun was a lifetime commitment. Testing her daughter’s resolve was wise. The Koehler family together, 1923 First Homes As an adult, I visited Rosie’s first home at 83 Beals Street in Brookline, Massachusetts, to get a sense of her early life and that of her famous family. The compact Victorian residence stands three stories tall on a small lot in the Boston suburb. It was easy to picture the young Kennedy children playing in the back yard. Rose Kennedy wrote in Times to Remember, her 1974 autobiography: “It was a nice old wooden-frame house with clapboard siding; seven rooms, plus two small ones in the converted attic, all on a small lot with a few bushes and trees . . . about twenty-five minutes from the center of the city by trolley.” 5 The family home on Beals Street is now the John Fitzgerald Kennedy National Historic Site, run by the National Park Service. From the deep browns and reds of the rugs on the hardwood floors to the homey couch and chairs, the home felt warm and comfortable to me. I suppressed a desire to kick off my sandals and flop on the sofa. The Kennedys’ house on Beals Street, Rosie’s first home But my perspective as a child would have triggered a different impression. I would have whispered to my mother, “They’re rich!” (I’ve since discovered that money isn’t the only measure of wealth. There’s wealth in memories, too.) A lovely grand piano occupies one corner of the Kennedys’ old living room. It was a wedding gift to Rose Kennedy from her uncles, and she delighted in playing her favorite song, “Sweet Adeline,” on it. Although her children took piano lessons, Mrs. Kennedy lamented that her own passion never ignited a similar spark in any of her daughters. She did often ask Rosemary to perform, however. I see an image of Rosemary declaring she couldn’t, her hands stretching awkwardly across the keys. But her mother encouraged Rosie to practice, confident she’d

The apartment was decorated in pinks, ranging from a deep shade bordering on red to a pale, near-white cream. Her blood probably fit right in until it started drying to an ugly shade of brown.

1/2 cup refined coconut oil, softened 2 tablespoons lightly packed, fresh rosemary, chopped 1/4 cup granulated sugar 1/3 cup light brown sugar 1/4 cup almond milk (or your favorite non-dairy milk) 1 tablespoon ground flax seeds (golden preferred) 2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract 1 1/3 cups all-purpose flour 1/2 teaspoon salt 1/2 teaspoon baking soda 1/2 cup chocolate semisweet chips

If not today, when?

And so," said Miss Cornelia, "the double wedding is to be sometime about the middle of this month." There was a faint chill in the air of the early September evening, so Anne had lighted her ever ready fire of driftwood in the big living room, and she and Miss Cornelia basked in its fairy flicker. "It is so delightful—especially in regard to Mr. Meredith and Rosemary," said Anne. "I'm as happy in the thought of it, as I was when I was getting married myself. I felt exactly like a bride again last evening when I was up on the hill seeing Rosemary's trousseau." "They tell me her things are fine enough for a princess," said Susan from a shadowy corner where she was cuddling her brown boy. "I have been invited up to see them also and I intend to go some evening. I understand that Rosemary is to wear white silk and a veil, but Ellen is to be married in navy blue. I have no doubt, Mrs. Dr. dear, that that is very sensible of her, but for my own part I have always felt that if I were ever married I would prefer the white and the veil, as being more bride-like." A vision of Susan in "white and a veil" presented itself before Anne's inner vision and was almost too much for her. "As for Mr. Meredith," said Miss Cornelia, "even his engagement has made a different man of him. He isn't half so dreamy and absent-minded, believe me. I was so relieved

Self-control is the only control.

As she said this, she tossed him one of her blue-and-gray-checked tea towels to use as an apron. She was wearing a blue summer dress and tucked her towel-apron into her red belt. Today he could see that her blond hair was tinged with silver at the temples and that the former confusion and terror had left her eyes. Soon the windowpanes had misted up; the gas flames were hissing under pots and pans; the white wine, shallots and cream sauce was simmering; and in a heavy pan the olive oil was browning potatoes sprinkled with rosemary and salt. They were chatting away as if they'd known each other for years and had simply lost touch for a while. About Carla Bruni, and about how male sea horses carried their young around in a pouch on their stomachs. They talked about fashion and about the trend for salt with added flavorings, and of course they gossiped about their neighbors.

Lemon-Herb Chicken   This chicken recipe is one of my favorites, and something I’ve eaten more times than I can count in the homes of Italians. You can actually find cellophane bundles in the produce section of Tuscany grocery stores that have all the ingredients pre-packaged together (sans chicken, of course.) This is a flexible recipe and can be made with chicken breasts, thighs, quarters, etc. There’s no right or wrong here.   1 whole chicken, washed and patted dry Extra-virgin olive oil 3-4 cloves fresh garlic, peeled and minced 1 lemon, zested and juiced (you can also substitute an orange, if you’d like, or even do both) 10-12 leafs fresh sage (or around 1 T. dried), chopped 3-4 sprigs fresh rosemary (or around 1 T. dried), chopped   Mix the minced garlic, lemon zest (but NOT the juice), sage and rosemary together. Add enough olive oil to create a nice paste. Slather the paste all over and even inside the whole chicken. Let marinate overnight or at least for several hours. Place the chicken on a backing rack in a pan and roast, uncovered, @ 350 degrees for 1-2 hours until a thermometer in the thigh registers 165 degrees. If the chicken gets too brown on top while cooking, cover with tinfoil. Once done, remove the chicken from the oven and pour the saved lemon juice over the entire chicken. Carve and serve, reserving the lemony pan drippings for drizzling over the chicken.

LOW-HISTAMINE SUBSTITUTES Instead of . . . Choose . . . Refined sugar Maple sugar or maple syrup Vinegar-based salad dressing Olive oil with sea salt Cheese Macadamia-nut butter Wheat Rice, oats, or corn (yeast-free) Coffee Chamomile tea Alcohol Smoothies Pepper or chili Seasoning with sea salt and oregano, garlic, sage, or rosemary Wheat cereal Oatmeal with maple syrup Wheat pasta Brown-rice pasta or brown rice Processed milks that contain pesticides, carrageenan, and other additives Macadamia milk (in a blender, blend macadamia nuts or macadamia-nut butter with water; oat milk and rice milk are also healthful and low in histamine, provided they are free of preservatives, carrageenan, and other additives) Spinach or arugula Kale or other lettuces Eggplant Squash A candy bar A brown-rice cake with maple syrup and macadamia-nut butter Canned soups Fresh vegetable soup, made with filtered water, pureed vegetables, garlic, and salt

That Thanksgiving has evolved over hundreds of years into a national holiday of eating is rather ironic given the quality of Thanksgiving food. Stuffing and roasting a twenty-pound turkey is, without a doubt, the worst possible way to enjoy a game bird. The whole notion of eating a game bird is to savor those subtleties of flavor that elude the domesticated hen. Partridge, pheasant, quail are all birds that can be prepared in various ways to delight the senses; but a corn-fed turkey that’s big enough to serve a gathering of ten or more is virtually impossible to cook with finesse. The breasts will inevitably become as dry as sawdust by the time the rest of the bird has finished cooking. Stuffing only exacerbates this problem by insulating the inner meat from the effects of heat, thus prolonging the damage. The intrinsic challenge of roasting a turkey has led to all manner of culinary abominations. Cooking the bird upside down, a preparation in which the skin becomes a pale, soggy mess. Spatchcocking, in which the bird is drawn and quartered like a heretic. Deep frying! (Heaven help us.) Give me an unstuffed four-pound chicken any day. Toss a slice of lemon, a sprig of rosemary, and a clove of garlic into the empty cavity, roast it at 425° for sixty minutes or until golden brown, and you will have a perfect dinner time and again. The limitations of choosing a twenty-pound turkey as the centerpiece of the Thanksgiving meal have only been compounded by the inexplicable tradition of having every member of the family contribute a dish. Relatives who should never be allowed to set foot in a kitchen are suddenly walking through your door with some sort of vegetable casserole in which the “secret ingredient” is mayonnaise. And when cousin Betsy arrives with such a mishap in hand, one can take no comfort from thoughts of the future, for once a single person politely compliments the dish, its presence at Thanksgiving will be deemed sacrosanct. Then not even the death of cousin Betsy can save you from it, because as soon as she’s in the grave, her daughter will proudly pick up the baton. Served at an inconvenient hour, prepared by such an army of chefs that half the dishes are overcooked, half are undercooked,

Give me an unstuffed four-pound chicken any day. Toss a slice of lemon, a sprig of rosemary, and a clove of garlic into the empty cavity, roast it at 425° for sixty minutes or until golden brown, and you will have a perfect dinner time and again.

She had already tied on her apron and started tapping notes into her phone as Daisy laid out the ingredients: a whole kosher chicken; a bottle of olive oil, a pound of butter, a lemon. Onions, garlic, shallots, shiitake mushrooms, Parmesan cheese, and a container of arborio rice; fresh rosemary and thyme, a bag of carrots, a half-pound of asparagus, and a half-pound of sugar snap peas. That was for dinner. For pantry staples, she'd gotten flour, white and brown sugar, kosher salt and Maldon salt, pepper, chili, and paprika; for the refrigerator: milk, eggs, and half-and-half, and, for a housewarming gift, a copy of Ruth Reichl's My Kitchen Year and two quarts of her own homemade chicken stock.

Rosa di Parma, the Rose of Parma, is reserved for special occasions like Christmas or important guests, but it is so easy that you might make it more often. Mama Rosa’s version serves 8 to 10. 2 garlic cloves, finely minced ½ cup extra-virgin olive oil 1 beef tenderloin (3 to 4 pounds), well trimmed 1 pound Prosciutto di Parma, thinly sliced 8 ounces Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, shaved into thin slices with a vegetable peeler 2 tablespoons butter, preferably from Parma 1 tablespoon coarse sea salt 1 teaspoon chopped fresh rosemary 6 sprigs fresh rosemary ½ cup brandy ¼ to ½ cup beef broth Directions – In a small bowl, whisk together the garlic and oil. – With a sharp knife, butterfly the tenderloin by cutting lengthwise almost all the way through, leaving just ¼ to ½ inch of meat before unfolding like a book. Cover with parchment paper and pound with a heavy frying pan until the beef is about ½ inch thick. Brush the beef with the garlic oil. – Cover entire surface of the beef with half the prosciutto, slightly overlapping the slices. Top the prosciutto with the shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano. Top with the remaining prosciutto, again overlapping slices slightly. – Starting at one edge, carefully roll the meat up into a log shape. Mama Rosa sews the edge of the seam closed with a needle and sewing thread. Alternatively, you can tie the roll at close intervals with kitchen twine, but you will not get as good a seal. – Place 1 tablespoon of the butter in a large saucepan over high heat. In a small bowl, mix the salt and chopped rosemary, then rub the herbed salt over the meat log. Add the beef to the pan and sauté, turning occasionally, until all sides are browned, about 10 minutes. – Dot the meat log with the remaining 1 tablespoon butter and scatter the rosemary sprigs in the pan. Pour the brandy over the top. Reduce the heat to low and cook for 30 minutes, adding broth as needed to keep the pan from drying out, until the beef is medium rare and reaches an internal temperature between 130°F and 135°F. – Remove the beef to a cutting board and let rest for 5 to 10 minutes. Slice into spirals and serve. Mangia!

The white picket trellis was covered in climbing vines, and the soft, brown weedless soil was covered with winter squash peeking out from underneath velvety dark-green leaves. The island breeze carried the scent of Gran's rosemary plants. I went into the potting shed, grabbed the scissors, and snipped a bunch of rosemary. I could use it in the butter for the mashed potatoes that would be served with the fried chicken. I looked around at her herbs and listened to the tinkle of the wind chimes' sand dollars. I snipped some parsley and thyme. Those herbs would add depth or brightness to any dish. I also plucked a half-dozen bright-yellow lemons to add to the fish dishes.

lemon-mint monarda, which looks like purple pagodas and makes an effective insect repellent and a tangy tea; brown-eyed Susans, whose root juice the Cherokee used to treat earache;

I'm in love with this cider. Actually all the ciders," Lou said. She had wavy, dark brown hair, and the way Al watched her- it was as if the world would end if he stopped. "You have so many different types. I would love to build a menu around it." Sanna looked confused. "A menu?" "I have a restaurant in Milwaukee, and these ciders would make a fantastic pairing for a special tasting menu. For example, Toasty Dark Brown would go beautifully with roasted chicken and root vegetables- I'm thinking beets, parsnips, and fingerling potatoes- with a sauce made from the cider." She took another sip of the cider and smacked her lips- her eyes drifted off to another place, the same way Sanna's did when she envisioned new ciders. "And thyme, maybe rosemary, I'll need to play with it. Anyway, you get the idea.

I'm not tootin' my own horn or anything, but I gotta say the buffet we set up on my dining room table with a blue-checkered cloth and some fresh daisies couldn't have looked more beautiful. Used my large, glazed, tobacco-spit pottery dish for the casserole, and with the crusty, buttered bread crumb topping, it was appetizing enough to be photographed for a food magazine. For the grits, I'd decided to sprinkle extra Parmesan over the top, so they were not only soft and creamy inside but a crispy golden brown outside. The congealed salad I fixed in a glass mold the shape of a pinecone, so when I turned it out on a plain white platter lined with leaves of romaine, the peaches and pecans could be clearly seen suspended in the lemony aspic in an interesting design. This time my hot buttermilk biscuits were as high and fluffy as Mama's, and next to the cloth-lined straw basket I had a big slab of the sweetest local country butter in the state of Texas, which I buy every weekend at the farmers' market out off Eldridge Parkway. We transferred Rosemary's yummy cake to the cut-crystal plate with tiny legs I remember my grandmamma using for birthday parties, and to tell the truth, I wondered how in hell I was gonna get through that lunch without cuttin' myself more than just a sliver of that mouthwatering caramel layer cake.

The loin of Cinta Senese had been sitting in the cold room, begging to be cooked. I'd shown it to Filippo- This is our supper, I'd said, and he'd replied that supper was too far away, and didn't the painters deserve the best, serving God as they did? So I'd grabbed it, along with some garlic, thyme, rosemary, peppercorns and nutmeg. Surely they'd have salt at the studio... Filippo had bought some onions, a flask of milk and a hunk of prosciutto on the way. I hunted around in the small, chaotic niche where the artists kept their food and discovered a dusty flask of olive oil. Sniffing it dubiously, I found it was quite fresh: the dark green oil from the hills behind Arezzo. In Florence we almost always cooked in lard, oil would do in a pinch. The kiln was lit but not being used for anything, and the fire was dying down. I threw some pieces of oak onto it, chopped the onions and the ham with a borrowed knife, cut the loin away from the ribs. The artists had a trivet and some old pans which they used to cook with every now and again, though mostly they lived on pies from the cook-shop up the street. There was an earthenware pot with a cracked lid, which seemed clean enough. I put it on the trivet, poured in a good stream of the green oil, browned the meat in its wrapping of fatty rind. Sandro gave up a cup of white wine, unwillingly, which I threw over the pork. When it had cooked off, I crushed two big cloves of garlic and added them along with the rosemary I had brought, and a handful of thyme. The milk had just foamed, and I poured it over the meat. The air filled with a rich, creamy, meaty waft.

I speared a sausage with my knife, bit off the end. Juice and fat exploded: the pork melted. I tasted chestnuts, moss, the bulbs of wild lilies, the roots and shoots of an Umbrian forest floor. There was pepper, of course, salt and garlic. Nothing else. I opened my eyes. The Proctor was staring at me, and quickly looked away. I thought I saw a smile cross his lips before he opened them to admit another wagon-load of lentils. I tried a spoonful myself. They were very small and brown- earthy-tasting, of course. That I had been expecting. But these were subtle: there was a hint of pine, which came partly from the rosemary that was obviously in the dish, but partly from the lentils themselves. I did feel as if I were eating soil, but a special kind: some sort of silky brown clay, perhaps; something that Maestro Donatello would have crossed oceans to sculpt with, or that my uncle Filippo would have used as a pigment to paint the eyes of a beautiful brown-eyed donna. Maybe this is what the earth under the finest hazelnut tree in Italy would taste like- but that, perhaps, was a question best put to a pig. "Make sure you chew properly," I mumbled, piling my plate high. The serving girl came back with a trencher of sliced pork meats: salami dotted with pink fat, ribbons of lardo, peppery bacon. The flavors were slippery, lush, like copper leaf or the robe of a cardinal. I coiled a strip of dark, translucent ham onto my tongue: it dissolved into a shockingly carnal mist, a swirl of truffles, cinnamon and bottarga.

My eyes widened at this jungle of freshness, the earth on the ground. The back wall, around thirty feet high, burst with terra-cotta pots filled with every herb imaginable- basil, thyme, coriander, parsley, oregano, dill, rosemary, and lavender. There were tomatoes of almost every variety beaming with colors of red, dark purple, yellow, and green. Lemon trees. Avocados. Lettuces, like roquette and feuille de chêne. Zucchinis and eggplants. Fennel, celeriac, artichokes, and cucumbers. Leeks, asparagus, cabbages, and shallots, oh my. I exhaled a happy breath. This explosion of color, this climate-controlled greenhouse, was every chef's idea of heaven. I ran my hands over the leaves of a cœur de bœuf tomato plant and brought my fingers to my nose, breathing in the grassy and fragrant aroma, an unmistakable scent no other plant shared. All of the smells from my summers in France surrounded me under one roof. As the recipes Grand-mère taught me when I was a child ran through my head, my heart pumped with happiness, a new vitality. I picked a Black Krim, which was actually colored a reddish purple with greenish brown shoulders, and bit into it. Sweet with just a hint of tartness. Exactly how I summed up my feelings.

The fish vendor had delivered a sea of heavenly delights. Les gambas, large shrimp, were the size of my hand. Once cooked, they'd be lovely and pink. The oysters were enormous and beautiful, the briny scent conjuring up the sea. I couldn't remember the last time I'd swum in open water. Six years ago on a Sunday trip to the Hamptons with Eric? Oh God, I didn't want to think about him. Besides the work of shucking more than three hundred of them, oysters were easy. They'd be served raw with a mignonette sauce and lemons, along with crayfish, crab, and shrimp, accompanied by a saffron-infused aioli dipping sauce. I lifted the top of another crate, and fifty or so lobsters with spiny backs greeted me- beautiful and big, and the top portion freckled by the sea. I loved working with lobster, the way their color changed from mottled brown and orange to a fiery red when cooked. I'd use the tails for le plat principal, flambéed in cognac and simmered in a spicy tomato- my version of my grandmother's recipe for langouste à la armoricaine. The garnish? A sprig of fresh rosemary. The other crates were filled with lovely mussels, scallops, whelks, and smoked salmon filets, along with another surprise- escargots. Save for the snails, this meal would be a true seafood extravaganza.

large portobello mushrooms 6 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil Fine sea salt and freshly ground black pepper 8 garlic cloves, smashed and peeled 6 rosemary sprigs One 12-ounce bottle beer (brown ale, pale ale, IPA, stout, or porter) Preheat the oven to 450°F. Brush the mushrooms lightly to remove any dirt clinging to them. Gently pinch the stems and pull them off (you can save the stems to use chopped in a stock or compost them). Take a small spoon and gently scrape away the gills from the mushroom caps. Lay the mushrooms in a large flameproof roasting pan, gill side up. Drizzle with the olive oil and use your hands to get them all good and coated with oil, then season with salt and pepper. Scatter the garlic and rosemary around the pan, between the mushrooms. Pour about three-quarters of the bottle of beer over the mushrooms. Don’t drink that last bit! Seriously, you will need it right at the end.

Free-range eggs made into a huge frittata containing zucchini flowers and red Tropea onions, sprinkled with shavings of parmigiano, browned under the grill until bubbling and golden; stuffed tomatoes and aubergines roasted in the oven and portions of rabbit and chicken seasoned with garlic and rosemary with tiny crisp potatoes. They finish off with bowls of ricotta topped with the first wild strawberries, picked from the slopes above the agriturismo.

Then he turned to Rosemary Barr. “Meanwhile we’ll put you somewhere safe,” he told her. “Your tutorials will start as soon as the soldier is buried.” The outer western suburbs were bedroom communities for people who worked in the city, so the traffic stayed bad all the way out. The houses were much grander than in the east. They were all two-story, all varied, all well maintained. They all had big lots and pools and ambitious evergreen landscaping. With the last of the sunset behind them they looked like pictures in a brochure. “Tight-ass middle class,” Reacher said. “What we all aspire to,” Yanni said. “They won’t want to talk,” Reacher said. “Not their style.” “They’ll talk,” Yanni said. “Everyone talks to me.” They drove past the Archer place slowly. There was a cast-metal sign on thin chains under the mailbox: Ted and Oline Archer. Beyond it, across a broad open lawn, the house looked closed-up and dark and silent. It was a big Tudor place. Dull brown beams, cream stucco. Three-car garage. Nobody home, Reacher thought. The neighbor they were looking for lived across the street and one lot to the north. Hers was a place about the same size as the Archers’ but done in an Italianate style. Stone accents, little crenellated towers, dark green sun awnings on the south-facing ground-floor windows. The evening light was fading away to darkness and lamps were coming on behind draped windows. The whole street looked warm and rested and quiet and very satisfied with itself. Reacher said, “They sleep safely in their beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do them harm.” “You know George Orwell?” Yanni asked. “I went to college,” Reacher said. “West Point is technically a college.” Yanni said, “The existing social order is a swindle and its cherished beliefs mostly delusions.” “It is not possible for any thinking person to live in such a society as our own without wanting to change it,” Reacher said. “I’m sure these are perfectly nice people,” Helen said. “But will they talk to us?” “They’ll talk,” Yanni said. “Everyone talks.” Helen pulled into a long limestone driveway and parked about twenty feet behind an imported SUV that had big chrome wheels. The front door of the house was made of ancient gray weathered oak with iron banding that had nail heads as big as golf balls. It felt like you could step through it straight into the Renaissance. “Property is theft,” Reacher said. “Proudhon,” Yanni said. “Property is desirable, is a positive good in the world.” “Abraham Lincoln,” Reacher said. “In his first State of the Union.” There was an iron knocker shaped like

Thanksgiving That Thanksgiving has evolved over hundreds of years into a national holiday of eating is rather ironic given the quality of Thanksgiving food. Stuffing and roasting a twenty-pound turkey is, without a doubt, the worst possible way to enjoy a game bird. The whole notion of eating a game bird is to savor those subtleties of flavor that elude the domesticated hen. Partridge, pheasant, quail are all birds that can be prepared in various ways to delight the senses; but a corn-fed turkey that’s big enough to serve a gathering of ten or more is virtually impossible to cook with finesse. The breasts will inevitably become as dry as sawdust by the time the rest of the bird has finished cooking. Stuffing only exacerbates this problem by insulating the inner meat from the effects of heat, thus prolonging the damage. The intrinsic challenge of roasting a turkey has led to all manner of culinary abominations. Cooking the bird upside down, a preparation in which the skin becomes a pale, soggy mess. Spatchcocking, in which the bird is drawn and quartered like a heretic. Deep frying! (Heaven help us.) Give me an unstuffed four-pound chicken any day. Toss a slice of lemon, a sprig of rosemary, and a clove of garlic into the empty cavity, roast it at 425° for sixty minutes or until golden brown, and you will have a perfect dinner time and again. The limitations of choosing a twenty-pound turkey as the centerpiece of the Thanksgiving meal have only been compounded by the inexplicable tradition of having every member of the family contribute a dish. Relatives who should never be allowed to set foot in a kitchen are suddenly walking through your door with some sort of vegetable casserole in which the “secret ingredient” is mayonnaise. And when cousin Betsy arrives with such a mishap in hand, one can take no comfort from thoughts of the future, for once a single person politely compliments the dish, its presence at Thanksgiving will be deemed sacrosanct. Then not even the death of cousin Betsy can save you from it, because as soon as she’s in the grave, her daughter will proudly pick up the baton. Served at an inconvenient hour, prepared by such an army of chefs that half the dishes are overcooked, half are undercooked, and all are served cold, Thanksgiving is not a meal for a man who eats with discernment. So, I had quite happily excused myself from the tradition back in 1988, thereafter celebrating the Pilgrims’ first winter at a Chinese restaurant on Lexington Avenue.

I glanced down into the pup’s big brown eyes and felt my heart turn into goo. The little dog gazed back at me with undisguised love and adoration. I wasn’t made of stone. I felt my resistance melt like a snow cone at the state fair. “He’s mine if no one claims him.

braised pork shanks with borlotti beans stinco di maiale brasato con fagioli borlotti beans ½ pound dried borlotti (cranberry) beans 1 whole garlic head, cloves separated 1 cup extra virgin olive oil 1 Onion Brûlée (recipe follows) 1 carrot, peeled and diced 1 celery rib, diced 4 ounces bacon, cut into large dice 5 fresh flat-leaf parsley stems 3 sprigs fresh thyme 2 sprigs fresh rosemary Pinch of crushed red pepper flakes 1½ quarts chicken stock 1 tablespoon kosher salt 2 tablespoons sherry vinegar brine 1 pound kosher salt 1 cup honey 1 sprig fresh rosemary 5 juniper berries pork Four 1-pound pork hindshanks ½ cup vegetable oil 1 carrot, peeled and cut into large dice 1 celery rib, cut into large dice 2 cups dry white wine ½ cup Stewed Tomatoes (Chapter 3) 1 quart veal stock or chicken stock to serve 1 tablespoon unsalted butter 2 tablespoons chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley 1 To prepare the beans, in a large pot, soak the beans in enough cold water to cover by 2 or 3 inches for 6 to 12 hours. Change the water two or three times during soaking, if possible. Drain and set aside. 2 Use a broad knife to crush the garlic cloves, still in their skins. 3 Heat a saucepan over medium heat. Add the olive oil, onion, carrot, celery, bacon, parsley, thyme, rosemary, red pepper, and half of the garlic cloves to the pan and cook, stirring, for about 7 minutes, or until the vegetables soften. 4 Add the drained beans and the stock and bring to a boil over high heat. Reduce the heat and simmer for about 40 minutes, until the beans are tender but not so soft that they lose their shape. 5 Add the salt and vinegar. Stir to mix, remove the beans from the heat. Taste the cooking liquid and season to taste with salt. Let the beans cool in the cooking liquid and then refrigerate until ready to use. 6 To prepare the brine, in a large pot, mix 1 gallon of water with the salt, honey, rosemary, and juniper berries. Bring to a boil over high heat and cook until the salt and honey dissolve. Remove from the heat and let the brine cool to room temperature. 7 To prepare the pork, submerge the pork shanks in the cool brine, cover, and refrigerate for 3 hours. 8 Preheat the oven to 300°F. 9 Lift the shanks from the brine and pat dry. 10 Heat a large ovenproof casserole or braising pan over medium-high heat. When the pan is hot, put the vegetable oil in the pan and sear the pork shanks for 6 to 8 minutes on each side, or until golden brown. 11 Add the carrot, celery, and wine and the remaining garlic cloves and bring to a boil. Cook over medium-high heat for 8 to 10 minutes, or until reduced by half. Add the tomatoes and stock and bring to a boil.

red wine–braised short ribs with garlic mashed potatoes costatine con purè di patate Four 12-to 14-ounce boneless beef short ribs Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper 1 cup vegetable oil 2 carrots, cut into large dice 2 celery ribs, cut into large dice 1 yellow onion, cut into large dice 2 tablespoons tomato paste One 750-ml bottle dry red wine 2 cups port 3 sprigs fresh thyme 1 sprig fresh rosemary 1 bay leaf 2 quarts veal stock or chicken stock 2 tablespoons sherry vinegar 2½ cups Garlic Mashed Potatoes (Chapter 8) 2 tablespoons chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley 1 Lay the short ribs in a single layer in a shallow baking pan and season generously on both sides with salt. Cover and refrigerate for 2 hours. 2 Preheat the oven to 375°F. 3 Rinse the salt off the ribs and pat them dry with paper towels. Season the ribs with pepper and a light sprinkling of salt. 4 Heat a casserole or braising pan over high heat. When the pan is hot, put the oil in the pan. When the oil is hot, sear the short ribs on both sides until golden brown. Lift the short ribs from the pan and set aside. If the oil is dark, discard it and replace with fresh oil. 5 Reduce the heat to medium-high and add the carrots, celery, and onion to the pan. Cook, stirring, for about 8 minutes, or until the vegetables brown and caramelize. 6 Stir in the tomato paste. Reduce the heat to medium and cook for 2 to 3 minutes. Add the wine and port, raise the heat to medium-high, and cook for about 5 minutes, or until the liquid reduces by half. 7 Return the short ribs to the pan and add the thyme, rosemary, and bay leaf. Pour the stock into the pan. Bring to a boil over medium-high heat. Lay a sheet of parchment paper directly on the food and transfer the pan to the oven. Cook for about 2 hours, until the meat is fork tender. 8 Remove the pan from the oven and discard the parchment paper. Add the vinegar. Let the short ribs come to room temperature in the braising liquid. 9 Lift the short ribs from the liquid and set aside on a large plate or bowl, covered, to keep warm. 10 Strain the braising liquid through a fine-mesh sieve or chinois into a saucepan. Bring to a simmer over medium-high heat, reduce the heat to low, and cook for about 15 minutes, or until reduced by a quarter. Using a skimmer or large spoon, skim off any fat that rises to the surface. Season to taste with salt and pepper and pour the sauce over the ribs. 11 Serve immediately or allow to cool to room temperature and then cover and refrigerate for up to 5 days. (If you are serving immediately and the ribs and sauce are not hot enough, reheat gently over medium-low heat for about 10 minutes.)