Salad Dinner Quotes

I ate them like salad, books were my sandwich for lunch, my tiffin and dinner and midnight munch. I tore out the pages, ate them with salt, doused them with relish, gnawed on the bindings, turned the chapters with my tongue! Books by the dozen, the score and the billion. I carried so many home I was hunchbacked for years. Philosophy, art history, politics, social science, the poem, the essay, the grandiose play, you name 'em, I ate 'em.

Thanksgiving dinner's sad and thankless. Christmas dinner's dark and blue. When you stop and try to see it From the turkey's point of view. Sunday dinner isn't sunny. Easter feasts are just bad luck. When you see it from the viewpoint of a chicken or a duck. Oh how I once loved tuna salad Pork and lobsters, lamb chops too Till I stopped and looked at dinner From the dinner's point of view.

We ordered food a few hours ago and worked through dinner. I had pasta with chicken, while Kate preferred a turkey club with fries on the side. Much as I hate to admit it, I’m impressed. Obviously, she doesn’t subscribe to the “I can only eat salads in front of the opposite sex” rule of thumb a lot of chicks swear by. Who gave women that idea? Like a guy’s going to say to his friend, “Dude, she was one fugly chick, but once I saw her chomping that romaine, I just had to nail her.

When You Have Forgotten Sunday: The Love Story -- And when you have forgotten the bright bedclothes on a Wednesday and a Saturday, And most especially when you have forgotten Sunday -- When you have forgotten Sunday halves in bed, Or me sitting on the front-room radiator in the limping afternoon Looking off down the long street To nowhere, Hugged by my plain old wrapper of no-expectation And nothing-I-have-to-do and I’m-happy-why? And if-Monday-never-had-to-come— When you have forgotten that, I say, And how you swore, if somebody beeped the bell, And how my heart played hopscotch if the telephone rang; And how we finally went in to Sunday dinner, That is to say, went across the front room floor to the ink-spotted table in the southwest corner To Sunday dinner, which was always chicken and noodles Or chicken and rice And salad and rye bread and tea And chocolate chip cookies -- I say, when you have forgotten that, When you have forgotten my little presentiment That the war would be over before they got to you; And how we finally undressed and whipped out the light and flowed into bed, And lay loose-limbed for a moment in the week-end Bright bedclothes, Then gently folded into each other— When you have, I say, forgotten all that, Then you may tell, Then I may believe You have forgotten me well.

Don’t get ideas. That boy’s behind won’t mount a bike, precious. He might blow one up in a military exercise, but he’s not gonna ride alongside you while you mosey into town and pick up salad fixin’s for dinner.

Of course, if I had misbehaved that day, my dinner was a salad made entirely out of iceberg lettuce, with water on top instead of dressing. It was like cabbage soup without the dignity.


Oh how I once loved tuna salad / Pork and lobsters, lamp chops too / Till I stopped and looked at dinner / From the dinner's point of view.

Dinner alone is one of life’s pleasures. Certainly cooking for oneself reveals man at his weirdest. People lie when you ask them what they eat when they are alone. A salad, they tell you. But when you persist, they confess to peanut butter and bacon sandwiches deep fried and eaten with hot sauce, or spaghetti with butter and grape jam.

Emira had met several "Mrs. Chamberlains" before. They were all rich and overly nice and particularly lovely to the people that served them. Emira knew that Mrs. Chamberlain wanted a friendship, but she also knew that Mrs. Chamberlain would never display the same efforts of kindness with her friends as she did with Emira: "accidentally" ordering two salads and offering one to Emira, or sending her home with a bag filled with frozen dinners and soups.

TRY THIS: Think of your favorite veggie or salad. Prepare it with care, and eat it before every lunch and dinner for a week. Notice your cravings and whether they change.

I learned to cook by helping my mother in the kitchen. I assisted her with the canning, and she began assigning me some other tasks like making salad dressing or kneading dough for bread. My first attempt at preparing an entire dinner¾the menu included pork chops Hawaiian, which called for the pork to be marinated in papaya nectar, ginger, cumin, and other spices before being grilled with onions and pineapple cubes¾required an extensive array of exotic ingredients. When he saw my grocery list, my father commented, “I hope she marries a rich man.

Although we couldn’t entertain on the same level we had previously enjoyed, we did have several friends over for dinner and managed to cook some delectable meals. For Mama’s birthday, we made a delicious chilled artichoke soup to accompany a French Provencal chicken dish served with leeks, rice, and John’s special green salad. We poured a classic white Burgundy and topped it off with a frozen lemon souffle. Not too bad for an out-of-work couple with a new baby.

The stew had been made with chunks of beef, potatoes, and turnips simmered in burgundy wine until they melted at the lightest pressure of the tongue. There was a salad of crisp lettuce greens and chopped mint leaves, and wedges of cottage bread, the interior laced with holes to catch every drop of salted butter.

I knew she loved sushi because it was neat and easy to eat on the go. I knew she preferred double cheeseburgers when she was on her period and steak, medium rare, at client dinners unless her client was vegetarian, in which case she ordered soup and salad. She liked her wine white, her coffee black, and her gin with a splash of tonic. I knew all of these things because despite her assumption that I paid attention to no one except myself, I couldn’t stop noticing her if my life depended on it. Every detail, every moment, all filed and categorized in the Sloane cabinet of my mind.

All through that winter and into the spring, when our Tuesday and Thursday-night dinner shifts were done, Matt and I would sit at the long table near the salad bar and plan his end-of-the-year party, our voices echoing importantly in the cavernous wood-panelled dining hall.

[The] dinner party is a true proclamation of the abundance of being -- a rebuke to the thrifty little idolatries by which we lose sight of the lavish hand that made us. It is precisely because no one needs soup fish, meat, salad, cheese, and dessert at one meal that we so badly need to sit down to them from time to time. It was largesse that made us all; we were not created to fast forever. The unnecessary is the taproot of our being and the last key to the door of delight. Enter here, therefore, as a sovereign remedy for the narrowness of our minds and the stinginess of our souls, the formal dinner...the true convivium -- the long Session that brings us nearly home.

O dead one, why did you die in the springtime? You haven't yet tasted the squash, or the cucumber salad.

Before I serve you duck soup, I'll serve you salad. Some people like salad dressing, but not me. I prefer salad undressing, because being a voyeur adds spice to the dinner.

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

We got cocktails to start and decided on a bottle of Bordeaux to share with dinner. We ordered voraciously. The pumpkin soup, the beef in banana leaf, fried spring rolls, crispy squid, a bowl of bún bò hué, and a seafood mango salad recommended by the waitress. Ordering food so as to maximize the quantity of shared dishes and an exuberance for alcohol are the two things my father and I have always counted on for common ground.

Joséphine helped me prepare dinner: a salad of green beans and tomatoes in spiced oil, red and black olives from the Thursday market stall, walnut bread, fresh basil from Narcisse, goat's cheese, red wine from Bordeaux.

She caught herself then. Such babble! Teresa was shocked by the roaming idleness of her mind, as if she were sifting through trash on the side of the freeway and was stopped, enchanted, by every foil gum wrapper. She came back for a single breath but found herself reflecting on the bean salad they'd had for dinner, some kind of pink beans in there she hadn't seen since childhood. She couldn't remember what they were called. Her mother would ask her to pick through the beans before she soaked them, to look for little rocks, and she would be so meticulous until she lost interest, dumping the unchecked beans on top of the ones she had vetted, ruining everything. Did anyone in her family ever bite down on a rock?

I want two of the four piece fried chicken dinners.  Both with mashed potatoes and green beans.  I also want two orders of grilled corn on the cob and a side of macaroni salad.  Three slices of the banana cream pie and a piece of German chocolate cake.

Dinner is covered; there’s a salad in the fridge, and all I have to do is put the steak and potatoes on the barbecue. Afterward, we can have dessert on the dock. I’ll ask her to be my wife while we watch the sun go down. The mosquitos better keep the fuck away.

Growing up, my mom made dinner every night. Usually this would be a large salad with kale, carrots, tomatoes, cucumbers, all organic of course, and sometimes she’d sprinkle nuts on top for texture. Kale has a metallic taste, like chewing on the hood of a Mercedes. No, something safer, like a Volvo.

None of that 'Oh, I'm not hungry; I'll just have a salad' crap so many woman pulled, as if he'd think they were less attractive somehow if they ate like real human beings. Nothing could be further from the truth. After all, what was the point in taking a woman out for dinner if she didn't like food?

One of the French officers was horrified that at a dinner in Washington’s tent, His Excellency served the meal not in a succession of courses like in civilization. Apparently Washington “gave, on the same plate, meat, vegetables, and salad.” On the same plate? Were these Americans people or animals?

For dinner, Victor makes roast chicken, potatoes, and a simple but elegant mâche salad, all with the ingredients we picked up at a market earlier. "The chicken," I say, after taking a bite, "is so good." "Just sea salt, olive oil, garlic, and a little rosemary," he says. "People overcomplicate chicken. That's really all you need.

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.

If you had any ingredients at your disposal, what would you make?" "You said it was a small dinner?" "Yes," he affirmed. "In that case, I would begin with a gustatio of salad with peppers and cucumbers, melon with mint, whole-meal bread, soft cheese, and honey cake." I tried to draw on my memory of one of the last meals I'd made for Maximus. Apicius licked his lips. "Yes, yes, go on." "Then pomegranate ice to cleanse the palate, followed by a cena prima of saffron chickpeas, Parthian chicken, peppered morels in wine, mussels, and oysters. If I had more time, I would also serve a stuffed suckling pig. And to close, a pear patina, along with deep-fried honey fritters, snails, olives, and, if you have it on hand, some wine from Chios or Puglia." "Perfect. Simple and the flavors would blend nicely at the beginning of the meal.

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.

In their articles and on the air, political journalists loved including local color (meat on a stick at the state fair, polka bands, caucuses held in a gun shop or grain elevator) in inverse proportions to how much they'd disdain such spectacles in their actual lives, off the job. A reporter had once told me that if she was getting dinner on her own on the road, she would choose a restaurant by googling the zip code and kale salad.

I drop my purse on the table and grab the plastic-wrapped plate. The last few days of school mark the start of pageant prep season, which means my mom is on a diet. And when my mom is on a diet, so is everyone else. Which means dinner is grilled chicken salad. It could be worse. It has been worse. She clicks her tongue. “You’ve got a little breakout there on your forehead. You’re not eatin’ that greasy food you’re selling, are you?” “You know I don’t even like burgers and hot dogs that much.” I don’t sigh. I want to, but my mom will hear. It doesn’t matter how loud the TV is. It could be two years from now and I could be away at college in some other town, hundreds of miles away, and my mom would hear me sigh all the way from home and call me to say, “Now, Dumplin’, you know I hate when you sigh. There is nothing less attractive than a discontent young woman.” There

Stop. I told you to call me Janis. You’re always so formal. I blame Enzo,” she told Vivian. “His grandfather was a real stickler for the rules. You know he kicked someone out of a dinner party once for using the wrong fork? Started a whole international incident because the guest was the son of a UN ambassador. Though to be fair, you’d expect the son of a UN ambassador to know which fork is used for salads and which is used for entrées. Isn’t that right?

It was a fine meal after the Calormene fashion. I don't know whether you would have liked it or not, but Shasta did. There were lobsters, and salad, and snipe stuffed with almonds and truffles, and a complicated dish made of chicken-livers and rice and raisins and nuts, and there were cool melons and gooseberry fools and mulberry fools, and every kind of nice thing that can be made with ice. There was also a little flagon of the sort of wine that is called "white" though it is really yellow.

Peg hummed to herself as she sniffed the concoction; fragrant as muscatel and black as the Earl of Hell's boots. Nan was well on with the savory roasts, the brawn and the Yorkshire Christmas Pie- soon she would have the great turnspits spinning before a roaring fire. Nan and the ugly sisters could see to that death-dealing contraption while she enjoyed herself baking macaroons and gingerbread from Mother Eve's Secrets. Yes, and she mustn't forget the makings of a big inviting Salamagundy salad.

The lentil is perhaps the world’s most versatile, indestructible food. One can eat the lentil unadorned; marry it off to its first cousin, the oafish “bulgur”; or attempt to drown it in harsh vinegar for a “vegan salad.” But the lentil, alas, will always survive. Indeed, at the Packwood house, the tenacious little legume will forcibly resurrect, as free of anything resembling taste as ever, and insinuate its indefatigable, pelletlike self onto yet another dinner plate, expecting to be eaten. Again, and again, and again.

BULLETPROOF TACO SALAD When I make this, I like to prepare extra meat and save it for another meal or even eat it by itself for a quick lunch the next day. This satisfying meal can easily be eaten for dinner, too. TACO MIX 1 pound grass-fed, organic fatty ground beef 2 tablespoons grass-fed unsalted butter or ghee ½ fresh lime, squeezed 1 to 2 tablespoons cayenne powder (warning: Suspect, don’t use if you’re sensitive!) 1 teaspoon dried oregano Sea salt to taste SALAD 1 cup spring lettuce ¼ cup shredded red cabbage 2 shredded carrots 1 cucumber, cut into slices ½ avocado, sliced “Creamy” Avocado Dressing To make the taco mix: In a medium pan, sauté the beef on medium-low until cooked gently but thoroughly. Your goal is not to brown the meat but to heat it enough that it’s cooked through. Burned, caramelized meat tastes good, but it causes food cravings. Drain the excess liquid. Add the butter or ghee, lime juice, cayenne powder, oregano, and salt. Add more seasoning if you wish and play around with flavors! To make the salad: Lay a bed with all of the salad ingredients, starting with the lettuce. Add a suitable portion of beef on top and then drizzle with dressing.

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

Madarjoon was reminding Oliver how to set a table, while Benyamin and Alice carried steaming dishes into the dining room in preparation for their dinner. The air was thick with the aroma of saffron and fresh turmeric, cinnamon and salted olive oil; fresh bread was cooling on the kitchen counter beside large plates of fluffy rice, sautéed raisins, heaps of barberries, and sliced almonds. Feta cheese was stacked beside a small mountain of fresh walnuts—still soft and damp—and handfuls of basil, mint, scallions, and radishes. There were spiced green beans, ears of grilled corn, dense soups, bowls of olives, and tricolored salads. There was so much food, in fact, I simply cannot describe it all. But

At around 8 pm we heard the sound of sirens. As the sound drew nearer and nearer, we caught sight of a fire truck. As it reached the hotel, the truck pulled into the parking lot with emergency lights shining and horns blasting. It came to a stop in front of our congregation. We didn’t see a fire or any other emergency in the immediate vicinity, so this was quite unexpected. Perhaps our smell had been reported as some kind of toxic leak or spill? Firemen began to pour out of the truck carrying different trays covered in foil. I could hardly believe my eyes. The local Franklin Fire Department had brought us all a spaghetti and meatball dinner! They also brought salad and pudding for desert. This was an example of trail magic at its finest.

The guests would want refreshments of some kind, but there was no time to prepare a full-blown breakfast. The Americans would have to be content with beverages until a midmorning "nuncheon" could be assembled. Rapidly Aline went through a mental list of the contents of the pantry and larders. She decided they would set out crystal bowls of strawberries and raspberries, pots of butter and jam, along with bread and cake. Some asparagus salad and broiled bacon would also be nice, and Aline would also tell the housekeeper, Mrs. Faircloth, to serve the chilled lobster soufflé that had been intended as a supper course for later in the day. Something else could be substituted at dinner, perhaps some tiny salmon cutlets with egg sauce, or sweetbreads with celery stalks-

The next forty minutes are a festival of soul eating. I know many immigrant families incorporate their traditional dishes into the Thanksgiving feast, but not my folks. Our menu is Norman Rockwell on crack. Turkey with gravy. Homemade cranberry relish and the jellied stuff from the can. Mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, green bean casserole. Cornbread stuffing and buttery yeast rolls. The only nods to our heritage are mustard-seed pickled carrots and dill-cucumber salad, to have something cool and palate-cleansing on the plate. A crazy layered Jello-O dish, with six different colors in thin stripes, looking like vintage Bakelite. Jeff and the girls show up just in time for desserts... apple pie, pumpkin pie, pecan bars, cheesecake brownies, and Maria's flan.

NEAR THE BASILICA OF ST. ANTHONY Antica Trattoria dei Paccagnella, the most serious restaurant near the basilica, serves up nicely presented, seasonal local dishes with modern flair and an impressive attention to ingredients. The place has friendly service, modern art on the walls, and no pretense. It’s thoughtfully run by two brothers, Raffaele and Cesare, who happily explain why they are so excited about local hens (€9-12 pastas, €14-18 secondi, Mon 19:00-22:00, Tue-Sat 12:00-14:00 & 19:00-22:00, closed Sun, Via del Santo 113, tel. 049-875-0549). Pizzeria Pago Pago dishes up wood-fired Neapolitan pizzas (a local favorite) and daily specials depending on what’s in season. Get there early for dinner or wait (€5-8 pizzas, €9 salads, Wed-Mon 12:00-14:00 & 19:00-24:00, closed Tue; 2 blocks from Basilica

Corn is what feeds the steer that becomes the steak. Corn feeds the chicken and the pig, the turkey, and the lamb, the catfish and the tilapia and, increasingly, even the salmon, a carnivore by nature that the fish farmers are reengineering to tolerate corn. The eggs are made of corn. The milk and cheese and yogurt, which once came from dairy cows that grazed on grass, now typically comes from Holsteins that spend their working lives indoors tethered to machines, eating corn. Head over to the processed foods and you find ever more intricate manifestations of corn. A chicken nugget, for example, piles up corn upon corn: what chicken it contains consists of corn, of course, but so do most of a nugget's other constituents, including the modified corn starch that glues the things together, the corn flour in the batter that coats it, and the corn oil in which it gets fried. Much less obviously, the leavenings and lecithin, the mono-, di-, and triglycerides, the attractive gold coloring, and even the citric acid that keeps the nugget "fresh" can all be derived from corn. To wash down your chicken nuggets with virtually any soft drink in the supermarket is to have some corn with your corn. Since the 1980s virtually all the sodas and most of the fruit drinks sold in the supermarket have been sweetened with high-fructose corn syrup (HFCS) -- after water, corn sweetener is their principal ingredient. Grab a beer for you beverage instead and you'd still be drinking corn, in the form of alcohol fermented from glucose refined from corn. Read the ingredients on the label of any processed food and, provided you know the chemical names it travels under, corn is what you will find. For modified or unmodified starch, for glucose syrup and maltodextrin, for crystalline fructose and ascorbic acid, for lecithin and dextrose, lactic acid and lysine, for maltose and HFCS, for MSG and polyols, for the caramel color and xanthan gum, read: corn. Corn is in the coffee whitener and Cheez Whiz, the frozen yogurt and TV dinner, the canned fruit and ketchup and candies, the soups and snacks and cake mixes, the frosting and candies, the soups and snacks and cake mixes, the frosting and gravy and frozen waffles, the syrups and hot sauces, the mayonnaise and mustard, the hot dogs and the bologna, the margarine and shortening, the salad dressings and the relishes and even the vitamins. (Yes, it's in the Twinkie, too.) There are some forty-five thousand items in the average American supermarket and more than a quarter of them now contain corn. This goes for the nonfood items as well: Everything from the toothpaste and cosmetics to the disposable diapers, trash bags, cleansers, charcoal briquettes, matches, and batteries, right down to the shine on the cover of the magazine that catches your eye by the checkout: corn. Even in Produce on a day when there's ostensibly no corn for sale, you'll nevertheless find plenty of corn: in the vegetable wax that gives the cucumbers their sheen, in the pesticide responsible for the produce's perfection, even in the coating on the cardboard it was shipped in. Indeed, the supermarket itself -- the wallboard and joint compound, the linoleum and fiberglass and adhesives out of which the building itself has been built -- is in no small measure a manifestation of corn.

Maria winks at me, takes a mouthful of stuffing, and rolls her eyes in ecstasy. The next forty minutes are a festival of soul eating. I know many immigrant families incorporate their traditional dishes into the Thanksgiving feast, but not my folks. Our menu is Norman Rockwell on crack. Turkey with gravy. Homemade cranberry relish and the jellied stuff from the can. Mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, green bean casserole. Cornbread stuffing and buttery yeast rolls. The only nods to our heritage are mustard-seed pickled carrots and dill-cucumber salad, to have something cool and palate-cleansing on the plate. A crazy layered Jello-O dish, with six different colors in thin stripes, looking like vintage Bakelite. Jeff and the girls show up just in time for desserts... apple pie, pumpkin pie, pecan bars, cheesecake brownies, and Maria's flan.

Language cannot describe the anxieties, experiences, and exertions which Jo underwent that morning, and the dinner she served up became a standing joke. Fearing to ask any more advice, she did her best alone, and discovered that something more than energy and good will is necessary to make a cook. She boiled the asparagus for an hour and was grieved to find the heads cooked off and the stalks harder than ever. The bread burned black, for the salad dressing so aggravated her that she could not make it fit to ear. The lobster was a scarlet mystery to her, but she hammered and poked till it was unshelled and its meager proportions concealed in a grove of lettuce leaves. The potatoes had to be hurried, not to keep the asparagus waiting, and were not done at the last. The blancmange was lumpy, and the strawberries not as ripe as they looked, having been skilfully `deaconed'.

Government Standing next to my old friend I sense that his soldiers have retreated. And mine? They’re resting their guns on their shoulders talking quietly. I’m hungry, one says. Cheeseburger, says another, and they all decide to go and find some dinner. But the next day, negotiating the too narrow aisles of The Health and Harmony Food Store—when I say, Excuse me, to the woman and her cart of organic chicken and green grapes she pulls the cart not quite far back enough for me to pass, and a small mob in me begins picking up the fruit to throw. So many kingdoms, and in each kingdom, so many people: the disinherited son, the corrupt counselor, the courtesan, the fool. And so many gods—arguing among themselves, over toast, through the lunch salad and on into the long hours of the mild spring afternoon—I’m the god. No, I’m the god. No, I’m the god. I can hardly hear myself over their muttering. How can I discipline my army? They’re exhausted and want more money. How can I disarm when my enemy seems so intent?

The next day, Angelina was tending a fresh pot of red gravy on the stove. She was going to make Veal Parmigiana for dinner, to be accompanied by pasta, fresh bread, and salad. She left the sauce on low and went to put the finishing touches on the pie she had planned. Earlier, she had made 'a vol-au-vent'- the word means "windblown" in French- a pastry that was as light and feathery as a summer breeze, that Angelina had adapted to serve as a fluffy, delicately crispy pie crust. The crust had cooled and formed a burnished auburn crown around the rim of the pie plate. She took a bowl of custardy creme anglaise out of the refrigerator and began loading it into a pie-filling gadget that looked like a big plastic syringe. With it, she then injected copious amounts of the glossy creme into the interior of the pie without disturbing the perfect, golden-crusty dome. That done, she heated the chocolate and cream on the stove top to create a chocolate ganache, which she would use as icing on the pie, just to take it completely over the top.

That’s the thing about the “immeasurably more.” God prepares you for it even when it’s nowhere on your to-do list. And now that I have the benefit of looking at my childhood through a lens with some wisdom attached, it occurs to me that during all those Sunday dinners when I was growing up, I learned something way more important than how to make a pitcher of sweet tea or where to put the salad fork or when to pick up dinner plates before Mama served dessert. I learned something more important than how to be a lady, even. I learned to listen and to laugh. I learned to forgive. I learned that some earthly love really is unconditional. I learned that God is always at work in the day to day. I learned that even when you’re sad or embarrassed or just plain mad, you’re always welcome at the table. And more than anything else, I learned how to take care of people. I learned how to let them take care of me. I learned how to be a family. I didn’t have the slightest clue that anyone was teaching me, of course. But I’m forever grateful for the lesson. CHAPTER SIX Mother’s Got a Bell!

You look nice,” he commented, before thanking her for the wine and making his way outside to the porch. Grateful he had turned away and so couldn’t see her blush, she fussed about in the kitchen for a while, preparing a dressing for the side salad, adding a few chopped herbs as an afterthought. Happy that all was well, she joined him, looking forward to another evening of lighthearted chat. “I thought we’d eat out here tonight, if that’s okay. It’s a lovely evening. We should make the most of it,” she said as she drew up a chair opposite him. “Definitely,” he replied, staring out toward Gull Rock. “Beautiful,” she sighed, realizing too late she was still looking at him as she spoke. Averting her eyes, she added, “The view, I mean.” “Oh, so not me?” he joked, one eyebrow raised in challenge. Recovering quickly, she grinned back. “You’re okay, I guess. Not my type, but I’m sure there’s plenty out there who’ll appreciate you.” “Thanks very much.” He appeared somewhat crestfallen. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.” “A bit of both, I think.” She winked, before heading back to the kitchen to bring dinner out.

Even though Jasmine was supposed to try Marcella's Stone Plum Soup tonight, she pulled at her baking cupboard. She wanted chocolate. She wanted oozing, rich, creamy, comforting chocolate. She would throw chops on the grill and toss a salad for dinner. Tonight, she was going to concentrate her efforts on dessert. She pulled out her big bowl and mixer. She took down blocks of chocolate, vanilla, sugar. Poked her head into the refrigerator to count the eggs. Ten. Just enough. Her mouth watered, her tongue repeatedly swallowing the swamp that had become her mouth. Cream? A pint poked from behind the mayonnaise. She smelled it. One day to spare. She padded to the liquor cabinet and examined her choices. Brandy, amaretto, Grand Marnier. Mmm, yes. Grand Marnier, a subtle orange swirl. The chocolate and butter wobbled over the heat of the double boiler. Unctuous and smooth. Jasmine beat the eggs and sugar until lemony light. She poured in the chocolate in a long professional sweep. A few deft turns of the spatula turned the mixture into what she really craved. She stood over the bowl tasting slabs of it from the spatula. A good dash of Grand Marnier. Another taste. And another. She had to discard a number of egg whites to fit with the reduced mixture. She finally tipped the glossy beaten whites into the chocolate.

Soon, things were heating up in the kitchen. The first course was a variation on a French recipe that had been around since Escoffier, Baccala Brandade. Angelina created a silky forcemeat with milk, codfish, olive oil, pepper, and slow-roasted garlic, a drizzle of lemon juice, and a shower of fresh parsley, then served it as a dip with sliced sourdough and warmed pita-bread wedges, paired with glasses of bubbly Prosecco. The second course had been a favorite of her mother's called Angels on Horseback- freshly shucked oysters, wrapped in thin slices of prosciutto, then broiled on slices of herb-buttered bread. When the oysters cooked, they curled up to resemble tiny angels' wings. Angelina accented the freshness of the oyster with a dab of anchovy paste and wasabi on each hors d'oeuvre. She'd loved the Angels since she was a little girl; they were a heavenly mouthful. This was followed by a Caesar salad topped with hot, batter-dipped, deep-fried smelts. Angelina's father used to crunch his way through the small, silvery fish like French fries. Tonight, Angelina arranged them artfully around mounds of Caesar salad on each plate and ushered them out the door. For the fifth course, Angelina had prepared a big pot of her Mediterranean Clam Soup the night before, a lighter version of Manhattan clam chowder. The last two courses were Parmesan-Stuffed Poached Calamari over Linguine in Red Sauce, and the piece de resistance, Broiled Flounder with a Coriander Reduction.

Brian and Avis deliver their stacks and try to refuse dinner, but the waiters bring them glasses of burgundy, porcelain plates with thin, peppery steaks redolent of garlic, scoops of buttery grilled Brussels sprouts, and a salad of beets, walnuts, and Roquefort. They drag a couple of lawn chairs to a quiet spot on the street and they balance the plates on their laps. Some ingredient in the air reminds Avis of the rare delicious trips they used to make to the Keys. Ten years after they'd moved to Miami they'd left Stanley and Felice with family friends and Avis and Brian drove to Key West on a sort of second honeymoon. She remembers how the land dropped back into distance: wetlands, marsh, lazy-legged egrets flapping over the highway, tangled, sulfurous mangroves. And water. Steel-blue plains, celadon translucence. She and Brian had rented a vacation cottage in Old Town, ate small meals of fruit, cheese, olives, and crackers, swam in the warm, folding water. Each day stirring into the next, talking about nothing more complicated than the weather, spotting a shark off the pier, a mysterious constellation lowering in the west. Brian sheltered under a celery-green umbrella while Avis swam: the water formed pearls on the film of her sunscreen. They watched the night's rise, an immense black curtain from the ocean. Up and down the beach they hear the sounds of the outdoor bars, sandy patios switching on, distant strains of laughter, bursts of music. Someone played an instrument- quick runs of notes, arpeggios floating in soft ovals like soap bubbles over the darkening water.

Camille's eyes fluttered and then closed. The cake was warm and her fork went down again. "Oh," she said quietly. There was a time I cared: a meat, a vegetable, a starch, some cake. Life had an order, but now the point only seemed to be eating. Here was my daughter, eating, devouring, she was almost through with the cake. "Did you make this with honey?" Camille asked. There was something in her voice I nearly recognized. It sounded like interest, kindness. "I did." "Because sometimes-" She couldn't finish her sentence without stopping for another bite. "You use brown sugar?" "It's another recipe." "I like the honey." "The problems they're having with bees these days," Sam began, but I held up my hand and it silenced him. There was too much pleasure in the moment to hear about the plight of the bees. My mother took a long, last sip of her drink and then went to the counter to get the cake, the knife, and three more plates. "First the two of you are having a drink on a Tuesday, now we're all eating cake before we finish our dinner." She cut four pieces and gave the first one to Camille, whose plate was empty. "It's madness. Anarchy. It must make you wonder what's coming next," Sam said. My mother handed me my plate. I don't eat that much cake, but I never turn down a slice. The four of us ate, pretending it was a salad course. Camille was right to pick up on the honey. It was the undertone, the melody of the cake. It was not cloying or overly sweet but it lingered on the tongue after the bite had been swallowed. I didn't miss the frosting at all, though it would have been cream cheese. I could beat cream cheese longer than most people would have thought possible. I could beat it until it could pass for meringue.

The menu is spectacular. Passed hors d'oeuvres include caramelized shallot tartlets topped with Gorgonzola, cubes of crispy pork belly skewered with fresh fig, espresso cups of chilled corn soup topped with spicy popcorn, mini arepas filled with rare skirt steak and chimichurri and pickle onions, and prawn dumplings with a mango serrano salsa. There is a raw bar set up with three kinds of oysters, and a raclette station where we have a whole wheel of the nutty cheese being melted to order, with baby potatoes, chunks of garlic sausage, spears of fresh fennel, lightly pickled Brussels sprouts, and hunks of sourdough bread to pour it over. When we head up for dinner, we will start with a classic Dover sole amandine with a featherlight spinach flan, followed by a choice of seared veal chops or duck breast, both served with creamy polenta, roasted mushrooms, and lacinato kale. Next is a light salad of butter lettuce with a sharp lemon Dijon vinaigrette, then a cheese course with each table receiving a platter of five cheeses with dried fruits and nuts and three kinds of bread, followed by the panna cottas. Then the cake, and coffee and sweets. And at midnight, chorizo tamales served with scrambled eggs, waffle sticks with chicken fingers and spicy maple butter, candied bacon strips, sausage biscuit sandwiches, and vanilla Greek yogurt parfaits with granola and berries on the "breakfast" buffet, plus cheeseburger sliders, mini Chicago hot dogs, little Chinese take-out containers of pork fried rice and spicy sesame noodles, a macaroni-and-cheese bar, and little stuffed pizzas on the "snack food" buffet. There will also be tiny four-ounce milk bottles filled with either vanilla malted milk shakes, root beer floats made with hard root beer, Bloody Marys, or mimosas.

When we first started dating, my talent in the kitchen was a turn-on. The prospect of me in the kitchen, wearing a skimpy apron and holding a whisk in my hand- he thought that was sexy. And, as someone with little insight into how to work her own sex appeal, I pounced on the opportunity to make him want and need me. I spent four days preparing my first home-cooked meal for him, a dinner of wilted escarole salad with hot bacon dressing, osso bucco with risotto Milanese and gremolata, and a white-chocolate toasted-almond semifreddo for dessert. At the time, I lived with three other people in a Columbia Heights town house, so I told all of my housemates to make themselves scarce that Saturday night. When Adam showed up at my door, as the rich smell of braised veal shanks wafted through the house, I greeted him holding a platter of prosciutto-wrapped figs, wearing nothing but a slinky red apron. He grabbed me by the waist and pushed me into the kitchen, slowly untying the apron strings resting on my rounded hips, and moments later we were making love on the tiled kitchen floor. Admittedly, I worried the whole time about when I should start the risotto and whether he'd even want osso bucco once we were finished, but it was the first time I'd seduced someone like that, and it was lovely. Adam raved about that meal- the rich osso bucco, the zesty gremolata, the sweet-and-salty semifreddo- and that's when I knew cooking was my love language, my way of expressing passion and desire and overcoming all of my insecurities. I learned that I may not be comfortable strutting through a room in a tight-fitting dress, but I can cook one hell of a brisket, and I can do it in the comfort of my own home, wearing an apron and nothing else. Adam loved my food, and he loved watching me work in the kitchen even more, the way my cheeks would flush from the heat of the stove and my hair would twist into delicate red curls along my hairline. As the weeks went by, I continued to seduce him with pork ragu and roasted chicken, creamed spinach and carrot sformato, cannolis and brownies and chocolate-hazelnut cake.

To wash down your chicken nuggets with virtually any soft drink in the supermarket is to have some corn with your corn. Since the 1980s virtually all the sodas and most of the fruit drinks sold in the supermarket have been sweetened with high-fructose corn syrup (HFCS) -- after water, corn sweetener is their principal ingredient. Grab a beer for you beverage instead and you'd still be drinking corn, in the form of alcohol fermented from glucose refined from corn. Read the ingredients on the label of any processed food and, provided you know the chemical names it travels under, corn is what you will find. For modified or unmodified starch, for glucose syrup and maltodextrin, for crystalline fructose and ascorbic acid, for lecithin and dextrose, lactic acid and lysine, for maltose and HFCS, for MSG and polyols, for the caramel color and xanthan gum, read: corn. Corn is in the coffee whitener and Cheez Whiz, the frozen yogurt and TV dinner, the canned fruit and ketchup and candies, the soups and snacks and cake mixes, the frosting and candies, the soups and snacks and cake mixes, the frosting and gravy and frozen waffles, the syrups and hot sauces, the mayonnaise and mustard, the hot dogs and the bologna, the margarine and shortening, the salad dressings and the relishes and even the vitamins. (Yes, it's in the Twinkie, too.) There are some forty-five thousand items in the average American supermarket and more than a quarter of them now contain corn. This goes for the nonfood items as well: Everything from the toothpaste and cosmetics to the disposable diapers, trash bags, cleansers, charcoal briquettes, matches, and batteries, right down to the shine on the cover of the magazine that catches your eye by the checkout: corn. Even in Produce on a day when there's ostensibly no corn for sale, you'll nevertheless find plenty of corn: in the vegetable wax that gives the cucumbers their sheen, in the pesticide responsible for the produce's perfection, even in the coating on the cardboard it was shipped in. Indeed, the supermarket itself -- the wallboard and joint compound, the linoleum and fiberglass and adhesives out of which the building itself has been built -- is in no small measure a manifestation of corn.

The incredible range of tastes, textures, and versatility of vegetables means there are choices for everyone, from eggplant sliced and baked with olive oil and meaty portobello mushrooms; to a Caprese salad of sliced tomatoes, mozzarella, fresh basil, and olive oil; to daikon radish and pickled ginger alongside fish. Extend your vegetable variety beyond your usual habits. Explore mushrooms such as shiitake and porcini. Adorn cooked dishes with alliums such as scallions, garlic, leeks, shallots, and chives. Vegetables shouldn’t just be for dinner; think about vegetables for any time of day, including breakfast.

Indeed, grains—especially wheat and corn—are in salad dressings, seasoning mixes, licorice, frozen dinners, breakfast cereals, canned soups, dried soup mixes, rotisserie chickens, soft drinks, whiskies, beers, prescription drugs, shampoos, conditioners, lipstick, chewing gum, and even the adhesive in envelopes.

Monday: Pasta • Tuesday: Legume • Wednesday: Dough (homemade quiche, pizza, or tortillas) • Thursday: Bread (to go with our veggie “fridge-cleanup” soup or salad) • Friday (shopping day): Potatoes and fish • Saturday: Wild card, dinner with friends or dinner out • Sunday: Grain and meat

The dinner Parrin serves- vichyssoise, squab, rice pilaf, green salad, chocolate-orange mousse- is all very "of the moment" and delicious, as I knew it would be.

So what's on the menu?" "We soak prunes in whisky and tea, dip them in honey, and stuff them with walnuts. These are mixed with sausage for the stuffing. I usually soak the prunes for several days, but we'll make do." "My God. That sounds fabulous." Elliott nodded, but said nothing. He was staring at her intently. "And..." "And..." What was he waiting for? He started to fiddle with the pencil. Finally she realized he was waiting for her input! He had no idea how to banter back-and-forth or to brainstorm creatively. She broke the awkward silence. "Elliott, are you waiting for my suggestions for dinner?" "Aye. I'm waiting." "I think... we should go with the honey." "I use heather honey in North Berwick. But I'm sure the honey here will be fine." "My favorite is from the Akins Apiary. They have delicious apple honey. It's rare, but I'll see if they have some in the pantry." "Excellent. What... what else do you like about the honey?" Sophia tried not to laugh out loud at Elliott's stilted and awkward attempt at conversation. The give-and-take was clearly not a natural process for him. "Let's use the honey in all our dishes. How about roasted vegetables in a balsamic-honey dressing? With thyme? I think rutabaga and turnips would be a nice side for the turkey." He scratched something on his tablet. "Keep going." "And how about a bitter green salad? Maybe arugula and dandelion greens with a honey vinaigrette That will cut the richness of the bird." Elliott nodded. "I like both of those ideas. This meal will showcase the best of both of us... a traditional Scottish roast bird and various preparations for the vegetables and greens.

So what's for dinner?" she asks. "Excuse me?" "You said you were cooking for your family. Can I ask what a professional chef feeds her family, or is that some deep, dark secret" "Curried prawn chowder, black sea bass en papillote with baby artichokes and red pepper coulis, frisee salad with shaved Asiago," I tell her, even though the only thing currently in our refrigerator is the other half of my Primanti's sandwich. "I love sea bass. What time is dinner?" So, I'm being wooed by Enid Maxwell.

Home Cooking: The Comforts of Old Family Favorites." Easy. Baked macaroni and cheese with crunchy bread crumbs on top; simple mashed potatoes with no garlic and lots of cream and butter; meatloaf with sage and a sweet tomato sauce topping. Not that I experienced these things in my house growing up, but these are the foods everyone thinks of as old family favorites, only improved. If nothing else, my job is to create a dreamlike state for readers in which they feel that everything will be all right if only they find just the right recipe to bring their kids back to the table, seduce their husbands into loving them again, making their friends and neighbors envious. I'm tapping my keyboard, thinking, what else?, when it hits me like a soft thud in the chest. I want to write about my family's favorites, the strange foods that comforted us in tense moments around the dinner table. Mom's Midwestern "hot dish": layers of browned hamburger, canned vegetable soup, canned sliced potatoes, topped with canned cream of mushroom soup. I haven't tasted it in years. Her lime Jell-O salad with cottage cheese, walnuts, and canned pineapple, her potato salad with French dressing instead of mayo. I have a craving, too, for Dad's grilling marinade. "Shecret Shauce" he called it in those rare moments of levity when he'd perform the one culinary task he was willing to do. I'd lean shyly against the counter and watch as he poured ingredients into a rectangular cake pan. Vegetable oil, soy sauce, garlic powder, salt and pepper, and then he'd finish it off with the secret ingredient: a can of fruit cocktail. Somehow the sweetness of the syrup was perfect against the salty soy and the biting garlic. Everything he cooked on the grill, save hamburgers and hot dogs, first bathed in this marinade overnight in the refrigerator. Rump roasts, pork chops, chicken legs all seemed more exotic this way, and dinner guests raved at Dad's genius on the grill. They were never the wiser to the secret of his sauce because the fruit bits had been safely washed into the garbage disposal.

Close your eyes, Sophia. Look at the table in your mind. What does it look like? What's on the menu? Taste it. Tell me." She closed her eyes. Enveloped by all that was Elliott. She tried to concentrate and ignore those rough fingers on her cheek. "Shrimp wrapped in Thai basil and prosciutto, crisped on the grill, drizzled with olive oil and fresh lime juice. It's Emilia's favorite." "Mmm. Keep going. Don't stop." His lips were almost touching her forehead. His breath on her skin. "Grilled filet mignon with my peppercorn sauce. White, red, pink peppercorns. The girls get them for me when they travel. That's our special dinner. Our decadent meal." "More." His lips grazed her ear. Sophia's eyes were tightly shut, but she had to suppress a shudder. "Vegetable salad on baby greens from my garden. Yellow peppers, green zucchini, purple eggplant, lightly grilled. With a sherry vinaigrette and fresh herbs. All the colors of the rainbow." "Lovely. Keep going." She could no longer hear the buzz of crickets or throaty calls of the frogs. Just Elliott's breathing. Steady. Intense. "Wine, lots of wine," she said huskily. She felt his chuckle against her cheek. "Well, this is my fantasy, right? It must have wine." "Of course it does. Keep going." "Home-made gelato. Lemon. With lemon zest and lemon basil and lemon verbena. And crunchy toasted macadamia nuts on top.

Kai enlisted the help of some culinary students for prep work and serving, and pulled out all the stops for this party, skipping the sit-down dinner in favor of endless little nibbles, sort of like tapas or a wonderful tasting menu. Champagne laced with Pineau des Charentes, a light cognac with hints of apple that essentially puts a velvet smoking jacket around the dry sparkling wine. Perfect scallops, crispy on the outside, succulent and sweet within, with a vanilla aioli. Tiny two-bite Kobe sliders on little pretzel rolls with caramelized onions, horseradish cream, and melted fontina. Seared tuna in a spicy soy glaze, ingenious one-bite caprese salads made by hollowing out cherry tomatoes, dropping some olive oil and balsamic vinegar inside, and stuffing with a mozzarella ball wrapped in fresh basil. Espresso cups of chunky roasted tomato soup with grilled cheese croutons. The food is delicious and never-ending, supplemented with little bowls of nuts, olives, raw veggies, and homemade potato chips with lemon and rosemary.

After a couple of days, James spotted something strange about the food they were eating. "It's an odd thing," he remarked to Jumbo, "but every single meal seems to contain at least one dish that's red, green and white. Yesterday it was that wonderful salad- tomatoes, basil and that white mozzarella stuff. Today it was some sort of herby green paste on white pasta, with tomatoes on the side." Jumbo screwed up his face. "What's so odd about that?" "They're the colors of the Italian flag." "So they are." Jumbo thought some more. "Probably a coincidence, though. After all, they eat a lot of tomatoes, so the red's there from the start." "Probably," James agreed. But later that afternoon he made an excuse to drop by the kitchen, and peer over Livia's shoulder at what she was preparing for dinner. "What are these?" he asked casually. "Pomodori ripieni con formaggio caprino ed erba cipollina," she said tersely. "Tomatoes stuffed with goat's cheese and chives." Ignoring the fact that his mouth was watering, he said, "They're the same colors as your flag." Livia affected to notice this for the first time. "So they are. How strange." "As one of the dishes at lunch. In fact, every meal you've cooked us has had something similar.

The meal began with pickled squid, oyster shooters, marinated anchovies, and scungilli salad. Then Rosalie set an enormous bowl of pasta con le vongole in front of Sal, who ladled it out, talking the entire time. The pasta was followed by huge platters of scampi, which we passed around. It was almost eleven when Rosalie set three enormous stuffed turbots on the table, and it was near midnight when she appeared with a plate of warm sugar-dusted sfinge. "So our first taste of the New Year will be sweet," Sal whispered in my ear.

It’s such a good meal tonight. Lemon chicken, carrot-raisin salad, orzo, broccoli, a nice dinner roll, and chocolate pudding.

Amanda lost count of the various delicacies that were offered to her. There were four kinds of soup, including turtle and lobster, and several roast turkeys dressed with sausages and herbs. A never-ending parade of servants brought platters of veal in béchamel sauce, capons, sweetbreads, roast quail and hare, venison, swans' eggs, and a dazzling array of vegetable casseroles. Puddings made of exotic fish and game were presented in steaming silver bowls, followed by trays of luxury fruits and salads, and crystal plates laden with truffles in wine. There were even tender stalks of asparagus, well out of season and therefore highly prized at Christmastime.

Taylor and Fitz sat at a patio table in the back of Las Palmas. The front room was filled with giggling Vanderbilt co-eds and migrant workers on their lunch break, a testament to the quality of the restaurant as well as its reasonable prices. Taylor was nibbling a steak fajita quesadilla, Fitz was plowing through a taco salad. A pitcher of sweet tea separated them. “So what did Price say?” Fitz asked. “He understood, for starters. He’ll fight any disciplinary action taken against Lincoln. So Linc will feel a lot better about that. Poor guy, he was completely rattled. I don’t know if it was the dope or the sheer terror of having to report that he’d been smoking it. Can you imagine Lincoln with a few toots in him?” Fitz laughed. “No. Mr. Fancypants has always struck me as the one scotch before dinner because it looks good, rather than enjoying it type. He isn’t much for losing control.” “Well, that’s to be expected, if you think about his background. Damn, it would be nice to have him back to work this Wolff case. I’ll bet there’s a ton of financial discovery, right up his little computer-literate heart’s alley. Marcus is back tomorrow, right?” Marcus Wade, her youngest detective, had been out for four days doing his in-service training rotation. Without the two detectives, the squad had been too quiet. “He’ll be in bright and early tomorrow. We can get him up to speed with the Wolff case, let him go to town. Media’s having a field day with the 911 tape.

There was a game they played at dinner. The word “delicious” was out of bounds. On this occasion the eggs were robust, the grilled salmon was succulent, the salad had verve, Polly’s blackberry cobbler had zest, and Qwilleran’s seven-layer chocolate cake had a certain nobility.

Glorious Food Italians are known the world over for their food. Each region of Italy enjoys its own kind of cooing. For example, in Naples, pasta is served with a tomato-based sauce, while in the north, it is more often served with a white cheese sauce. The people of Genoa often put pesto, a flavorful mixture of basil, pine nuts, garlic, olive oil, and grated cheese, on their pasta. The grated cheese called Parmesan originated in the area around Parma. Italians also invented many other cheeses, including Gorgonzola, mozzarella, provolone, and ricotta. No one knows when pizza was invented, but the people of Naples made it popular. At first, pizza was a simple flatbread topped with tomato and garlic. Since then, it has evolved into countless variations, served all over Italy and the world. Italians tend to eat a light breakfast of coffee and perhaps a small bun. Lunch is often the main meal, while dinner tends to be lighter. Italian meals may include antipasti, an array of vegetables, cold cuts, and seafood; a pasta dish; a main course of meat or fish; a salad; and cheese and fruit. Bread is served with every meal. Italy is justly famous for its ice cream, which is called gelato. Fresh gelato is made regularly at ice cream shops called gelaterias. Italians are just as likely to gather, discussing sports and the world, in a gelateria as in a coffee shop. Many Italians drink a strong, dark coffee called espresso, which is served in tiny cups. Another type of Italian coffee, cappuccino, is espresso mixed with hot, frothed milk. Both espresso and cappuccino have become popular in North America. Meanwhile, many Italians are becoming increasingly fond of American-style fast food, a trend that bothers some Italians. In general, dinner is served later at night in southern Italy than in northern Italy. This is because many people in the south, as in most Mediterranean regions, traditionally took naps in the afternoon during the hottest part of the day. These naps are rapidly disappearing as a regular part of life, although many businesses still shut down for several hours in the early afternoon.

So there was a martini- something he hadn't tasted since college- and there was wine, and there was a dinner most remarkable for a meal produced at a "camp": smoked mussels (gathered and smoked right there on the island, he learned), ratatouille, a salad with pears and blue cheese, and a three-layer chocolate cake with whipped cream and cherries, all of it made by Greenie's mother, who would not accept a bit of help.

One can become quite proficient at this amiable patter; the trick is to omit the instructive parts when attending formal dinner parties outside the house. It would be a mistake for Miss Manners to provide you with a list of no-no’s. It may never have occurred to your children to laugh with a mouthful of soup, for instance, or to discharge unappreciated salad ingredients into the napkin. Here, instead, are a few yes-yes’s: Small

How they eat: Remember the last time you had dinner with your naturally skinny friend? “I’m starving!” she exclaimed, poring over the menu. For you: The (boring) garden salad, of course. Low-fat vinaigrette, on the side. For her: The spinach ravioli in lemon cream sauce. “How can you stand to eat that rabbit food?!” she asked incredulously, eyeing your plate. Which did look pretty sad next to her puffy pasta pillows of ricotta, swimming in creamy, lemon-y deliciousness. While you resigned yourself to your salad, she dove in. “This is so good!” she declared. And then a few minutes later, after just twelve bites, she did the unthinkable—she stopped eating. Because she was full.

My mom was a devoted wife and mother. The first up every morning, she would don her very practical apron, which was usually made out of floral feed-sack material and went over her head and buttoned or tied behind her back. She'd prepare lunches for my five sisters and me, and one for Dad, too... About three o'clock in the afternoon, Mom would straighten the house, vacuuming and dusting, and by the time we walked in from school, she'd be in the kitchen with her apron on, preparing the evening meal. Every dinner was complete with meat, potatoes, salad, two vegetables, and bread and butter. And the dining table was always set with a vase of fresh flowers or green cuttings. When dinner was just about ready, she'd go freshen up, changing clothes and putting on makeup. When one of my sisters once asked her how come she "got ready" and changed clothes right before dinner, Mom smiled and said, "Because my husband is coming home." When our father walked into the house from work, he was greeted with a delicious home-cooked meal on the table and Mom, all decked out in a fresh, pretty apron. [Dick Amman]

What to remove? Dairy. From cows, goats, and sheep (including butter). Grains. For the more intensive version of this 30-day diet, eliminate all grains. This is important for those with digestive or autoimmune conditions. If this feels undoable for a full month, add in a small serving a day of gluten-free grains like white rice or quinoa. If that still feels undoable, consider a whole-foods diet rich in vegetables that is strictly gluten- and dairy-free. Legumes. Beans of all kinds (soy, black, kidney, pinto, etc.), lentils, and peanuts. Green peas and snap peas are okay. Sweeteners, real or artificial. Sugar, high-fructose corn syrup, maple syrup, honey, agave, Splenda, Equal, NutraSweet, xylitol, stevia, etc. Processed or refined snack foods. Sodas and diet sodas. Alcohol in any form. White potatoes. Premade sauces and seasonings. How to avoid common pitfalls: Prepare well beforehand. Choose a time frame during which you will have limited or reduced travel, and that doesn’t include holidays or special occasions. Study the list of foods allowed on the diet and make a shopping list. Remove the foods from your pantry or refrigerator that aren’t allowed on the diet, if that makes it easier. Engage the whole family to try this together, or find a friend to join you. Success happens in community. Set up a calendar to mark your progress. Print out a free 30-day online calendar, tape it to the refrigerator door, and mark off each day. Pack snacks with you, pack your lunch, call ahead to restaurants to check their menu (or check online). Get enough vegetables and fats. If you feel jittery or lose too much weight, increase your carbohydrates (starchy vegetables like yams, taro, sweet potatoes). Don’t misread withdrawal-type symptoms as the diet “not working.” These symptoms usually resolve within a week’s time. Personalize it. Start with the basics above and: * If you’re having trouble with autoimmune conditions, eliminate eggs, too. * If you’re prone to weight gain, eat less meat and heavier foods (ex: stews, chili), more vegetables and raw foods. * If you’re prone to weight loss or having trouble gaining weight, eat more meats and heavier foods (ex: stews, chili), less raw foods like salads. * If you’re generally healthy and wanting a boost in energy, try short-term fasts of 12–16 hours. Due to the circadian rhythm of the digestive tract, skipping dinner is best (as opposed to skipping breakfast). Try this 1–2 times a week. (This fast also means no supplements or beverages other than tea or water during the fasting time.)

For Breakfast Intact grain, such as steel cut oats, hulled barley, or buckwheat groats (cooked by boiling in water on a low flame). If you soak the grain overnight, the cooking time will be much shorter in the morning. Add ground flaxseeds, hemp seeds, or chia seeds to this hot cereal, along with fresh or frozen fruit. Use mostly berries, with shredded apple and cinnamon. Or a serving of coarsely ground, 100 percent whole grain bread with raw nut butter. Or as a quick and portable alternative, have a green smoothie, such as my Green Berry Blended Salad. For Lunch A big (really, really big!) salad with a nut/seed-based dressing (see Chapter 9 for some great choices) Vegetable bean soup One fresh fruit For Dinner Raw vegetables with a healthful dip A cooked green vegetable that is simply and quickly prepared: steamed broccoli florets; sautéed leafy greens such as kale, collard greens, or Swiss chard; asparagus, frozen artichoke hearts, or frozen peas. A vegetable dish that has some starchy component or intact grain with it, such as a bean/oat/mushroom burger on a whole wheat pita or a stir-fried dish with onions, cabbage, mushrooms, and water chestnuts with wild rice or other intact grain and a sauce such as Thai peanut sauce.

The dining table had been decorated with jars full of flowers of varying colors, heights, scents. Caladium, salvia, violas, snapdragons, or "snaps" as Glory called them. I'd learned their names---and forgotten half a dozen others as Glory and I had strolled through the garden earlier. Votive candles set into pale-pink glass holders flickered along the table runner. The glass- and silverware sparkled in the early evening sunlight, while dust motes floated lazily through the air. The roast chicken and whipped potatoes, pull-apart rolls, green bean salad, and cucumbers and onions soaked in Italian dressing had been consumed.

1930s Preserving The Arts of Peace The decade before the Second World War started much like the previous one. The stock exchange had crashed, there were 3 million unemployed, a 1931 hunger march was dispersed with baton charges, and the 'Bright Young Things' and their elder bluestocking systers veered towards the Left. 'If you haven't lost money,' advised Vogue, 'pretend you have. Mayfair has gone native; no champagne, and dinner cut to two courses.' Servants were released. One served one's own cocktails or perhaps copied Mademoiselle Chanel and arranged 'buffet-style meals'. 'Guests toss their own salads!' reported Vogue. To flaunt wealth would not do at all - 'one is still grand, but one is poor,' remarked Cecil Beaton.

Cooks find it hard to give up the way that meat and animal fat flavor things so intensely, but it’s so easy! An animal has transformed all the plants he ate into something with lots of complexity, and you need to learn a few tricks to get similar complexity with vegan dishes. But your palate will change, if you will only turn down the volume and listen. Living a plant-based life is like traveling light. Your system adjusts to foods that don’t weigh you down and take forever to digest. You may find that maintaining your weight gets easier, as long as you don’t hit vegan desserts too hard. The vegan mainstream has food manufacturers taking notice: Vegan-friendly packaged foods multiply daily. While that makes it easier to eat vegan, don’t become a junk-food vegan. The upside? Options in dairy-free milks, ice creams, and vegan-friendly sweeteners are growing. The downside? You can construct a vegan diet out of pudding cups, fake bologna, and white bread, but you will not be all that healthy doing it. You still have to seek balance and listen to your body. It will tell you how things are going, if you just pay attention. In the years I have spent cooking for vegans, it seems to me that what they craved most was special food—food for celebrations and shared dinners; food that really tastes great. It’s not that difficult to put together a big salad or sandwich on your own. Restaurants will happily strip down dishes and leave off the cheese. You can eat vegan and survive, but it’s the special foods that you crave. After going to the same sandwich shop a few times and having a sandwich with just veggies and no cheese, vegans want recipes for genuinely interesting food. A virtual world exists on the Internet, where vegans swap sources for marshmallow crème and recipes for mock cheese sauces. This book is my best effort for plant-based diners who want food that rocks. Why Vegan?

I’m talking mashed potatoes. Roast potatoes. Sweet potatoes. Potato casserole. Those thinly sliced potatoes with that cheese sauce on them. Potato salad, even.” “Jimmy?” Dallas says with a startlingly sweet smile. “Yeah?” “Shut the hell up about potatoes.” “But they’re the best part of Thanksgiving dinner! Everyone knows that.” “It’s my Irish blood, makes me love the things. Can’t get enough of ‘em.” “Binge-watching Collin Farrell movies while youeat Lucky Charms doesn’t make you Irish, dumbass,” he grouches. “I dress up for St. Patrick’s day, too,” Triple J responds, defensive. I swivel from where I’m removing my shin guards to peer at him. “What the hell do you dress up as for St. Patrick’s day?” He shakes his head at me like I’m incredibly stupid for asking this. “A leprechaun, of course.” Dallas grins. “Surely you don’t even need a costume for that one.

After learning that Sasha wouldn’t be able to take time off work to go to Russia during the winter, Jason pilfered Sasha’s sister’s number from his phone, contacting her about what they usually had for dinner on New Year’s Eve, and making it—or attempting to, anyway—as a surprise for Sasha. Jason would never forget Sasha’s face that night. Confused, at first, when he smelt the food before seeing it all laid out on Jason’s table. Pickled vegetables glinted alongside a beetroot and herring salad—if it could be called a salad, really, with the amount of mayonnaise in it. There were cut fruits and lemons, and in the middle, a mountain of pork and potatoes that could feed far more than two people. Sasha had stared, tears welling up in his eyes at once, to Jason’s repressed mortification and pleasure. Before Jason could try and downplay the gesture, Sasha had swept him up into a bear-hug so crushing and delightful that he’d genuinely not been able to breathe for a few seconds. “Best friend!” Sasha declared him at once, swinging him around and almost braining Jason on the wall.

We’ve worked together for years, and I don’t even know your favorite food.” That was a lie. I knew she loved sushi because it was neat and easy to eat on the go. I knew she preferred double cheeseburgers when she was on her period and steak, medium rare, at client dinners unless her client was vegetarian, in which case she ordered soup and salad. She liked her wine white, her coffee black, and her gin with a splash of tonic. I knew all of these things because despite her assumption that I paid attention to no one except myself, I couldn’t stop noticing her if my life depended on it. Every detail, every moment, all filed and categorized in the Sloane cabinet of my mind. I would never tell her any of that, though, because if there was one thing sure to send Sloane Kensington running, it was the possibility of intimacy.

Matt had grilled and the asparagus tips, roasted potatoes, and salad she and Cassie had made. After dinner, the kids headed to their rooms to do their homework. The adults sat in the living room and chatted easily, and at one point, Rob said that he’d be leaving the next day for home. “I didn’t know you were leaving so soon,” Maggie

Waking at two in the morning, I noticed Judd was gone from bed along with Pearl. As I pushed the covers back to find him, he appeared at the doorway with a few cans of soda and a plate of food. “Hey, babe, I figured you were hungry since we skipped dinner.” Even smiling, I could barely keep my eyes open. “I didn’t have much to choose from since I’ve been out of town,” he said, setting the food on the nightstand and opening a Coke. “A little leftover this and that. Half a meatball sub. Nothing great, but…” Judd paused when he looked at me. “You’re not even awake, are you?” “No,” I whispered. A grinning Judd fed me bites of potato salad and the stale sub sandwich. I chewed what he gave me and drank a little of the soda then collapsed back on the bed and watched him finish the food. “I missed you so much,” I whispered. “You can’t know how much I missed you.” After setting aside the plate, Judd slid into bed. He kissed me softly, tasting of marinara sauce. “You’re warm,” he murmured against my neck as his lips teased me. “I don’t know if I’m awake enough to help.” “I don’t need help,” he said, grinning at me as he explored my body. “I just need a yes.” “Yes,” I moaned as he sucked on my nipple. “A million times yes.” Judd laughed his rich deep laugh.

When is Tawny’s birthday?” Cooper asked. “In November.” “And yours was in January?” Frowning at him, I didn’t answer. Cooper finally grinned at my irritation. “I did my homework on you. Hoped your birthday was coming up so I could do something big and romantic. You chicks love that crap.” “Oh, we really do,” I said, smiling now as I ate my salad. “When’s your birthday?” “Beginning of December. I’m a Sag,” he said, as if I should be impressed. “What will you give me for my birthday?” “Probably something with me naked. Well, assuming I haven’t grown bored of you by then.” Leaning back in his chair, Cooper smiled. “I like the way you say naked. Makes me think of you naked.” “Big shock.” “I really want to see that.” “Well, let’s see how dinner goes first.

If only Tim had gone to the goddamn store like his mother had asked him, none of this would have happened. Mom had wanted some goddamn lettuce so she could make a goddamn salad for goddamn dinner tonight. Tim might not have been so pissed at her for getting upset with him because he'd stumbled into the house drunk last night and wandered into her bedroom where she was sleeping, and thrown up on her. Maybe if she hadn't taken a curtain rod to his hung-over body in the morning as he slept it off - in his own bed, mind you - he might have gone to the goddamn store and gotten her the goddamn lettuce she wanted. But no, to hell with her. People make mistakes. That didn't mean they should be bludgeoned to within an inch of their life, especially not with a goddamn curtain rod.

Call it 'supper'. When you start calling it 'dinner' you raise people's expectations. They'll think there's going to be salad and cloth napkins. If you call it supper no one will bat an eye if you just put out a casserole. Remember the nice one I used to make you kids with the noodles and the tunafish?" -- Celeste Haxton, Thea Gallas's mother

He’s wrong, you know. However glorified he made it sound. Maybe my perspective is skewed, but that’s not how I recall it.” I pulled out a head of lettuce and a knife. “After you, everything seems mediocre.” Mason walked over and leaned on the counter next to me. “Thanks. Even if you’re only saying that to make me feel better.” I placed the lettuce on a cutting block and chopped it for salad. “I’m not just saying that. You were there. You should know. It wasn’t just sex. It was super freaking hot and unlike any other experience I’ve had.” He grinned. “Hearing you talk like that has me pretty turned on, but the way you’re murdering that lettuce has me kind of intimidated, as well.” I laughed and set the knife down. “I’m sorry. I’m just so pissed. I can’t believe he was talking about any of this.” “I really don’t think he was doing it to be an ass, honest. He was talking, thinking about the past.” Mason grabbed my hands and pulled me to his chest. “It just sucked to hear on my end and, if anything, I should be the one murdering the lettuce right now.” He tilted my chin up and kissed me. “Do you maybe have a tomato or something I can take my aggression out on?” “Cucumber?” “There’s some symbolism there. A little dark and disturbing, but I like it.” Laughing, I pulled the cucumber out of the small refrigerator. “Have at it.” He set it on the cutting block and picked up the knife. “You sure you don’t want to hack into this one?” “It’s all you.” I moved the lettuce to a big bowl then set it in front of Mason, who was moving the cucumber around the cutting board, seemingly unsure where to start. “You’re supposed to be murdering it, not trying to score a second date.” “I’m going to be honest. It feels a little barbaric.” I bit back a smile. “Okay, well, when you’re done sweet-talking the cucumber, will you coax it into the salad bowl for me?” “Why? You going to toss it for me?” “Yes, Mason. I’m going to toss your salad.” He rubbed his chin. “Okay, why not.” I nudged him out of the way and started cutting the cucumber myself. “Stop corrupting my dinner.” “Hey.” He wrapped his arms around my waist. “I’m just helping. I have no idea what you’re talking about

Then he closed his eyes and said grace silently. I noticed that any meal set before Andy was given respect. Dinners in diners--frozen shrimp with canned tomato sauce, canned vegetables, salads made with the worst part of the lettuce. And then chocolate and vanilla ice cream for dessert. "I'll pay extra for it if I have to," Andy said to the waitress.

Salads?” he said. “I don’t usually make a lot of salads.” “I know this,” she said wearily. “But we need to make a couple of changes. Just minor changes. Buy some low-fat, whole-wheat bread for sandwiches. Don’t do pastas, breads and potatoes at every meal. Make salads, stock fresh fruit.” “There’s plenty of fruit around here,” he said. “Yeah, and it’s all in the pies.” “You have pie almost every day,” he pointed out. “You love my pies. You more than anyone, I think.” She scowled, then grimaced. “I’m going to stop doing that. Listen, can you make some lighter meals available, please? Or else I’m not going to be able to eat here all the time. I’ll have to pack a lunch, make my own dinner at home. This madness has to stop. I can’t keep gaining weight like this. I am not going to be fat!” Preacher tilted his head. “Jack complaining about the way you look?” he asked cautiously. “Of course not,” she said in frustration. “He thinks I’m perfect.” “Well, there you go.” “John, I don’t think you’re paying attention here. I have to go on a diet. You want me to write down what I need?” “No,” he said unhappily. “I think I’ve got it.” “Thanks.

Week 1: Too Busy to Cook a Nutritarian Menu Day 1 BREAKFAST Oatmeal with blueberries and chia seeds. Combine 1/ 2 cup old-fashioned oats with 1 cup water or nondairy milk. Heat in microwave on high for 2 minutes, stir and microwave an additional minute. Stir in thawed frozen blueberries and chia seeds. One apple or banana LUNCH Huge salad with assorted vegetables, walnuts, and bottled low-sodium/ no-oil dressing Low-sodium purchased vegetable bean soup One fresh or frozen fruit DINNER Carrot and celery sticks, cherry tomatoes, raw cauliflower, and red pepper slices with bottled low-sodium/ no-oil dressing Sunny Bean Burgers* on 100 percent whole grain pita with tomato, red onion, sautéed mushrooms, and low-sodium ketchup Black Cherry Sorbet* or fresh or frozen fruit

Day 2 BREAKFAST 2 pieces of fruit 1 ounce almonds (about 1/ 4 cup) LUNCH Huge salad with assorted vegetables, sliced scallions, boxed or canned beans, and Easy Avocado Dressing* or bottled low-sodium/ no-oil dressing One slice 100 percent whole grain or sprouted grain bread (see Table 18) One fresh or frozen fruit. Try defrosted frozen peaches sometime; just take them out of the freezer and place in the fridge the night before. They’re great! DINNER Salad with assorted vegetables, with leftover Easy Avocado Dressing* or bottled low-sodium/ no-oil dressing Black Bean Quinoa Soup* or low-sodium purchased vegetable bean soup with added frozen veggies Banana with low-sodium, natural peanut butter or raw cashew butter

Day 3 BREAKFAST Overnight Oatmeal* with dried and fresh fruit One navel orange LUNCH Huge salad with assorted vegetables, pumpkin seeds, and bottled low-sodium/ no-oil dressing or flavored vinegar Leftover Black Bean Quinoa Soup* or low-sodium purchased vegetable bean soup One fresh or frozen fruit DINNER Raw vegetables with Super Simple Hummus* or bottled low-sodium/ no-oil dressing Sweet Potatoes Topped with Black Beans and Kale* Fresh or frozen fruit. Try frozen cherries; I love them left out of the freezer for just 15 to 20 minutes so they’re still a little frozen.

Day 4 BREAKFAST Thawed frozen blueberries or strawberries mixed with currants, crushed walnuts, and raw sunflower seeds LUNCH 100 percent whole grain wrap or pita with mixed greens, tomato, avocado, sliced onion, and Russian Fig Dressing* or bottled low-sodium/ no-oil dressing (add 2 ounces of baked chicken or turkey if desired) One fresh fruit. Always keep some apples on hand, because they don’t get crushed when traveling with you. DINNER Salad with bottled low-sodium/ no-oil dressing White Bean and Kale Soup* or low-sodium purchased vegetable bean soup with added frozen vegetables Apple Surprise* or fresh or frozen fruit

Day 5 BREAKFAST Banana Cashew Lettuce Wrap* LUNCH Huge salad with assorted vegetables and bottled low-sodium/ no-oil dressing, flavored vinegar, or Orange Sesame Dressing* Leftover White Bean and Kale Soup* or low-sodium purchased vegetable bean soup One fresh or frozen fruit. Try apples or peaches dipped in Ceylon cinnamon. Ceylon cinnamon doesn’t have the high levels of potentially liver-damaging coumarin that cassia cinnamon has. DINNER Raw vegetables with Super Simple Hummus* or bottled low-sodium/ no-oil dressing Portobellos and Beans* Fresh or frozen cooked spinach or other vegetable One fresh or frozen fruit. Try semi-defrosted frozen mango. It’s fantastic!

Day 6 BREAKFAST Eat Your Greens Fruit Smoothie* One slice 100 percent whole grain or sprouted grain bread (see Table 18) with raw cashew or almond butter LUNCH Huge salad with assorted vegetables, beans, avocado, sliced red onion, and Walnut Vinaigrette Dressing* or bottled low-sodium/ no-oil dressing One fresh or frozen fruit DINNER Salad with assorted vegetables and leftover Walnut Vinaigrette Dressing* or bottled low-sodium/ no-oil dressing Easy Vegetable Pizza* Blueberry Banana Cobbler* or frozen blueberries with Vanilla Cream Topping*