Skins Season 1 Quotes

Viewpoints and skin color don't matter to the Savior. He brought salvation to all manking.

What about your freedom?" he whispered in her ear over a minute later, bracing his hands palms down on the wall beside her head. He made no move to stop her as she stroked and petted every inch of that sinfully gorgeous chest, all hard muscle and gleaming skin overlaid with silky-rough strands of dark hair. "Idiot." She nipped his jaw with her teeth. "The only freedom I ever wanted was the right to love you.

Gosh, I want you in me so deep I feel you in my throat. Ansel laughed against my skin and I realize I've said this out loud.

According to legend, Father Earth did not originally hate life. In fact, as the lorists tell it, once upon a time Earth did everything he could to facilitate the strange emergence of life on his surface. He crafted even, predictable seasons; kept changes of wind and wave and temperature slow enough that every living being could adapt, evolve; summoned waters that purified themselves, skies that always cleared after a storm. He did not create life—that was happenstance—but he was pleased and fascinated by it, and proud to nurture such strange wild beauty upon his surface. Then people began to do horrible things to Father Earth. They poisoned waters beyond even his ability to cleanse, and killed much of the other life that lived on his surface. They drilled through the crust of his skin, past the blood of his mantle, to get at the sweet marrow of his bones. And at the height of human hubris and might, it was the orogenes who did something that even Earth could not forgive: They destroyed his only child.

Who's that? (Silence.) Who's there? (Silence.) God? Not exactly. Well, who? Where do I start? I'm the butterfly antenna. I'm the chemicals that paint's made of. I'm the person dead at the water's edge. I'm the water. I'm the edge. I'm the skin cells. I'm the smell of disinfectant. I'm that thing they rub against your mouth to moisten it, can you feel it? I'm soft. I'm hard. I'm glass. I'm sand. I'm a yellow plastic bottle. I'm all the plastics in the seas and in the guts of all the fishes. I'm the fishes. I'm the seas. I'm molluscs in the seas. I'm the flattened-out old beer can. I'm the shopping trolley in the canal. I'm the note on the stave, the bird on the line. I'm the stave. I'm the line. I'm spiders. I'm seeds. I'm water. I'm heart. I'm the cotton of the sheet. ..... I'm pollution. I'm a fall of horseshit on a country road a hundred years ago. ... I'm the fly .....I haven't even started telling you what I am. I'm everything that makes everything. I'm everything that unmakes everything. .... I'm the voice that tells no story.

Jav’s face was numb. Fingertips ice cold. His shirt stuck to his back with sweat and every square inch o“f skin prickled and tingled. He could feel his heart breaking down, dropping off piece by piece into the rolling boil of his stomach. Every splash sending up clouds of toxic steam, choking his throat. He was sure the next words out would be inside a scream. Instead he heard a strong, calm voice—a seasoned captain taking over the helm. “I’m with you,” Jav said. “Fucking take their ship down. I’m here. Right until the end, I won’t leave.” Excerpt From: Suanne Laqueur. “An Exaltation of Larks.” iBooks.

It strikes me how small everything is, our whole world, everything with a meaning - our stores and our raids and our jobs and our lives, even. Meanwhile the world just goes on the same as always, night cycling into day and back into night, an endless circle; seasons shifting and reforming like a monster shaking off its skin and growing up again.

Late August" Late August — This is the plum season, the nights blue and distended, the moon hazed, this is the season of peaches with their lush lobed bulbs that glow in the dusk, apples that drop and rot sweetly, their brown skins veined as glands No more the shrill voices that cried Need Need from the cold pond, bladed and urgent as new grass Now it is the crickets that say Ripe Ripe slurred in the darkness, while the plums dripping on the lawn outside our window, burst with a sound like thick syrup muffled and slow The air is still warm, flesh moves over flesh, there is no hurry

He cupped my chin with his big hand and watched me. He breathed hard through his nose. His shoulders heaved way harder than they should have after a few minutes of kissing. I was about to suggest some additional conditioning exercises before football season started. I opened my mouth to tell him. He kissed me again. His tongue passed my lips and played across my teeth. We’d only been kissing like this for a week, but it seemed very natural when I kissed him back the same way. My body was on autopilot as I reached blindly for his waist and dragged him even closer, his torso skin-to-skin with mine against the tree. Who were we? I was turning into any of the assorted older girls who’d been seen leaving the cab of Sean’s truck at night. I’d always viewed those girls with a mixture of awe and derision. Sexual attraction was funny. Lust was hilarious. Now, not so much. Those girls had my sympathy, because I totally got it. I ran my fingers lightly up Adam’s bare back. He gasped. I opened my eyes to see if I’d done something wrong. He still touched the tree, but his muscles were taut, holding on to it for dear life. His eyes were closed. He rubbed his rough cheek slowly against mine. I had done nothing wrong. He was savoring. I knew how he felt. Tracing my fingernails down his back again, I whispered, “Stubble or what?” Eyes still closed, he chuckled. “I’m not shaving until our parents let us date again.” He kissed my cheek. “What if it takes… a… while?” I asked, struggling to talk.

The times, the seasons, the signs may have been mythical; but the sufferings were not. I lay in the dark with the breathing of men around me and knew that then, at that selfsame moment, where dawn groped across the sea, my brethren lay bound in ships, one body atop another, smelling of their green wounds and faeces; I knew in dark houses, there was torture, arms held down, firebrands approaching the soft skin of the belly or arm; and still - there is screaming in the night; there is flight; mothers sob for children they shall not see again; girls feel the weight of men atop them; men cry for their wives; boys dangle dead in the barn; and we smoke their sorrow contentedly; and we eat their sorrow; and we wear their sorrow; and wonder how it came so cheap. It was for this that we labored and fought, risking our very lives.

It didn’t matter who other people believed her to be. It didn’t matter what they thought of her. This was who she was, and she was ready to embrace it. “You are no soft thing to be coddled.” His voice was soothing as the season’s first rain, and she shivered from the way it glided upon her skin. “You are bolder than the sun, Signa Farrow, and it’s time that you burn.

I paused, causing her to stumble into my chest. My thumb and forefinger grasped her chin, forcing her to look up at me. “Try me.” Ava blinked, her breaths coming out in short, shallow puffs. “My favorite color.” “Yellow.” “My favorite ice cream flavor.” “Mint chocolate chip.” Her chest rose and fell harder. “My favorite season.” “Summer, because of the warmth and sunshine and greenery. But secretly, winter fascinates you.” I lowered my head until my own breath skated over her skin and her scent crawled into my nostrils, drugging me, turning my voice into a hoarse, sinful version of itself. “It speaks to the darkest parts of your soul. The manifestations of your nightmares. It’s everything you fear, and for that, you love it. Because the fear makes you feel alive.

Picture a summer stolen whole from some coming-of-age film set in the small-town 1950s. This is none of Ireland's subtle seasons mixed for a connoisseur's palate, watercolor nuances within a pinch-sized range of cloud and soft rain; this is summer full-throated and extravagant in a hot pure silkscreen blue. This summer explodes on your tongue tasting of chewed blades of long grass, your own clean sweat, Marie biscuits with butter squirting through the holes and shaken bottles of red lemonade picnicked in tree houses. It tingles on your skin with BMX wind in your face, ladybug feet up your arm; it packs every breath full of mown grass and billowing wash lines; it chimes and fountains with birdcalls, bees, leaves and football-bounces and skipping-chants, One! two! three! This summer will never end. It starts every day with a shower of Mr. Whippy notes and your best friend's knock at the door, finishes it with long slow twilight and mothers silhouetted in doorways calling you to come in, through the bats shrilling among the black lace trees. This is Everysummer decked in all its best glory.

It is the pomegranate that gives 'fesenjoon' its healing capabilities. The original apple of sin, the fruit of a long gone Eden, the pomegranate shields itself in a leathery crimson shell, which in Roman times was used as a form of protective hide. Once the pomegranate's bitter skin is peeled back, though, a juicy garnet flesh is revealed to the lucky eater, popping and bursting in the mouth like the final succumber of lovemaking. Long ago, when the earth remained still, content with the fecundity of perpetual spring, and Demeter was the mother of all that was natural and flowering, it was this tempting fruit that finally set the seasons spinning. Having eaten six pomegranate seeds in the underworld, Persephone, the Goddess of Spring's high-spirited daughter, had been forced to spend six months of the year in the eternal halls of death. Without her beautiful daughter by her side, a mournful Demeter retreated to the dark corners of the universe, allowing for the icy gates of winter to finally creak open. A round crimson herald of frost, the pomegranate comes to harvest in October and November, so 'fesenjoon' is best made with its concentrate during other times of the year.

There was a man in Florence, a friar, Fra Savonarola, he induced all the people to think beauty was a sin. Some people think he was a magician and they fell under his spell for a season, they made fires in the streets and they threw in everything they liked, everything they had made or worked to buy, bolts of silk, and linen their mothers had embroidered for their marriage beds, books of poems written in the poet's hand, bonds and wills, rent-rolls, title deeds, dogs and cats, the shirts from their backs, the rings from their fingers, women their veils, and do you know what was worst, Johane – they threw in their mirrors. So then they couldn't see their faces and know how they were different from the beasts in the field and the creatures screaming on the pyre. And when they had melted their mirrors they went home to their empty houses, and lay on the floor because they had burned their beds, and when they got up next day they were aching from the hard floor and there was no table for their breakfast because they'd used the table to feed the bonfire, and no stool to sit on because they'd chopped it into splinters, and there was no bread to eat because the bakers had thrown into the flames the basins and the yeast and the flour and the scales. And you know the worst of it? They were sober. Last night they took their wine-skins …’ He turns his arm, in a mime of a man lobbing something into a fire. ‘So they were sober and their heads were clear, but they looked around and they had nothing to eat, nothing to drink and nothing to sit on.’ ‘But that wasn't the worst. You said the mirrors were the worst. Not to be able to look at yourself.’ ‘Yes. Well, so I think. I hope I can always look myself in the face. And you, Johane, you should always have a fine glass to see yourself. As you're a woman worth looking at.’ You

You call yourself teacher, and summon children to you. White children, and black, and Kahnyen’kehàka. But we ask, what do you have to offer our children? You cannot make a moccasin or skin a deer. You cannot cure hides. You know nothing of the crops, how to plant or tend them. You cannot turn your hand to hunting, or show them how to track. You do not know the names of the moons or the seasons, or of the spirits who direct them. Of medicines you know nothing. And yet you call Kahnyen’kehàka children to your school. You will teach them to read and write your language. You will teach them of your wars and your gods. You can teach them only to be white.

Then--as it had every season of my life--it started to rain blue. Keeping one hand firmly in Akos’s, I turned my other palm to catch some of the blue. It was dark, and wherever it rolled across my skin, it left a faint stain. The people at the end of the alley were laughing and smiling and singing and swaying. Akos’s chin was tipped back. He gazed at the ship’s belly, and then at his hand, at the blue rolling over his knuckles. His eyes met mine. I was laughing. “Blue is our favorite color,” I said. “The color of the currentstream when we scavenge.” “When I was a child,” he replied wonderingly, “it was my favorite color, too, though all of Thuvhe hates it.” I took the palmful of blue water I had collected, and smeared it into his cheek, staining it darker. Akos spluttered, spitting some of it on the ground. I raised my eyebrows, waiting for his reaction. He stuck out his hand, catching a stream of water rolling off a building’s roof, and lunged at me. I sprinted down the alley, not fast enough to avoid the cold water rolling down my back, with a childlike shriek. I caught his arm by the elbow, and we ran together, through the singing crowd, past swaying elders, men and women dancing too close, irritable off-planet visitors trying to cover up their wares in the market. We splashed through bright blue puddles, soaking our clothes. And we were both, for once, laughing.

Imitation nation by nation, the simple means of communication and conflict. Stranger than fiction, always has been this way. In the heart of Rome, I never wanted this Halloween season to end, sweet dreams of dark love and wild west wide nights the universe was inside all along. The mystic river beyond metaphysical questions, I can't believe these pink walls anymore, can't remember the names of every street corner I lost my mind to every kind of street art sensual experience. Sunrise rooftops, all the make-up in the world couldn't heal the wounds from the false words in the every day scene of the fiery red lips predicting a gone future puff by single breath. Seeing my skin peel off the city lights.

Apt Pupil 1 He looked like the total all-American kid as he pedaled his twenty-six-inch Schwinn with the apehanger handlebars up the residential suburban street, and that’s just what he was: Todd Bowden, thirteen years old, five-feet-eight and a healthy one hundred and forty pounds, hair the color of ripe corn, blue eyes, white even teeth, lightly tanned skin marred by not even the first shadow of adolescent acne. He was smiling a summer vacation smile as he pedaled through the sun and shade not too far from his own house. He looked like the kind of kid who might have a paper route, and as a matter of fact, he did—he delivered the Santo Donato Clarion. He also looked like the kind of kid who might sell greeting cards for premiums, and he had done that, too. They were the kind that come with your name printed inside—JACK AND MARY BURKE, OR DON AND SALLY, OR THE MURCHISONS. He looked like the sort of boy who might whistle while he worked, and he often did so.

The light dimmed. The sky through the windows turned emerald. It was the first green storm of the season, and as Kestrel heard the wind pummel the house, she knew that Arin was wrong. He had wanted to punish her for months now. Hadn’t she bought him? Didn’t she own him? This was his revenge. That was all. The rain drove nails against the windowpanes. The room grew almost black. Kestrel heard Arin’s voice again in her mind and felt suddenly broken. Even if she didn’t doubt her feelings for Enai, there had been truth in his words. She didn’t notice him return. This storm was loud, the room was dark. She sucked in her breath when she realized he stood next to her. For the first time, it occurred to her to be afraid of him. But he merely struck a match and touched it to the wick of a lamp. He was soaked with rain. His skin glittered with it. When she looked at him, he flinched. “Kestrel.” He sighed. He rubbed a hand through his wet hair. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.” “You meant it.” “Yes, but--” Arin looked weary and confused. “I would have been angry if you did not weep for her.” He held out the hand that rested at his side in the shadows, and for an uncertain moment Kestrel thought he would touch her. But he was only offering something on his uplifted palm. “This was in her cottage,” he said. It was a braid of Kestrel’s hair. She took it carefully; even so, her smallest finger brushed his wet palm. His hand instantly fell. She considered the braid, turning the bright ring in her fingers. She knew that it didn’t choose sides between her truth and Arin’s. It wasn’t proof of Enai’s love. Yet it was a comfort. “I should go,” Arin said, though he didn’t move. Kestrel looked at his face glowing in the lamplight. She became aware that she was close enough to him that her bare foot rested on the damp edge of carpet where Arin stood, seeping rainwater. A shiver traveled up her skin. Kestrel stepped back. “Yes,” she said. “You should.

1 tablespoon flaked sea salt, like Maldon 2 pieces of salmon fillet with skin on, ⅓ pound each Olive oil Freshly ground black pepper and lemon wedges, for serving Scatter the salt evenly over a dry, well-seasoned 10-inch cast-iron pan. A stainless steel pan will also work. If you’re using a stainless steel pan instead of cast iron, brush the pan lightly with oil before adding the salt. Place the pan over medium-high heat for 3 minutes. While the pan heats, dry the fish fillets well with paper towels and lay them flat on a large plate. Brush with olive oil on both sides. Place the fish into the hot pan, skin side down. Turn the heat down slightly if the crackle sounds too loud and sputtery. Cover with a lid. If you don’t have a lid that fits your pan, a metal baking sheet will do the job. Cook without moving the fillets for 3 to 5 minutes, until the skin is brown and crisp, and releases easily from the pan. Flip the fillets and cook them uncovered for another 2 to 4 minutes, depending on their thickness. The fish is done when the flesh deep inside is still faintly translucent and the internal temperature reads 125 degrees. Serve with freshly ground black pepper and lemon wedges. Serves 2.

Accras (Saltfish Fritters) Accras (or acrats) de morue are saltfish fritters—the French island version of Dingis’s saltfish cakes. (Morue is French for cod.) Serve them as an appetizer or a snack. 1⁄2 pound salt cod or other saltfish, preferably boneless 1 lime 1 small onion, grated 1 clove garlic, grated 1⁄4–1⁄2 hot pepper, seeded and finely minced 1 seasoning pepper or 1⁄2 green bell pepper, finely chopped 1 stalk celery, finely chopped 2 green onions, finely chopped 1 tablespoon chopped fresh thyme or 1 teaspoon dried thyme Freshly ground black pepper 1 cup flour 1 teaspoon baking powder 1⁄2 cup water (approx.) Vegetable oil for deep frying 1. The night before you want to serve the fritters, put the fish in cold water to soak. Change water 4 or 5 times, squeezing half the lime into the water during each of the last two soakings. 2. Rinse fish, drain, and remove skin and bones if necessary. In a large bowl, finely shred the fish. (See Tips, below.) Add the onion, garlic, peppers, celery, green onions, thyme, and black pepper, and mix well. 3. Combine flour and baking powder and add to fish mixture. Stir thoroughly. Slowly add enough water to make a thick paste. 4. Heat oil to 350°F in a deep fryer or pot. Drop fish mixture by tablespoons into hot oil and fry until golden on both sides. 5. Drain on paper towels and serve hot with hot pepper sauce. Serves 4 Tips • Some saltfish may not shred easily. If that’s the case, chop it finely in a food processor or by hand with a knife. Alternatively, put it in boiling water, turn off the heat, and allow it to cool in the liquid. It should then flake easily. Whichever method you use, be sure to “chip it up fine,” as Dingis says. • Before proceeding with step 2, try a little piece of the soaked fish. If it is still too salty for your taste, soak it again in fresh water.

It was an imprudent idea to begin with.” “I shan’t argue with you on that point.” Rose scoffed at him. “You don’t get to play morally superior with me, Grey. I may have been stupid enough to conspire against you, but you didn’t even recognize someone you’ve known for years! If one of us must be the bigger idiot, I think it must be you!” Oh dear God. She covered her mouth with her hand. What had she just said? Dark arched brows pulled together tightly over stormy blue eyes. “You’re right,” he agreed. “I am an idiot, but only because I allowed this ridiculous ruse past the point when I realized your identity.” Rose froze-like a damp leaf on an icy pond. “You knew?” And yet he continued to pretend…oh, he was worse than she by far. “Of course I knew.” He glowered at her. “Blindfold me and I would know the scent of your skin, the exact color and texture of your skin. Do you not realize that I know the color of your eyes right down to the flecks of gold that light their depths?” Heart pounding, stomach churning in shock, Rose could only stare at him. How could he say such things to her and sound so disgusted? “When?” Her voice was a ragged whisper. “When did you know?” “I suspected before but tried to deny it. The morning after we last met I took one look at your sweet mouth and knew there couldn’t be two women in the world, let alone London with the same delectable bottom lip.” It hurt. Oh, she hadn’t thought hearing him say such wonderful things could hurt so much! She pressed a hand to her chest. “You suspected and yet you made love to me any way.” “Made love?” He snorted. “That’s a girl’s term, Rose. What you and I did…it was something far worse than making trite love.” Worse? How could he malign what had transpired between them. “So you regret it, despite your own choice to continue with the charade.” “What I regret,” he growled, suddenly moving toward her, “is your sudden attack of conscience.” He was mad. She took a step back. “I don’t understand you.” “If only you had managed to keep your guilt where it belonged.” A ravaged smile curved his lips as he shook his head. “We might have continued on, with neither being the wiser, but now we must endure the rest of the Season together, knowing what we can no longer have.” “Then you admit you have feelings for me.” He laughed hollowly. “So many I can scarce discern them all.” It was a hollow victory at best. “If you care for me and I for you, then why can we not reveal our feelings? You have but to ask and I’m yours.

The Enderman ninja nodded to me, then turned back to the zombie. His blank, black-skinned face was unreadable, and his eyes flared purple in the dark night...

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

Artichoke Hummus Serves: 6 1 (12-ounce) bag frozen artichoke hearts 1½ cups cooked garbanzo beans or 1 (15-ounce) can no-salt-added garbanzo beans 2 tablespoons raw tahini or unhulled sesame seeds 2 tablespoons MatoZest* or other no-salt seasoning blend, adjusted to taste 2 tablespoons chopped onion 1 bulb roasted garlic, skins removed (see Note) 1 clove raw garlic 1 lemon, juiced 2 tablespoons water Cook artichoke hearts according to package directions. Drain. Blend all ingredients until smooth. Add additional water if needed to adjust consistency. Use as a dip for raw veggies. Note: Garlic can be roasted with the entire bulb intact and skin on or it can be roasted using peeled and separated cloves. Roast at 300˚F for about 25 minutes or until soft. PER SERVING: CALORIES 139; PROTEIN 7g; CARBOHYDRATE 22g; TOTAL FAT 3.9g; SATURATED FAT 0.5g; SODIUM 40mg; FIBER 6.3g; BETA-CAROTENE 7mcg; VITAMIN C 11mg; CALCIUM 75mg; IRON 2mg; FOLATE 159mcg; MAGNESIUM 48mg; ZINC 1.2mg; SELENIUM 2.7mcg

Garlic Nutter Spread Serves: 4 3 bulbs garlic 1 cup raw cashews ⅓ cup water or nondairy milk 1 tablespoon nutritional yeast Preheat the oven to 300˚F. Roast garlic in a small baking dish for about 25 minutes or until soft. When cool, remove and discard skins. Combine garlic and remaining ingredients in a high-powered blender. Blend until smooth. Use to season cooked vegetables or add extra flavor to soups and sauces. Spread it on a wrap or pita sandwich. Make a salad dressing by adding tomato sauce, vinegar, and some basil. PER SERVING: CALORIES 230; PROTEIN 9g; CARBOHYDRATE 18g; TOTAL FAT 15.2g; SATURATED FAT 2.7g; SODIUM 9mg; FIBER 2g; BETA-CAROTENE 1mcg; VITAMIN C 7mg; CALCIUM 55mg; IRON 2.8mg; FOLATE 9mcg; MAGNESIUM 108mg; ZINC 2.6mg; SELENIUM 10mcg

Italian Dressing with Roasted Garlic Serves: 4 4 to 8 cloves garlic, roasted (see Note) 1 cup unsweetened soy, hemp, or almond milk ½ cup raw cashew butter 2 tablespoons nutritional yeast 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice 1 tablespoon white wine vinegar or more to taste 2 tablespoons Dijon mustard 2 tablespoons fresh parsley 1 teaspoon dried basil ¼ teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes Pinch of dried oregano ⅛ teaspoon black pepper or to taste Blend ingredients together in a high-powered blender or food processor. Adjust seasonings if necessary. Note: Garlic can be roasted with the entire bulb intact and skin on, or it can be roasted using peeled and separated cloves. Roast at 300˚F for about 25 minutes or until soft. PER SERVING: CALORIES 239; PROTEIN 10g; CARBOHYDRATE 14g; TOTAL FAT 17.4g; SATURATED FAT 3.3g; SODIUM 119mg; FIBER 2.3g; BETA-CAROTENE 131mcg; VITAMIN C 7mg; CALCIUM 112mg; IRON 2.4mg; FOLATE 27mcg; MAGNESIUM 105mg; ZINC 2.8mg; SELENIUM 6.9mcg

It isn’t the color of a man's skin that's the problem, but the individual that encompassed it.

SAUSAGE PAPPARDELLE FENNEL SEEDS, CHIANTI, GARLIC, TOMATO & PARSLEY SERVES 1 | TOTAL 14 MINUTES 4½ oz fresh lasagne sheets 1 clove of garlic ½ a bunch of Italian parsley (½ oz) 1 pork or veggie sausage 1 teaspoon fennel seeds Chianti or other Italian red wine ¾ cup passata (strained tomatoes) Parmesan cheese, for grating Boil the kettle. Cut the lasagne sheets lengthways into 1¼-inch strips to make pappardelle. Peel and finely slice the garlic. Finely chop the top leafy half of the parsley, then the stalks, keeping them separate. Put an 11-inch frying pan on a high heat. Once hot, put a little drizzle of olive oil into the pan, then squeeze the sausagemeat out of the skin into the pan, breaking it up with your spoon (if using a veggie sausage, crumble or slice). Fry and stir for 2 minutes, then add the garlic, parsley stalks and fennel seeds. Once lightly golden, add a good splash of red wine, let it cook away, then add the passata and scatter the pasta into the pan. Carefully pour in enough boiling kettle water to just cover the pasta – about 1¼ cups. Let it bubble away for 4 minutes, or until the pasta has absorbed most of the water and you’ve got a nice rich sauce, stirring regularly and loosening with an extra splash of water, if needed. Turn the heat off, stir in the parsley leaves, then season to perfection. Finish with a grating of Parmesan and a kiss of extra virgin olive oil, if you like.

2 large chayotes 1 brown-skinned yellow onion 2 tbsp. butter 1 cup stewed tomatoes, drained ¼ tsp. Mexican oregano Pinch of ground cloves Pinch of garlic powder Salt Freshly ground black pepper ½ lb. ground beef ½ tsp. taco seasoning mix Grated Parmesan cheese Cut the chayotes in half lengthwise. Remove the thin, flat seeds and boil the halves until tender, about ½ hour. Then scoop out the pulp, leaving the shells intact for stuffing. Chop the onion and cook in 1 tablespoon butter. Add the tomatoes and sprinkle with oregano, cloves, garlic powder, salt to taste, and pepper. Stir in the chopped chayote pulp. Brown the ground beef in 1 tablespoon butter and season with a little salt, pepper, and the taco seasoning mix. Combine the beef with the vegetables and heap the shells with this mixture. Sprinkle generously with grated cheese and bake at 350° for ½ hour. Serves 4.

Georgia's skin buzzed as she approached the heavy wooden doors. She swallowed hard. She didn't put much stock in church. Church was a place people went, a story people told. Most of the time, those stories didn't impress her much. Faith, however, was another matter. Faith of any creed was sacred. Faith of every kind had power. St. Jude was chock-full of faith.

You were right,” I whisper. He sighs and I feel the air softly blow the back of my neck. He holds me tighter around my middle and buries his head into my back, his lips just barely touching the skin left exposed from my tank top. “I wish I wasn’t.

Salmon en Croute In Celtic mythology, the salmon is a magical fish that grants the eater knowledge of all things. Notes: Nonstick spray may be substituted for melted butter. Keep the phyllo covered with plastic wrap and a damp towel until ready to assemble; otherwise, it will dry out. 2 cloves garlic 1 7-oz. jar sun-dried tomatoes in olive oil 3 cups torn fresh basil leaves salt and pepper to taste 1 package 9x14 phyllo dough, thawed 1 cup melted butter 10 4-oz. salmon fillets, skin removed 2 eggs, beaten with ¼ cup water Preheat oven to 425 degrees. In a food processor, blend garlic, tomatoes with oil, basil, and salt and pepper. Set aside. Grease two large cookie sheets. Carefully lay five sheets of phyllo across each cookie sheet, overlapping and brushing each sheet with melted butter. Repeat. Divide salmon evenly between the cookie sheets and place vertically on top of phyllo, leaving a space between each fillet. Divide and spread basil mixture on top of each individual salmon fillet. Cover salmon with five sheets of phyllo, brushing each sheet with butter. Repeat. With a pizza cutter or knife, slice in between each fillet. Using egg wash, fold sides of phyllo together to form individual “packets.” Bake for 15–20 minutes. Serves 10. Lemon Zucchini Bake Use lemon thyme to add a sweet citrus flavor to everything from poultry to vegetables. If you can’t find it in your area, try chopped lemon balm, lemon verbena, or lemon basil. ¼ cup seasoned bread crumbs ¼ cup grated Parmesan cheese 2 teaspoons lemon thyme leaves 2 large zucchinis, thinly sliced 1 large Vidalia onion, thinly sliced 4 tablespoons melted butter Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mix bread crumbs, cheese, and thyme. In a round casserole dish, layer half of the zucchini and half of the onion slices. Baste with melted butter. Add half of the bread crumb mixture. Repeat layers and bake, covered, for 20 minutes. Serves 4–6. Body Scrub Sugar scrubs are a great way to slough off stress and dead skin. For unique scents, try layering dried herbs like lavender (revitalizing) or peppermint (energizing) with a cup of white sugar and let stand for two weeks before use, shaking periodically. Then blend with a tablespoon of light oil such as sunflower seed. Slough away dead skin in the shower or tub.

Favourite Fresh Fruit Salad   This best fresh fruit salad you can prepare with any fresh fruits available in any season. It is very refreshing and also very low in calories. I normally use different fresh fruits to make this salad which depends on the season. You will never want to try any of the disgusting can fruit salads available in the market once you master this one.   5 servings Prep time:    Ingredients Take ½ cup of each fruit Raspberries Blueberries Bananas (sliced and peeled) Kiwi fruit (sliced and peeled) Pineapple (cored, sliced and peeled) Peaches (sliced and peeled) Red grapes (halved) Mangoes (hulled and sliced) Strawberries (sliced, skinned and cored) Watermelon and Cantaloupe Juice of 1 fresh-squeezed lemon Honey or granulated sugar to taste   Instructions 1.    First step is to prepare the banana dressing. 2.    Take a small bowl, mash a banana with a fork. 3.    Add just a small amount of lemon juice but you can add more if you want more consistency. 4.    Add sugar or honey to sweeten the dressing. 5.    Set aside the banana dressing to use it later. 6.    Take the Watermelon and Cantaloupe and remove their flesh and cut into bit-size pieces. 7.    Take a large bowl and combine all the mixed prepared fruits. 8.    Add prepared banana dressing over the prepared fruits. 9.    Gently toss the fruits to coat the complete layer. 10. Cover it and refrigerate for few hours before serving. 11. You can serve it in chilled cocktail glasses to make it look appetizing.   Serving suggestions   Top this fresh salad with chopped nuts.

Sure,’ Mary said, putting on a smile. ‘I have to get back. But please, feel free to look around as much as you’d like.’ Roper gave her a look that said, we don’t need your permission for that, but Jamie thanked her anyway and let her walk off.  He sucked on his teeth the way he did when he wanted a cigarette, and watched Mary go out of earshot. ‘Find anything?’ he asked, turning to Jamie. She let out a long breath. ‘Don’t know yet. Looks like Grace wasn’t as faithful to Ollie as she made out.’ ‘Lover’s tiff?’ ‘Could be.’ Jamie thought about it. ‘Spurned ex, maybe. Maybe it’s the drugs. Maybe something else entirely.’ She rubbed her eyes. It’d been a long morning and she needed to eat. ‘Come on. Let’s head back to HQ, get this written up. We’ll come back when Grace shows her face.’ Roper nodded without a word and headed for the door, already reaching for his cigarettes. Chapter 6 Jamie zipped up her jacket and dug her hands into her pockets, following Roper out the door. He’d sped on ahead so that he could light up before Jamie told him not to. She didn’t like that fresh stink in her car, and she definitely wouldn’t let him smoke in there anyway. And he definitely wasn’t above running out and doing it before she had time to protest. Her effort to make him quit by forcing him to stand in the cold obviously wasn’t working. He was a seasoned smoker and spent most nights standing outside pubs, come rain or shine, sucking down smoke.  That and the fact that he was far too stubborn to give in to such a weak ploy. It was like those goats that stand on the side of damns to lick the salt off. One missed step and it was guaranteed death. But they were single minded. And so was Roper. If she cared more she might have tried harder, but she knew from experience that when guys like Roper made a decision, they’d stick to it forever. As far as he was concerned, the drinking and the smoking was as much a part of him as his belly button was. It couldn’t be changed, and trying would only invite self-loathing. Guys like him had to hit rock bottom. Only then could they start coming back up. But sometimes they just stayed there, scraping the ground until they gouged a hole deep enough to die in.  She should call her mum. It had been a while. Outside, Roper was already two drags in by the time she reached the steps. A couple of the people outside had moved on and the guy in the sleeping bag had woken up and headed inside, though the urine stain that had seeped into the stone under him still remained. Jamie tried not to breathe through her nose as she hopped down the steps, her shin still throbbing from the morning’s bout with Cake.  She opened her mouth to tell Roper to hurry up when she almost got knocked over. A guy in his forties with an expensive suit and a long lambswool coat was rushing by, his head turned towards the steps. ‘Filthy fucking cretins,’ he almost yelled at the three homeless people still perched on the steps, before colliding with Jamie. He stumbled sideways, down into the roadway, shoving Jamie backwards.  ‘Get off!’ he shouted, flapping his arms. Jamie steadied herself and stared at him. Roper even stopped smoking his cigarette and came forward. ‘Hey!’ he called. ‘You’re not having any!’ the man yelled again, striding forward away from the shelter. ‘You should all be drowned. Wash this goddamn city clean!

Master,” she called out. “I’ve brought breakfast!”   Honus noted that she was carefully carrying a large leaf, folded to make a package. She sat on the ground close to him, and with a bit of drama, opened her makeshift bundle. When Honus saw what it contained, he shrank back in revulsion.   “Wood grubs!” said Yim. “I found a log full of them.” She picked up a finger-sized larva from the writhing mass on the leaf. Holding it by its dark round head, she placed its plump white body between her teeth. Then she bit down to burst the skin and suck its contents before discarding the head and limp body.   Honus felt the blood drain from his face.   Yim looked at him in surprise. “Haven’t you ever tasted them?” she asked. “They’re like mushrooms, only creamy.” Yim lifted another from the leaf and held it out. “Here, try one.”   As far as Honus was concerned, she might as well have been holding an adder. When he backed away, a look of amusement came to Yim’s face. “I thought Sarfs were brave.”   “That’s disgusting!” exclaimed Honus.   “No, that’s breakfast. I take it you’re not having any.” Yim placed the grub in her mouth and made quick work of it.   “How can you eat caterpillars?” asked Honus, as he backed farther away.   “They’re wood grubs,” Yim replied. “Caterpillars aren’t in season.”   Honus turned his back to Yim, but he could still hear her eat. He felt she was exaggerating the sucking sounds for his benefit. Then Yim giggled and said, “If I ever have to fight you, I’ll know how to arm myself.

The stone eater at the core of the obelisk floats before her. It’s her first time being close to one. All the books say that stone eaters are neither male nor female, but this one resembles a slender young man formed of white-veined black marble, clothed in smooth robes of iridescent opal. Its—his?—limbs, marbled and polished, splay as if frozen in mid-fall. His head is flung back, his hair loose and curling behind him in a splash of translucence. The cracks spread over his skin and the stiff illusion of his clothing, into him, through him. Are you alright? she wonders, and she has no idea why she wonders it, even as she herself cracks apart. His flesh is so terribly fissured; she wants to hold her breath, lest she damage him further. But that is irrational, because she isn’t here and this isn’t real. She is on a street about to die, but this stone eater has been dead for an age of the world. The stone eater closes his mouth, opens his eyes, and lowers his head to look at her. “I’m fine,” he says. “Thank you for asking.” And then the obelisk shatters.

I don’t like sweat. It’s . . . inconvenient. And it’s not good for my skin or my hair.

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

He breathes deeply and becomes a fixture of the earth. They tread upon the filaments of his nerves; their voices stir the fine hairs of his skin; their breaths ripple the air he draws into his lungs. They are on him. They are in him.

With tinny drumbeats, the rain pounds the roof My teary eyes compete They can't keep up Breathe Let it go Breathe The vice on my chest tightens its razoring grip I gasp No relief If only tears could soothe the pain Then, I would look upon the tidal waves against these walls without fear Crush and roll me, I'd plead, Mold my body anew But with these tears come no healing, Just death, slow and determined This old girl, this old woman, this old soul lives here inside A tortoise outgrowing this hare's body This youthful skin encasing a crumbling frame I smooth the matted web of curls off my sweaty neck And roll my eyes at the clock How slowly the time squeaks by here in this room, In this comfortless bed I abandon the warmth from under my blanket tower and shiver The draft rattles my spine One by one, striking my vertebrae Like a spoon chiming empty wine glasses, Hitting the same fragile note till my neck shakes the chill away I swipe along the naked floor with a toe for the slippers beneath the bed Plush fabric caresses my feet Stand! Get up With both hands, Gravity jerks me back down Ugh! This cursed bed! No more, I want no more of it I try again My legs quiver in search of my former strength Come on, old girl, Come on, old woman, Come on, old soul, Don't quit now The floor shakes beneath me, Hoping I trip and fall To the living room window, I trudge My joints grind like gravel under tires More pain no amount of tears can soothe away Pinching the embroidered curtain between my knuckles, I find solace in the gloom The wind humming against the window, Makes the house creak and groan Years ago, the cold numbed my pain But can it numb me again, This wretched body and fractured soul? Outside I venture with chants fluttering my lips, Desperate solemn pleas For comfort, For mercy For ease, For health I open the plush throw spiraled around my shoulders And tiptoe around the porch's rain-soaked boards The chilly air moves through me like Death on a mission, My body, an empty gorge with no barriers to stop him, No flesh or bone My highest and lowest extremities grow numb But my feeble knees and crippling bones turn half-stone, half-bone Half-alive, half-dead No better, just worse The merciless wind freezes my tears My chin tumbles in despair I cover myself and sniffle Earth’s scent funnels up my nose: Decay with traces of life in its perfume The treetops and their slender branches sway, Defying the bitter gusts As I turn to seek shelter, the last browned leaf breaks away It drifts, it floats At the weary tree’s feet, it makes its bed alongside the others Like a pile of corpses, they lie Furled and crinkled with age No one mourns their death Or hurries to honor the fallen with thoughtful burials No rage-filled cries echo their protests at the paws trampling their fragile bodies, Or at the desecration by the animals seeking morning relief And new boundaries to mark Soon, the stark canopy stretching over the pitiful sight Will replace them with vibrant buds and leaves Until the wasting season again returns For now, more misery will barricade my bones as winter creeps in Unless Death meets me first to end it

I sat there for minutes, seasons, years, the wind becoming winter against my skin, the day becoming night, then blinding again, harsh with detail. I closed my eyes, but the details still shone bright and demanding behind my lids, replacing a lifetime of memories with a single bloody image of Walther, and then, mercifully, the image faded, everything faded, leaving only dull, numbing gray.

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

Makes 4 to 6 servings 6 tablespoons (90 g) margarine or butter, melted About 11/2 cups (375 ml) buttermilk 11/2 cups (200 g) all-purpose flour 2 teaspoons (10 g) coarse salt 1 teaspoon (5 g) ground black pepper 1 cup (125 g) crushed cornflakes 1/2 teaspoon (2.5 ml) poultry seasoning, or dried thyme and/or sage One 31/2-pound chicken, cut into 8 to 10 pieces (about 1.5 kg) 1 tablespoon (8 g) paprika, for dusting Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C). Using about 2 tablespoons (30 ml) of the margarine, coat the bottom of a roasting pan or a baking dish large enough to hold the chicken pieces in one layer without touching. Place the buttermilk in a shallow bowl or dish. In another bowl, mix the flour, salt, pepper, cornflakes, and poultry seasoning. Dip each chicken piece into the buttermilk. Shake off the excess and roll in the flour mixture to coat. Place the chicken pieces in the prepared roasting pan, skin side up. Drizzle the rest of the margarine evenly over the chicken. Dust the chicken liberally with paprika. Put the roasting pan on the middle rack of the oven, uncovered. Bake for about 1 hour, until the chicken is golden and cooked through. (Small pieces may be done at 45 minutes, so check.) To confirm, push an instant-read thermometer into a meaty section; it should register at least 165°F (74°C). Serve warm. Leftovers reheat nicely in a toaster oven. CHAPTER 2 The Farm on Coldwater Road

No one trained me.” “Liar,” the queen purred. “My guardians are seasoned fighters. Second to none when it comes to swordplay. You have been shown how to use a weapon, and I want to know by who.” “I already told you—” The queen’s hand whipped out, fast as lightning. Striking my cheek as hard as she could, the resulting crack echoed around the empty hall as her palm met my skin. Pain exploded in my jaw, traveling up into my temple. Damn, that hurt. “It was the Fae, wasn’t it?” she hissed. “They’ve found a way through. They’ve come for me at last?

Yes! I meowed excitedly, brushing back and forth against her legs, nuzzling my head against her skin.  “Damien. I like it, too.” She scooped me up into her arms, cradling me like a baby. “What do you say we go sit on the couch and watch a movie, huh, beastie? There’s so many good ones for the Halloween season.”  Meow. Yes.

Alexios was close enough that he couldn’t help but breathe in the scent coming from his skin. The smell of Auro was clean and subtle, the smell of fresh leaves, and earth after a good hard rain.

Auro’s expression was quizzical; perhaps he did not expect Alexios to have this level of restraint once they were abed together. It wasn’t restraint, Alexios would have told him, had he asked. He needed this time. When Alexios was certain he would not forget a single eyelash, a single candlelit shadow playing across Auro’s skin, he carded a hand through Auro’s hair and leaned down for another soft kiss that quickly turned hungry.

Sucking hard on the soft white skin of Auro’s throat, Alexios wondered if the statue of Auro would reflect the bruise he left with a shadow on the marble. He hoped it would.

I will do what I can to keep you safe. We will come out of this, Roxannah." Wrapped in the warmth of his reassuring words, Roxannah decided that Adin was like a late-season apple. Thick-skinned on the outside, so that little seemed to overwhelm him, and sweet to the core on the inside. "Will you do that prayer thing again?

She straightened her shoulders. "Sisy, are the ducks ready?" "All plucked and cleaned." Roxannah sautéed more onions and garlic with turmeric, adding roughly chopped walnuts to the sizzling butter before transferring them into a large mortar. Halpa gently removed the pestle from her hand. "I'll do this. You see to the duck." She cut the ducks into large pieces, trying to plan her next steps as she worked. The usual recipe required the duck to cook in water. Boiling made the meat tender. But it also meant that most of its flavor leached into the sauce, leaving the flesh of the fowl tasteless and stringy. She could roast the duck. But that would leave the sauce bland. Besides, roasted meat was never as fall-off-the-bone soft as boiled. It seemed stupid to try something new tonight of all nights. God, give me wisdom! Give me counsel so I know how to proceed. She waited for a moment, head bent low, trying to discern what to do. She felt a release, a sense of rightness about going forward with her risky plan. Nodding to herself, she added a dollop more butter to the same pan where she had fried the garlic and onions, which still held their lingering aroma. Sprinkling the duck with salt, she set it carefully into the sizzling pan. Halpa held the mortar under her nose. "Is this the consistency you want?" "Perfect." She fetched the jar of pomegranate molasses she had brought from home and added a heaping tablespoon to Halpa's paste, seasoning it with salt and a dash of turmeric, cinnamon, and cardamom. In the pan, she flipped the pieces of duck. Their skin had turned the color of bright copper, gleaming with melted butter. By now, the whole kitchen staff had gathered around to watch her. Even the Immortal craned his neck for a better view. She ignored them, keeping her attention on the duck. When both sides had fried evenly, she removed some of the excess fat, remembering Amestris's crack about the king's sleepless night. Pomegranate juice and a rich, gelatinous broth made from chicken bones would enrich the duck's flavor. She hoped the fried skin would seal in enough of the juices that simmering the fowl in liquid would not rob its flavor. Finally, she spooned in the paste from Halpa's mortar. Covering the pan, she lifted it over the fire to reduce the heat. It would simmer gently and, hopefully, be ready just in time for dinner.

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.

roman-style omelet omelette romano ½ pound hot or sweet Italian sausage 12 large eggs Pinch of baking powder Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper 4 tablespoons unsalted butter ¼ cup julienned roasted red bell pepper (see Note) 2 tablespoons fresh basil, washed, stems removed, julienned 2 ounces goat cheese, crumbled (about 2 tablespoons) 1 In a sauté pan, cook the sausage over medium-high heat until nicely browned and cooked through. Drain on paper towels until cool enough to handle, and then crumble the sausage meat. Set aside. 2 Crack the eggs into a mixing bowl, add the baking powder, and season to taste with salt and pepper. Using a wire whisk, beat until smooth and airy. 3 In a large nonstick sauté or 7-or 8-inch omelet pan, melt 1 tablespoon of butter over medium heat. Pour about a quarter of the eggs into the pan, sprinkle with a little more salt and pepper, and cook for 30 seconds, or until the bottom begins to set. 4 Gently flip the eggs and cook for about 30 seconds longer, or until the bottom sets but the eggs do not brown. 5 Sprinkle about a quarter of the bell pepper, a quarter of the basil, and a quarter of the cheese just off center on the omelet. Fold in half, cook for about 1 minute to soften the cheese and warm the bell pepper, and slide from the pan onto a plate and serve. Repeat to make 3 more omelets. I call this a Roman omelet because of its ingredients, particularly the fresh sausage. Every supermarket in the United States sells Italian sausage labeled “sweet” or “hot and spicy.” The choice is yours. When I think of the sausage I have eaten in Italy and especially in Rome, I think of the classic fennel-infused fresh pork sausage, which adds flavor that is just bold enough for this simple omelet whose flavor is further boosted with roasted peppers and basil. The goat cheese is the finishing touch.  serves 4 note To roast bell peppers, char them over a grill or gas flame or under a broiler until blackened on all sides and soft. Turn them as they char to ensure even blackening. Remove from the heat and transfer to a bowl. Cover with plastic wrap and set aside for about 20 minutes to steam as they cool. Lift the peppers from the bowl and rub or peel off the blackened skin. frittata with oven-dried cherry tomatoes and mozzarella frittata con pomodorini secchi e mozzarella 12 large eggs 1 cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese ¼ cup whole milk Pinch of baking powder Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper 4 tablespoons unsalted butter 32 Oven-Dried Cherry Tomato halves (recipe follows) 16 baby mozzarella balls, each about ½ ounce, halved

My favorite season.” “Summer, because of the warmth and sunshine and greenery. But secretly, winter fascinates you.” I lowered my head until my own breath skated over her skin and her scent crawled into my nostrils, drugging me, turning my voice into a hoarse, sinful version of itself. “It speaks to the darkest parts of your soul. The manifestations of your nightmares. It’s everything you fear, and for that, you love it. Because the fear makes you feel alive.

but now as he sat beside this young man, he found himself painfully aware of every little thing: the slightly parted bow of the boy’s lips, the rise and fall of his chest below a creamy white tunic, the warmth that seemed to seep off his skin into the air between them.

Gooseflesh burst across his arms, his chest, and a shiver ran down his spine. It frightened him, being touched. It had lasted half a heartbeat, maybe less, but it had sent curling tendrils of warmth down Auro’s skin where this boy’s fingers had connected.

It had lasted half a heartbeat, maybe less, but it had sent curling tendrils of warmth down Auro’s skin where this boy’s fingers had connected.