Stove Top Quotes

She wandered over to the enclosed range, a rather modern-looking contraption that Cook had purchased earlier in the year. “Do you know how to work this?” she asked. “No idea. You?” Daphne shook her head. “None.” She reached forward and gingerly touched the surface of the stove top. “It's not hot.” “Not even a little bit?” She shook her head. “It's rather cold, actually.” Brother and sister were silent for a few seconds. “You know,” Anthony finally said, “cold milk might be quite refreshing.” “I was just thinking that very thing!

Wait. What?” I demand. He releases me with a wet pop. “You. Me. We’re a thing, if I do you in my bed.” “Says who?” My words are tough, but I’ve heated up faster than the top-of-the-line stove I spotted in his spiffy kitchen. “Says me. My bed is a temple. It’s reserved for solo spanks. And girlfriends.

I wanted to bubble over the top and douse the confusing fire that burned in my belly. Or else I wanted to turn the stove off. I wanted to sit cool on the burners of life, lid on, and steady.

Did things get a lot hotter between you two? A little stove-top stuffing in the kitchen?"-Amy

After Laura and Mary had washed and wiped the dishes, swept the floor, made their bed, and dusted, they settled down with their books. But the house was so cosy and pretty that Laura kept looking up at it. The black stove was polished till it gleamed. A kettle of beans was bubbling on its top and bread was baking in the oven. Sunshine slanted through the shining windows between the pink-edged curtains. The red-checked cloth was on the table. Beside the clock on its shelf stood Carrie’s little brown-and-white dog, and Laura’s sweet jewel-box. And the little pink-and-white shepherdess stood smiling on the wood-brown bracket.

I followed him into the kitchen but stopped abruptly. Kadyn was cooking bacon in loose fitting sweats and a ribbed tank top that fit snugly across his chest. His biceps flexed when he flipped the bacon. Holy Mary, mother of God. It should be a crime for that man to stand in front of a stove.

But what sent his face clear down off his skull and broke him in two, though, was he said when he saw the Pam-shiny empty biscuit pan on top of the stove and the plastic rind of the peanut butter’s safety-seal wrap on top of the wastebasket’s tall pile. The little locket-picture in the back of his head swelled and became a sharp-focused scene of his wife and little girl and little unborn child eating what he now could see they must have eaten, last night and this morning, while he was out ingesting their groceries and rent. This was his cliff-edge, his personal intersection of choice, standing there loose-faced in the kitchen, running his finger around a shiny pan with not one little crumb of biscuit left in it. He sat down on the kitchen tile with his scary eyes shut tight but still seeing his little girl’s face. They’d ate some charity peanut butter on biscuits washed down with tapwater and a grimace.

Beauty is something that is hard to debate. Every man thinks his ideal the best.” His eyes raked her hotly, and she felt her internal temperature increase like a kitchen stove overly stocked before being lit. “But the wittiest women rise to the top of this structure, conventional beauty often taking a backseat to a woman possessed of a clever tongue.

Did things get a lot hooter between you tow? A little stove-top stuffing in the kitchen?" -Amy

No, in the Bolitar household, the kitchen was more a gathering place - a Family Room Lite, if you will - than anything related to even the basest of the culinary arts. The round table held magazines and catalogs and congealing white boxes of Chinese takeout. The stove top saw less action than a Merchant-Ivory production. The oven was a prop, strictly for show, like a politician's Bible.

Old women are supposed to be doting and addled, absent-minded grandmothers who spoil their sons and keep soup bubbling on the stove-top, but the Crone is none of those things. She’s the canny one, the knowing one, the too-wise witch who knows the words to every curse and the ingredients for every poison. She is Baba Yaga and Black Anna; she is the wicked fairy who hands out curses rather than christening-gifts.

I blinked and looked around my tiny rented kitchen, saw things I’d never seen before: the stove leaning to the left, the handle of the fridge covered with dirty masking tape, the chipped paint of the window casing, a missing square of linoleum on the floor under the radiator. I stood and closed the notebook. I picked up the pencil and set it on top like some kind of marker, a reminder to me of something important I shouldn’t lose.

White folks sure is a case!” She laid three slices of bread on top of the stove. “So spoiled with colored folks waiting on ’em all their days! Don’t know what they’ll do in heaven, ’cause I’m gonna sit down up there myself.

Likewise the boy who was dressed to the nines in a muddy but finely tailored suit and stove-in top hat, his face drawn and haggard from lack of sleep, for he hadn’t allowed himself any in days, so afraid was he of his dreams.

She twisted from him and ran, nude, to the opposite wall. When he came at her this time §he screamed again and ran into the kitchen. She flicked on the light and stood nude amid the white refrigerator, the white gas stove, the gleaming sink, the white-topped table.

Lee went quickly out of the kitchen. He sat in his room, gripping his hands tightly together until he stopped choking. He got up and took a small carved ebony box from the top of his bureau. A dragon climbed toward heaven on the box. He carried the box to the kitchen and laid it on the table between Abra’s hands. “This is for you,” he said, and his tone had no inflection. She opened the box and looked down on a small, dark green jade button, and carved on its surface was a human right hand, a lovely hand, the fingers curved and in repose. Abra lifted the button out and looked at it, and then she moistened it with the tip of her tongue and moved it gently over her full lips, and pressed the cool stone against her cheek. Lee said, “That was my mother’s only ornament.” Abra got up and put her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek, and it was the only time such a thing had ever happened in his whole life. Lee laughed. “My Oriental calm seems to have deserted me,” he said. “Let me make the tea, darling. I’ll get hold of myself that way.” From the stove he said, “I’ve never used that word—never once to anybody in the world.

Let us consider Elfland as a great national park, a vast and beautiful place where a person goes by himself, on foot, to get in touch with reality in a special, private, profound fashion. But what happens when it is considered merely as a place to "get away to"? Well, you know what has happened to Yosemite. Everybody comes, not with an ax and a box of matches, but in a trailer with a motorbike on the back and a motorboat on top and a butane stove, five aluminum folding chairs, and a transistor radio on the inside. They arrive totally encapsulated in a secondhand reality. And then they move on to Yellowstone, and it's just the same there, all trailers and transistors. They go from park to park, but they never really go anywhere; except when one of them who thinks that even the wildlife isn't real gets chewed up by a genuine, firsthand bear. The same sort of thing seems to be happening to Elfland, lately.

A Forge, and a Scythe" One minute I had the windows open and the sun was out. Warm breezes blew through the room. (I remarked on this in a letter.) Then, while I watched, it grew dark. The water began whitecapping. All the sport-fishing boats turned and headed in, a little fleet. Those wind-chimes on the porch blew down. The tops of our trees shook. The stove pipe squeaked and rattled around in its moorings. I said, "A forge, and a scythe." I talk to myself like this. Saying the names of things -- capstan, hawser, loam, leaf, furnace. Your face, your mouth, your shoulder inconceivable to me now! Where did they go? It's like I dreamed them. The stones we brought home from the beach lie face up on the windowsill, cooling. Come home. Do you hear? My lungs are thick with the smoke of your absence.

Oh, this smells fantastic.” She slid up onto one of the stools. “Italian. And you said you could only make one thing.” “Yeah, I really slaved over this.” He turned toward the oven with a flourish and removed a flat pan with… Ehlena burst out laughing. “French-bread pizza.” “Only the best for you.” “DiGiorno?” “Of course. And I splurged on the supreme kind. I figured you could pick off what you don’t like.” He used a pair of sterling-silver tongs to transfer the pizzas onto the plates and then put the baking sheet back on the top of the stove. “I have red wine, too.” As he came over with the bottle, all she could do was stare up at him and smile. “You know,” he said as he poured some into her glass, “I like the way you’re looking at me.” She put her hands over her face. “I can’t help it.” “Don’t try. It makes me feel taller.” “And you’re not small to begin with.” -Ehlena & Rehv

Early stages now, though, and he had an idea for a new recipe that just might give his line of barbecue sauces an edge over other brands. He chopped the tops off a handful of garlic bulbs, then fired up a burner on the gas stove and glugged vegetable oil into his stockpot. Cranked on the oven—hot—and set the garlic in the cast-iron skillet and drizzled on olive oil. To the pan on the stovetop, he added brown sugar and tomato sauce. Balsamic vinegar and molasses. Soon the scent of roasted garlic filled the kitchen, accompanied by the homey hiss and pop of bubbling sauce. In the zone, he envisioned the components for his new blend as clearly as if they were scribbled on the subway-tile backsplash behind the cooktop like ingredients on a handwritten recipe card. Mustard, cayenne, salt, pepper. His hands moved with muscle memory—slicing, stirring, seasoning, blending the sauce to a fine puree. The earlier sense of intrusion was evaporating along with the extra liquid in the pot.

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.

The kitchen. Scent of cumin, ajwain and cardamom. On the table, a little pile of nutmeg. Thick, oily vapor rose from the pot on the stove. The room was warm and spacious, the window high and wide. Tiny drops of condensation covered the top of the glass. Smoke soared towards the ceiling in shafts of light. I noticed many shiny pots and pans hanging on the whitewashed walls. And strings of lal mirchi, and idli makers, and thalis, and conical molds for kulfi. In the corner the tandoor was ready. Its orange glow stirred in the utensils on the walls.

I grab the nonstick skillet, put it on the stove, and fetch four slices of bread from the breadbox. I've been playing with a new bread recipe, a cross between sourdough and English muffin, baked in a sliceable loaf. Makes fantastic toast, and I've been craving grilled cheese with it since I brought it home yesterday. I literally butter all four slices all the way to each edge, place them butter-side down in the skillet, and top each with a thick slice of American cheese. That way, as the pan slowly heats up, the cheese starts to melt, and by the time the outsides are crunchy and crispy, the cheese is a goo-fest, and nothing gets burnt. And I always make two, because one grilled cheese sandwich is never enough.

I’d gone to an outdoor store in Minneapolis called REI about a dozen times over the previous months to purchase a good portion of these items. Seldom was this a straightforward affair. To buy even a water bottle without first thoroughly considering the latest water bottle technology was folly, I quickly learned. There were the pros and cons of various materials to take into account, not to mention the research that had been done regarding design. And this was only the smallest, least complex of the purchases I had to make. The rest of the gear I would need was ever more complex, I realized after consulting with the men and women of REI, who inquired hopefully if they could help me whenever they spotted me before displays of ultralight stoves or strolling among the tents. These employees ranged in age and manner and area of wilderness adventure proclivity, but what they had in common was that every last one of them could talk about gear, with interest and nuance, for a length of time that was so dumbfounding that I was ultimately bedazzled by it. They cared if my sleeping bag had snag-free zipper guards and a face muff that allowed the hood to be cinched snug without obstructing my breathing. They took pleasure in the fact that my water purifier had a pleated glass-fiber element for increased surface area. And their knowledge had a way of rubbing off on me. By the time I made the decision about which backpack to purchase—a top-of-the-line Gregory hybrid external frame that claimed to have the balance and agility of an internal—I felt as if I’d become a backpacking expert.

He carefully poured the juice into a bowl and rinsed the scallops to remove any sand caught between the tender white meat and the firmer coral-colored roe, wrapped around it like a socialite's fur stole. Mayur is the kind of cook (my kind), who thinks the chef should always have a drink in hand. He was making the scallops with champagne custard, so naturally the rest of the bottle would have to disappear before dinner. He poured a cup of champagne into a small pot and set it to reduce on the stove. Then he put a sugar cube in the bottom of a wide champagne coupe (Lalique, service for sixteen, direct from the attic on my mother's last visit). After a bit of a search, he found the crème de violette in one of his shopping bags and poured in just a dash. He topped it up with champagne and gave it a swift stir. "To dinner in Paris," he said, glass aloft. 'To the chef," I answered, dodging swiftly out of the way as he poured the reduced champagne over some egg yolks and began whisking like his life depended on it. "Do you have fish stock?" "Nope." "Chicken?" "Just cubes. Are you sure that will work?" "Sure. This is the Mr. Potato Head School of Cooking," he said. "Interchangeable parts. If you don't have something, think of what that ingredient does, and attach another one." I counted, in addition to the champagne, three other bottles of alcohol open in the kitchen. The boar, rubbed lovingly with a paste of cider vinegar, garlic, thyme, and rosemary, was marinating in olive oil and red wine. It was then to be seared, deglazed with hard cider, roasted with whole apples, and finished with Calvados and a bit of cream. Mayur had his nose in a small glass of the apple liqueur, inhaling like a fugitive breathing the air of the open road. As soon as we were all assembled at the table, Mayur put the raw scallops back in their shells, spooned over some custard, and put them ever so briefly under the broiler- no more than a minute or two. The custard formed a very thin skin with one or two peaks of caramel. It was, quite simply, heaven. The pork was presented neatly sliced, restaurant style, surrounded with the whole apples, baked to juicy, sagging perfection.

We ran back, he first and I following him, between the beds and downstairs, and we picked up an armful of wood from the pile by the wall and the knife for whittling and ran up again, we couldn’t be quick enough. He knelt down in front of the stove, and it wasn’t long before he had done the trick again. Outside the window it was night now, and the wind blew vaporous white milk against the panes, milk over the forest and the fjord, but in here there were just the two of us and the stoves and the sound of wood burning behind the black iron and sending waves of heat out into the rooms and into the walls and timbers that sucked it in. I smelt the scent of wood growing warm, and it made me as white in my head as the whirling night outside, and hungry. We stood in the kitchen with our coats on eating the contents of two tins with one spoon we took it in turns to use, and we laughed, I didn’t even notice what I was eating. Soon it was warm enough for us to take off some clothes, his overcoat and my coat, and while he hung his on a hook, I let mine fall to the floor. I took off the sweater I wore underneath and dropped that on the floor too, I unbuttoned my blouse and still felt the cold against my neck. But the heat rose to the ceiling and up to the first floor and there was another stove there. Then I calmly walked across the room and upstairs with his eyes on my back, and at first he stood still, and then he followed, and when he got to the top my blouse was off and my stockings on the floor. I slowly turned round and stood there, me inside my skin, while he was fully clothed, and I cleared my head of every thought I had ever had and let them sink out into my skin till it was painfully taut and shinning all over my body, and he saw it and did not know what it was he saw. I put my arms round my back and unfastened my bra and slid the straps over my shoulders, and I thought he might be going to weep, but his voice sounded hoarse as he whispered: “You’re lovely,” and I answered “Yes”, and didn’t know if that was true. But it did not matter, for I knew what I wanted and what to say, and his hands were as I’d thought they would be, his skins as soft and his body as hard, and it was so warm around us, and the whole time I smelt the dampness of the bedclothes like the ones at Vrangbæk, and then I just shut my eyes and floated away.

I woke up as the first light began to bring an orange glow to the tops of the whispering pines (and sky) above me at 5:43 but lay still to avoid waking Hope for another half-hour. She had suffered through a tough and mostly sleepless night, and I wanted to give her every second I could as the next week promised to be very stressful for her (and me), and that was if everything went according to plan. At a few minutes after six, she either sensed the growing light or my wakefulness and shifted to give me a wet kiss. We both moved down towards the slit in the bottom of my Hennessy hammock and dropped out and down onto the pine needles to explore the morning. Both of us went a ways into the woods to take care of early morning elimination, and we met back by the hammock to discuss breakfast. I shook out some Tyler kibble (a modified GORP recipe) for me and an equal amount of Hope’s kibble for her. As soon as we had scarfed down the basic snack, we picked our way down the sloping shore to the water’s edge, jumped down into the warm water (relative to the cool morning air at any rate) for a swim as the sun came up, lighting the tips of the tallest pines on the opposite shore. Hope and I were bandit camping (a term that I had learned soon after arriving in this part of the world, and enjoyed the feel of), avoiding the established campsites that ringed Follensby Clear Pond. We found our home for the last seventeen days (riding the cooling August nights from the full moon on the ninth to what would be a new moon tonight) near a sandy swimming spot. From there, we worked our way up (and inland) fifty feet back from the water to a flat spot where some long-ago hunter had built/burned a fire pit. We used the pit to cook some of our meals (despite the illegality of the closeness to the water and the fire pit cooking outside an approved campsite … they call it ‘bandit camping’ for a reason). My canoe was far enough up the shore and into the brush to be invisible even if you knew to look for it, and nobody did/would/had. After we had rung a full measure of enjoyment out of our quiet morning swim, I grabbed the stringer I had anchored to the sandy bottom the previous afternoon after fishing, pulled the two lake trout off, killed them as quickly/painlessly/neatly as I could manage, handed one to Hope, and navigated back up the hill to our campsite. I started one of the burners on my Coleman stove (not wanting to signal our position too much, as the ranger for this area liked morning paddles, and although we had something of an understanding, I didn’t want to put him in an uncomfortable position … we had, after all, been camping far too long in a spot too close to the water). Once I had gutted/buttered/spiced the fish, I put my foil-wrapped trout over the flame (flipping and moving it every minute or so, according to the sound/smell of the cooking fish); Hope ate hers raw, as is her preference. It was a perfect morning … just me and my dog, seemingly alone in the world, doing exactly what we wanted to be doing.

BUTTERSCOTCH BONANZA BARS Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position.   ½ cup salted butter (1 stick, 4 ounces, ¼ pound) 2 cups light brown sugar*** (pack it down in the cup when you measure it) 2 teaspoons baking powder 1 teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 2 beaten eggs (just whip them up in a glass with a fork) 1 and ½cups flour (scoop it up and level it off with a table knife) 1 cup chopped nuts (optional) 2 cups butterscotch chips (optional) ***- If all you have in the house is dark brown sugar and the roads are icy, it’s below zero, and you really don’t feel like driving to the store, don’t despair. Measure out one cup of dark brown sugar and mix it with one cup regular white granulated sugar. Now you’ve got light brown sugar, just what’s called for in Leslie’s recipe. And remember that you can always make any type of brown sugar by mixing molasses into white granulated sugar until it’s the right color. Hannah’s Note: Leslie says the nuts are optional, but she likes these cookie bars better with nuts. So do I, especially with walnuts. Bertie Straub wants hers with a cup of chopped pecans and 2 cups of butterscotch chips. Mother prefers these bars with 2 cups of semi-sweet chocolate chips and no nuts, Carrie likes them with 2 cups of mini chocolate chips and a cup of chopped pecans, and Lisa prefers to make them with 1 cup of chopped walnuts, 1 cup of white chocolate chips, and 1 cup of butterscotch chips. All this goes to show just how versatile Leslie’s recipe is. Try it first as it’s written with just the nuts. Then try any other versions that you think would be yummy. Grease and flour a 9-inch by 13-inch cake pan, or spray it with nonstick baking spray, the kind with flour added. Set it aside while you mix up the batter. Melt the butter in a small saucepan over low heat on the stovetop, or put it in the bottom of a microwave-safe, medium-sized mixing bowl and heat it for 1 minute in the microwave on HIGH. Add the light brown sugar to the mixing bowl with the melted butter and stir it in well. Mix in the baking powder and the salt. Make sure they’re thoroughly incorporated. Stir in the vanilla extract. Mix in the beaten eggs. Add the flour by half-cup increments, stirring in each increment before adding the next. Stir in the nuts, if you decided to use them. Mix in the butterscotch chips if you decided to use them, or any other chips you’ve chosen. Spoon the batter into the prepared cake pan and smooth out the top with a rubber spatula. Bake the Butterscotch Bonanza Bars at 350 degrees F. for 20 to 25 minutes. (Mine took 25 minutes.) When the bars are done, take them out of the oven and cool them completely in the pan on a cold stove burner or a wire rack. When the bars are cool, use a sharp knife to cut them into brownie-sized pieces. Yield: Approximately 40 bars, but that all depends on how large you cut the squares. You may not believe this, but Mother suggested that I make these cookie bars with semi-sweet chocolate chips and then frost them with chocolate fudge frosting. There are times when I think she’d frost a tuna sandwich with chocolate fudge frosting and actually enjoy eating it!

One might think that Protestants, who had been persecuted so viciously for their heresies against Catholic doctrines, would take a dim view of the idea of persecuting heretics, but no. In his 65,000-word treatise On the Jews and Their Lies, Martin Luther offered the following advice on what Christians should do with this “rejected and condemned people”: First, . . . set fire to their synagogues or schools and . . . bury and cover with dirt whatever will not burn, so that no man will ever again see a stone or cinder of them.... Second, I advise that their houses also be razed and destroyed.... Third, I advise that all their prayer books and Talmudic writings, in which such idolatry, lies, cursing, and blasphemy are taught, be taken from them.... Fourth, I advise that their rabbis be forbidden to teach henceforth on pain of loss of life and limb.... Fifth, I advise that safe-conduct on the highways be abolished completely for the Jews.... Sixth, I advise that usury be prohibited to them, and that all cash and treasure of silver and gold be taken from them and put aside for safekeeping. Seventh, I recommend putting a flail, an ax, a hoe, a spade, a distaff, or a spindle into the hands of young, strong Jews and Jewesses and letting them earn their bread in the sweat of their brow, as was imposed on the children of Adam (Gen. 3[:19]). For it is not fitting that they should let us accursed Goyim toil in the sweat of our faces while they, the holy people, idle away their time behind the stove, feasting and farting, and on top of all, boasting blasphemously of their lordship over the Christians by means of our sweat. Let us emulate the common sense of other nations . . . [and] eject them forever from the country.35 At

The party spills over with guests, from the ballroom to the front lawn. It’s nighttime, but the house is lit up, bright as the sun. All around me diamonds glitter. We’ve reached that tipping point where everyone is sloshed enough to smile, but not so much they start to slur. There’s almost too many people, almost too much alcohol. Almost too much wealth in one room. It reminds me of Icarus, with his wings of feather and wax. If Icarus had a five-hundred-person guest list for his graduation party. It reminds me of flying too close to the sun. I snag a flute of champagne from one of the servers, who pretends not to see. The bubbles tickle my nose as I take a detour through the kitchen. Rosita stands at the stove, stirring her world-famous jambalaya in a large cast iron pot. The spices pull me close. I reach for a spoon. “Is it ready yet?” She slaps my hand away. “You’ll ruin your pretty dress. It’ll be ready when it’s ready.” We have caterers who make food for all our events, but since this is my graduation party, Rosita agreed to make my favorite dish. She’s going to spoon some onto little puff pastry cups and call it a canape. I try to pout, but everything is too perfect for that. Only one thing is missing from this picture. I give her a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks, Rosita. Have you seen Daddy?” “Where he always is, most likely.” That’s what I’m afraid of. Then I’m through the swinging door that leads into the private side of the house. I pass Gerty, our event planner, who’s muttering about guests who aren’t on the invite list. I head up the familiar oak staircase, breathing in the scent of our house. There’s something so comforting about it. I’m going to miss everything when I leave for college. At the top of the stairs, I hear men’s voices. That isn’t unusual. I’m around the corner from Daddy’s offic

The four women came to see them at the house later in the afternoon. Alexander and Tatiana were playing soccer. Actually Tatiana had just gotten the ball away from him and, squealing, was trying to hold on to it, while he was behind her, trying to kick it from under her. He had lifted her off the ground and was pressing himself hard into her while she was shrieking. All he was wearing was his skivvies, and all she was wearing was his ribbed top and her underwear. Flummoxed, Tatiana stood in front of Alexander, trying to shield his near-naked body from four pairs of wide eyes. He stood behind her, his arms on her shoulders, and Tatiana heard him say, “Tell them—No, forget it, I will,” and before she could utter a sound, he came forward, walked up to them, twice their size, bare and unrelentingly himself, and said, “Ladies, in the future you might want to wait for us to come and see you.” “Shura,” Tatiana muttered, “go and get dressed.” “Soccer is probably the least of what you’ll see,” Alexander said into the women’s stunned faces before going inside the house. When he came back out, suitably covered, he told Tatiana he was going to the village to get a couple of things they needed, like ice and an ax. “What an odd combination,” she remarked. “Where are you going to get ice from?” “The fish plant. They have to refrigerate their fish, don’t they?” “Ax?” “From that nice man Igor,” Alexander yelled, walking up the clearing, blowing her a kiss. She gazed after him. “Hurry back,” she called. Naira Mikhailovna apologized hastily. Dusia was mouthing a prayer. Raisa shook. Axinya beamed at Tatiana, who invited them all for a bit of kvas. “Come inside. See how nicely Alexander cleaned the house. And look, he repaired the door. Remember, the top hinge was broken?” The four women looked around for a place to sit. “Tanechka,” said Naira nervously, “there is no furniture in here.” Axinya whooped. Dusia crossed herself. “I know, Naira Mikhailovna. We don’t need much.” She looked down on the floor. “We have some things, we have my trunk. Alexander said he will make us a bench. I’ll bring my desk with the sewing machine…we’ll be fine.” “But how—” “Oh, Naira,” said Axinya, “leave the girl alone, will you?” Dusia glared at the rumpled bedsheets on top of the stove. A flustered Tatiana smiled. Alexander was right. It was better to go and visit them. She asked when would be a good time to come for dinner. Naira said, “Come tonight, of course. We’ll celebrate. But you come every night. Look, you won’t be able to eat here at all. There’s nowhere even to sit or cook. You’ll starve. Come every night. That’s not too much to ask, is it?

STRAWBERRY SHORTBREAD BAR COOKIES Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position.   Hannah’s 1st Note: These are really easy and fast to make. Almost everyone loves them, including Baby Bethie, and they’re not even chocolate! 3 cups all purpose flour (pack it down in the cup when you measure it) ¾ cup powdered (confectioner’s) sugar (don’t sift un- less it’s got big lumps) 1 and ½ cups salted butter, softened (3 sticks, 12 ounces, ¾ pound) 1 can (21 ounces) strawberry pie filling (I used Comstock)*** *** - If you can’t find strawberry pie filling, you can use another berry filling, like raspberry, or blueberry. You can also use pie fillings of larger fruits like peach, apple, or whatever. If you do that, cut the fruit pieces into smaller pieces so that each bar cookie will have some. I just put my apple or peach pie filling in the food processor with the steel blade and zoop it up just short of being pureed. I’m not sure about using lemon pie filling. I haven’t tried that yet. FIRST STEP: Mix the flour and the powdered sugar together in a medium-sized bowl. Cut in the softened butter with a two knives or a pastry cutter until the resulting mixture resembles bread crumbs or coarse corn meal. (You can also do this in a food processor using cold butter cut into chunks that you layer between the powdered sugar and flour mixture and process with the steel blade, using an on-and-off pulsing motion.) Spread HALF of this mixture (approximately 3 cups will be fine) into a greased (or sprayed with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray) 9-inch by 13-inch pan. (That’s a standard size rectangular cake pan.) Bake at 350 degrees F. for 12 to 15 minutes, or until the edges are just beginning to turn golden brown. Remove the pan to a wire rack or a cold burner on the stove, but DON’T TURN OFF THE OVEN! Let the crust cool for 5 minutes. SECOND STEP: Spread the pie filling over the top of the crust you just baked. Sprinkle the crust with the other half of the crust mixture you saved. Try to do this as evenly as possible. Don’t worry about little gaps in the topping. It will spread out and fill in a bit as it bakes. Gently press the top crust down with the flat blade of a metal spatula. Bake the cookie bars at 350 degrees F. for another 30 to 35 minutes, or until the top is lightly golden. Turn off the oven and remove the pan to a wire rack or a cold burner to cool completely. When the bars are completely cool, cover the pan with foil and refrigerate them until you’re ready to cut them. (Chilling them makes them easier to cut.) When you’re ready to serve them, cut the Strawberry Shortbread Bar Cookies into brownie-sized pieces, arrange them on a pretty platter, and if you like, sprinkle the top with extra powdered sugar.

Wyatt." She tore it open and stood there, drinking him in.Just the sight of him had her heart doing a happy dance in her chest. "Don't throw me out." He lifted a hand. "I come in peace.With food." When she didn't say a word he added, "Pizza.With all your favorite toppings.Sausage, mushrooms, green..." "Well,then." To hide the unexpected tears that sprang to her eyes,she turned away quickly. "Since you went to so much trouble,you may as well come in." "It was no trouble.I just rode a hundred miles on my Harley,fought my way through the smoke screen at the Fortune Saloon,had to fend off Daffy's attempts to have her way with me, and discovered that I'd left my wallet back at the ranch,which meant I had to sign away my life before Vi would turn over this pizza,wine,and dessert. But hey, no trouble at all.It's the sort of thing I do nearly every day." He followed her to the kitchen, where he set down the pizza box and a brown bag. He glanced over at the stove. "Are you going to lift that kettle, or did I interrupt you making a recording of you whistling along with it in harmony?" Despite her tears,she found herself laughing hysterically at his silly banter. Oh,how she'd missed it. He set the kettle aside.The sudden silence was shocking. Because she had her back to him, he fought the urge to touch her.Instead he studied the way her shoulders were shaking. Troubled,he realized he'd made her cry. "Sorry." Deflated,his tone lowered. "I guess this was a bad idea." "Wyatt." He paused. "It was a good idea.A very good idea." She turned,and he saw the tears coursing down her cheeks. "Oh,God,Marilee,I'm sorry.I didn't mean to make you..." "I'm not crying." She brushed furiously at the tears. "I mean I was,but then you made me laugh and..." "This is how you laugh?" He caught her by the shoulders and held her a little away. "Woman,I didn't realize just how weird you are. Wait a minute.Do you think being weird might be contagious? Maybe I ought to get out of here before I turn weird,too." The more she laughed,the harder the tears fell. Through a torrent of tears she wrapped her arms around his waist and held on, burying her face in his neck. "You can't leave.I won't let you." He tipped up her face,wiping her tears with his thumbs. "You mean that? You really don't want me to go?" "I don't.I really want you to stay, Wyatt." "For dinner?" "And more." "Dessert?" "And more." His smile was quick and dangerous. "I'm beginning to like the 'and more.'" She smiled through her tears. "Me,too." "Maybe we could have the 'and more' as an appetizer, before the pizza." Her laughter bubbled up and over, wrapping itself around his heart. "Oh, how I've missed your silly sense of humor." "You have?" "I have.I've missed everything about you." "Everything?" He leaned close to nibble her ear,sending a series of delicious shivers along her spine. "Everything." Catching his hand,she led him to the bedroom. "I worked very hard today making up the bed with fresh linens. Want to be the first to mess it up?" He looked from the bed to her and then back again. "Oh,yeah." He drew her close and brushed her mouth with his. Just a soft,butterfly kiss, but she felt it all the way to her toes. "I mean I want to really, really mess it up." "Me,t..." And then there was no need for words.

China during the Mao era was a poor country, but it had a strong public health network that provided free immunizations to its citizens. That was where I came in. In those days there were no disposable needles and syringes; we had to reuse ours again and again. Sterilization too was primitive: The needles and syringes would be washed, wrapped separately in gauze, and placed in aluminum lunch boxes laid in a huge wok on top of a briquette stove. Water was added to the wok, and the needles and syringes were then steamed for two hours, as you would steam buns. On my first day of giving injections I went to a factory. The workers rolled up their sleeves and waited in line, baring their arms to me one after another – and offering up a tiny piece of red flesh, too. Because the needles had been used multiple times, almost every one of them had a barbed tip. You could stick a needle into someone’s arm easily enough, but when you extracted it, you would pull out a tiny piece of flesh along with it. For the workers the pain was bearable, although they would grit their teeth or perhaps let out a groan or two. I paid them no mind, for the workers had had to put up with barbed needles year after year and should be used to it by now, I thought. But the next day, when I went to a kindergarten to give shot to children from the ages of three through six, it was a difference story. Every last one of them burst out weeping and wailing. Because their skin was so tender, the needles would snag bigger shreds of flesh than they had from the workers, and the children’s wounds bled more profusely. I still remember how the children were all sobbing uncontrollably; the ones who had yet to be inoculated were crying even louder than those who had already had their shots. The pain the children saw others suffering, it seemed to me, affected them even more intensely than the pain they themselves experienced, because it made their fear all the more acute. That scene left me shocked and shaken. When I got back to the hospital, I did not clean the instruments right away. Instead, I got hold of a grindstone and ground all the needles until they were completely straight and the points were sharp. But these old needles were so prone to metal fatigue that after two or three more uses they would acquire barbs again, so grinding the needles became a regular part of my routine, and the more I sharpened, the shorter they got. That summer it was always dark by the time I left the hospital, with fingers blistered by my labors at the grindstone. Later, whenever I recalled this episode, I was guilt-stricken that I’d had to see the children’s reaction to realize how much the factory workers must have suffered. If, before I had given shots to others, I had pricked my own arm with a barbed needle and pulled out a blood-stained shred of my own flesh, then I would have known how painful it was long before I heard the children’s wails. This remorse left a profound mark, and it has stayed with me through all my years as an author. It is when the suffering of others becomes part of my own experience that I truly know what it is to live and what it is to write. Nothing in the world, perhaps, is so likely to forge a connection between people as pain, because the connection that comes from that source comes from deep in the heart. So when in this book I write of China’s pain, I am registering my pain too, because China’s pain is mine.

EASY FRUIT PIE   Preheat oven to 375 degrees F., rack in the middle position. Note from Delores: I got this recipe from Jenny Hester, a new nurse at Doc Knight’s hospital. Jenny just told me that her great-grandmother used to make it whenever the family came over for Sunday dinner. Hannah said it’s easy so I might actually try to make it some night for Doc. ¼ cup salted butter (½ stick, 2 ounces, pound) 1 cup whole milk 1 cup white (granulated) sugar 1 cup all-purpose flour (pack it down in the cup when you measure it) 1 and ½ teaspoons baking powder ½ teaspoon salt 1 can fruit pie filling (approximately 21 ounces by weight—3 to 3 and ½ cups, the kind that makes an 8-inch pie) Hannah’s 1st Note: This isn’t really a pie, and it isn’t really a cake even though you make it in a cake pan. It’s almost like a cobbler, but not quite. I have the recipe filed under “Dessert”. You can use any canned fruit pie filling you like. I might not bake it for company with blueberry pie filling. It tasted great, but didn’t look all that appetizing. If you love blueberry and want to try it, it might work to cover the top with sweetened whipped cream or Cool Whip before you serve it. I’ve tried this recipe with raspberry and peach . . . so far. I have the feeling that lemon pie filling would be yummy, but I haven’t gotten around to trying it yet. Maybe I’ll try it some night when Mike comes over after work. Even if it doesn’t turn out that well, he’ll eat it. Place the butter in a 9-inch by 13-inch cake pan and put it in the oven to melt. Meanwhile . . . Mix the milk, sugar, flour, baking powder and salt together in a medium-size bowl. This batter will be a little lumpy and that’s okay. Just like brownie batter, don’t over-mix it. Using oven mitts or potholders, remove the pan with the melted butter from the oven. Pour in the batter and tip the pan around to cover the whole bottom. Then set it on a cold stove burner. Spoon the pie filling over the stop of the batter, but DO NOT MIX IN. Just spoon it on as evenly as you can. (The batter will puff up around it in the oven and look gorgeous!) Bake the dessert at 375 degrees F., for 45 minutes to 1 hour, or until it turns golden brown and bubbly on top. To serve, cool slightly, dish into bowls, and top with sweetened whipped cream or vanilla ice cream. It really is yummy. Hannah’s 2nd Note: The dessert is best when it’s baked, cooled slightly, and served right away. Alternatively you can bake it earlier, cut pieces to put in microwave-safe bowls, and reheat it in the microwave before you put on the ice cream or sweetened whipped cream. Yield: Easy Fruit Pie will serve 6 if you don’t invite Mike and Norman for dinner. Note from Jenny: I’ve made this by adding ¼ cup cocoa powder and 1 teaspoon of vanilla to the batter. If I do this, I spoon a can of cherry pie filling over the top.

JULEKAKE Julekake means Yule Cake or Christmas Cake. Every Scandinavian family has their favorite version, usually baked by Mor Mor (Grandmother), who is always present, even if she’s passed on. This cake should never be prepared alone. Stand beside someone you love as you cut the citron into chunks and blend it with the flour, cardamom, fruits, butter, eggs, yeast and sugar. The scent of cardamom will fill you with nostalgia as the aroma of baking fills the house. Moist and tender, topped with gjetost (Scandinavian goat cheese) and a pat of butter, this is the holiday treat we wait all year for. Turn on the oven for 10 minutes at 150 degrees F, then shut it off but keep the door closed. This is where you’ll set the dough to rise. Use a big wide mixing bowl to blend together: 5 cups white flour 1 tablespoon cardamom 2 cups candied fruit and citron 11/2 cups raisins In a pan, blend: 2 cups milk, scalded (can be done on the stove or in the microwave) 1 cup sugar, dissolved in the scalded milk 1 cup butter, melted in the scalded milk Cool to lukewarm. Combine a little of the milk with: 1 packet active dry yeast When dissolved, add it to the rest of the milk mixture. Then add everything to the flour mixture to make a soft dough. Add enough flour to create a pliable dough that doesn’t stick to the sides of the bowl. Turn it out onto a lightly floured surface and knead further. Place in a buttered bowl and turn it over once, so the oiled side is up. Place a dish towel over the top, and set the bowl in the warm oven for a half hour to 45 minutes. Punch down and knead again. This time, separate the dough into two loaves or rounds. Cover with a dish towel again, and let it rise once more for a half hour to 45 minutes. Once risen, bake in a 400 degree oven for 30-40 minutes. Place a piece of foil over the tops after about 25 minutes if it gets too dark. Source: Adapted from Christmas Customs Around the World by Herbert H. Wernecke (1959)

SUGARS 0 grams FIBER 0.1 gram Chapter 2 Breakfast Muffin tins will revolutionize the way you make breakfast. No more standing over a stove, stirring and flipping! Eggs cook beautifully in muffin tins as do ham and sausage. Starting your morning with a lovely little breakfast completely contained in a muffin cup is a wonderful beginning to the day. Many of these recipes can be assembled the night before and refrigerated until you’re ready to pop them in the oven. Be sure to check Chapter 8, Muffins and Breads, for other breakfast ideas, since muffins also make great breakfasts. egg crescent pockets Makes 8 1 package of 8 crescent rolls dough 4 large slices of deli ham, cut in half ½ cup herbed goat cheese (or cheese of your choice) Dried thyme, to taste 8 eggs Salt and pepper Regular 1. Preheat oven to 375°F. 2. Place 8 muffin cup liners in a regular muffin tin and spray the inside of them with cooking spray. 3. Follow the instructions for crescent roll dough in “Crescent Roll Crusts” in the Introduction. 4. Take half a piece of ham and fold it so it fits inside the liner. 5. Place the goat cheese on top of the ham, and add a pinch of thyme. 6. Crack an egg and place it in the liner. 7. Sprinkle with salt and pepper to taste. 8. Bake for 20 minutes, until egg whites are completely set and crescent rolls are browned. Allow each to rest for a few minutes before lifting the cups out of the muffin pan. Try this with salami instead of ham and provolone instead of goat cheese, for a different flavor. This is great with some fruit salad at brunch.

The bottom tier customers buy sleeping bags, canteens, flashlights and one or two -man tents. They'll buy life vests and inflatable rafts. They'll usually wait until there is a sale or promotion to get what they are looking for. The middle tier will buy all of the above, but a higher end tent and sleeping bag, and will also buy cook stoves, fishing gear, coolers, and aluminum boats with oars. They will also look for discounts and use their loyalty points to purchase maybe one or more high-end items. The top tier will buy all of the above, but everything top of the line, and they'll buy the boat with the motor, and the fish finder. They'll completely outfit themselves for their camping excursion no matter the cost. For them it's all about the best quality goods, no matter the price.

A big lemoncolored cat watched him from the top of a woodstove. He turned his head to see it better and it elongated itself like hot taffy down the side of the stove and vanished headfirst in the earth without a sound.

having a friend in the Met was enough of a payment. That, and he kept nagging her to start competing — said she kicked like a horse, and that once she had her grapple game on point, she could probably go pro.  Jamie knew having a pro fighter coming out of a gym was a great way to bring in new business, as well as get another taste of the big time. But she wasn’t interested in that. She just needed to know how to handle herself. And she did. Though it didn’t hurt to stay sharp, and Cake was one of the few people she could stand to be around for prolonged periods. ‘We’ve still got six minutes,’ she said, looking at the clock on the wall herself. Her accent had all but gone now, but anyone with a keen ear would know she wasn’t a British native.  And the blonde hair and blue eyes, along with her second name, would be enough to tip off anyone with any sense to her Scandinavian heritage.  ‘You earned it,’ Cake said, heading for the office. ‘And plus, I don’t think my arms could take anymore.’ He chuckled, his broad shoulders bouncing as he stepped off the raised matt and onto the rubber-tiled floor.  Jamie cast a glance over at the heavy-bag in the corner, thought maybe she could get some more hits in. But her shin was starting to throb. Maybe she should ice it. Probably a good idea. She pulled the sparring gloves off and unstrapped the kick-guards, wincing a little as they came away from her ankle.  Yeah, she’d definitely need to ice it.  The smell of coffee beckoned her towards the office and she followed her nose, entering to see Cake standing over a hotplate, a stove-top coffee maker steaming away on it.  He was a simple man, easy to talk to. Everyone wanted something. Except Cake. All he wanted was for people to treat him with respect. And Jamie did. He would always go on about it. People don’t have

Tempest by Maisie Aletha Smikle Night has come The day is done It's time to go to sleep And rest in peace so sweet Then arise at daybreak with a praise For with sweet slumber you were graced It's the break of dawn And all is blessedly calm Some are waking up from their peaceful slumber While others hasten home to get their daily slumber Birds happily chirp hello And roosters crow how do you do Angels descend to take their earthly morning stroll And take a roll Of when to sack the bad And when to reward the good Like an eye at the middle of a storm So was the calm at dawn Then…Swoosh...Swoosh A mighty wind blew Birds stop sipping dew and flew Windows flew wide open Curtains leapt then went airborne floating in the air Empty teapots flew off stove tops Banging on adjacent doors Before landing on the kitchen floors Utensils cups and saucers clatter Forks dance with spoons to the rhythm of the wind Animals huddle tight In awe and fright In treetops they huddle In holes they shudder For out of their holes they will flood like grains of sand And the winds from the treetops they can't withstand Swoosh… Swoosh the mighty winds blew Sweeping like an enormous broom The winds swept What was unswept And that which was unkept And without a trace the winds left The sun peeked from behind the clouds Checking to see if the tempest had really left Then gracefully the sun arises To mop that which wasn't swept by the bristles of the tempest

My wife and I can't recall how many years we've been married, but we'll never forget our first backpacking trip together. We'd just begun dating and I was her trail-hardened outdoorsman, a knight in shining Cordura, the guy who could handle any wilderness emergency. She was my...well, let's just say I was bent on making a good impression. This was her first backpacking experience and I wanted to have many more with her as my hiking partner. I'd checked and double-checked everything--trail conditions, equipment, weather forecast. I even bought a new stove for the occasion. We set off under overcast skies with packs loaded and spirits high. There was precipitation in the forecast, but it was November and too early for snow, I assured her. (Did I mention that we were just a few miles south of Mount Washington, home to the worst, most unpredictable weather in the Northeast?) As we climbed the few thousand feet up a granite ridge, the trail steadily steepened and we strained a bit under our loads. On top, a gentle breeze pushed a fluffy, light snowfall. The flakes were big and chunky, the kind you chase with your mouth open. Certainly no threat, I told her matter-of-factly. After a few miles, the winds picked up and the snowflakes thickened into a swirling soup. The trail all but dissolved into a wall of white, so I pulled out my compass to locate the three-sided shelter that was to be our base for the night. Eventually we found it, tucked alongside a gurgling freshet. The winds were roaring no, so I pitched our tent inside the shelter for added protection. It was a tight fit, with the tent door only two feet from the log end-wall, but at least we were out of the snowy gale. To ward off the cold and warm my fair belle, I pulled my glittering stove from its pouch, primed it, and confidently christened the burner with a match. She was awestruck by my backwoods wizardry. Color me smug and far too confident. That's when I noticed it: what appeared to be water streaming down the side of the stove. My new cooker's white-gas fuel was bathing the stove base. It was also drenching the tent floor between us and the doorway--the doorway that was zipped tightly shut. A headline flashed through my mind: "Brainless Hikers Toasted in White Mountains." The stove burst into flames that ran up the tent wall. I grabbed a wet sock, clutched the stove base with one hand, and unzipped the tent door with the other. I heaved the hissing fireball through the opening, assuming that was the end of the episode, only to hear a thud as it hit the shelter wall before bouncing back inside to melt some more nylon. My now fairly unimpressed belle grabbed a pack towel and doused the inferno. She breathed a huge sigh of relief, while I swallowed a pound of three of pride. We went on to have a thoroughly disastrous outing. The weather pounded us into submission. A full day of storm later with no letup in sight, we decided to hike out. Fortunately, that slippery, slithery descent down a snowed-up, iced-over trail was merely the end of our first backpacking trip together and not our relationship. --John Viehman

Christmas by Maisie Aletha Smikle Smiles gifts and laughter fill the air Families so dear Gather and share Love and happy cheer Mary gave birth to Christ Jesus Gloriously famed is He People are happy on His birthday They meet to celebrate this day On Christ's birthday There were gifts of myrrh Frankincense and gold Celebrating His birth that was foretold Christmas day is Christ’s birthday Once a year Christ is cheered For coming into the world Woes and foes Are forgotten And joy and peace Are release Lights blink Twinkle twinkle Beckoning good wishes To come in Snow falling on roof tops Cookies cooling on stove tops Smoke whistling from the chimneys Calling out to Santa on his sleigh Don't come down tonight It is frosty as frost bite If you come down the chimney You will be toasty as a toast So on and on Santa goes Round and round the globe Delivering good wishes and happy cheers And thanking God for Christ’s birth

set a pot of water to boil on the camp stove and walked out to the farthest point under the cliffs. I dug a pit and thought of the latrine back at the San Carlos camp – flies in there, flies in the kitchen. I washed my hands, first in the sea, then rigorously with soap and fresh water back at my camp. This is what it takes, I thought, to get some solitude. You travel days and days down a desert coastline and sail off by yourself. I saw not a soul, nor evidence of anybody besides the weirdly placed panga on the cliff top. And for all this effort I felt not free exactly, but at least not put-upon. There was no conversation to make, just an enveloping silence with the crash and roll of small waves to break the feeling of looking at a giant photograph. I was finally outside of the day-to-day, and perhaps outside of myself for a moment as well.

Other Kinds of Fun LARGE MOTOR SKILLS ♦  Take a walk on a balance beam, along the curb, or even down a line on the sidewalk. ♦  Play catch (start with a large, slightly deflated ball). ♦  Jump over things (anything more than a few inches, though, will be too high for most kids this age). ♦  Throw, kick, roll, and toss balls of all sizes. ♦  Ride a tricycle. ♦  Spin around till you drop. ♦  Pound, push, pull, and kick. ♦  Make music using drums, xylophones, flutes, and anything else you have handy. ♦  Play Twister. SMALL MOTOR SKILLS ♦  Puzzles (fewer than twenty pieces is probably best). You might even want to cut up a simple picture from a magazine and see whether your toddler can put it back together. ♦  Draw on paper or with chalk on the sidewalk. ♦  Sculpt with clay or other molding substance. ♦  Finger paint. ♦  Play with string and large beads. ♦  Pour water or sand or seeds from one container to another. ♦  Get a big box (from a dishwasher or refrigerator), then build, paint and decorate a house together. THE BRAIN ♦  Matching games. ♦  Alphabet and number games (put colorful magnetic letters and numbers on the fridge and leave them low enough for the child to reach). ♦  Lots of dress-up clothes. ♦  Dolls of all kinds (including action figures). ♦  Pretending games with “real” things (phones, computer keyboards). ♦  Imaginary driving trips where you talk about all the things you see on the road. Be sure to let your toddler drive part of the way. ♦  Sorting games (put all the pennies, or all the triangles, or all the cups together). ♦  Arranging games (big, bigger, biggest). ♦  Smelling games. Blindfold your toddler and have him identify things by their scent. ♦  Pattern games (small-big/small-big). ♦  Counting games (How many pencils are there?). A FEW FUN THINGS FOR RAINY DAYS (OR ANYTIME) ♦  Have pillow fights. ♦  Make a really, really messy art project. ♦  Cook something—kneading bread or pizza dough is especially good, as is roasting marshmallows on the stove (see pages 214–20 for more). ♦  Go baby bowling (gently toss your toddler onto your bed). ♦  Try other gymnastics (airplane rides: you’re on your back, feet up in the air, baby’s tummy on your feet, you and baby holding hands). ♦  Dance and/or sing. ♦  Play hide-and-seek. ♦  Stage a puppet show. ♦  If it’s not too cold, go outside, strip down to your underwear, and paint each other top-to-bottom with nontoxic, water-based paints. Otherwise, get bundled up and go for a long, wet, sloppy, muddy stomp in the rain. If you don’t feel like getting wet, get in the car and drive through puddles.

Take the money, no take the money, but leave my stove out of it.

I want to marry your sister,” he announced after he and Rupert had consumed the better part of a chicken, along with mashed potatoes, gravy, and corn, at the simple table in Rupert’s kitchen. Lily had no illusions that Caleb meant what he said. It was just that even he wouldn’t have the gall to stand there flat-footed and tell Rupert he wanted to keep his sister as a mistress. He and Rupert each took a cigar and lit up. “Don’t I have anything to say about this?” Lily demanded, slamming the cast-iron skillet she’d been about to scour back onto the stove top. Caleb leaned forward in the fog of blue smoke that curled between him and Rupert and said confidentially, “I’ve compromised her, you see. There’s nothing to do but tie the knot before she’s ruined.” Lily would have exploded if she hadn’t been so surprised at Rupert’s reaction. He should have been angry—outraged, even—but he only sat back in his chair and puffed on that damnable cigar. “I see,” he said. “I will not marry this—this pony soldier!” Lily raved. “He’s only fooling, anyway! Do you hear me, Rupert? There will be no wedding!” Rupert assessed her thoughtfully. “Is it true that he’s compromised you?” Lily’s face was red as an ember. She couldn’t have answered that question to save her life. “There might be a child,” he reasoned. “Did you ever think of that?” “Yes,” Caleb collaborated. “Did you ever think of that?” Lily groped for a chair and sank into it. Pregnancy was a possibility she hadn’t once considered. She’d been too wrapped up in her problems for that. “Shut up, both of you,” she murmured, feeling ill. “I think you’d better marry the major,” said Rupert. “I think I’d sooner marry the devil,” countered Lily. Caleb chuckled. “Isn’t she beautiful?” Rupert frowned. “Personally, I think she needs a spanking.” “I agree,” said Caleb. “Will you two please stop talking about me as if I weren’t here? And it would take a bigger man than either of you to get the best of me.” Caleb leaned forward in his chair. “Is that a challenge?” “No,” Lily said, and the word took a great piece of her pride with it as it left her mouth. “I thought not,” said Caleb.

I want to marry your sister,” he announced after he and Rupert had consumed the better part of a chicken, along with mashed potatoes, gravy, and corn, at the simple table in Rupert’s kitchen. Lily had no illusions that Caleb meant what he said. It was just that even he wouldn’t have the gall to stand there flat-footed and tell Rupert he wanted to keep his sister as a mistress. He and Rupert each took a cigar and lit up. “Don’t I have anything to say about this?” Lily demanded, slamming the cast-iron skillet she’d been about to scour back onto the stove top. Caleb leaned forward in the fog of blue smoke that curled between him and Rupert and said confidentially, “I’ve compromised her, you see. There’s nothing to do but tie the knot before she’s ruined.” Lily would have exploded if she hadn’t been so surprised at Rupert’s reaction. He should have been angry—outraged, even—but he only sat back in his chair and puffed on that damnable cigar. “I see,” he said. “I will not marry this—this pony soldier!” Lily raved. “He’s only fooling, anyway! Do you hear me, Rupert? There will be no wedding!” Rupert assessed her thoughtfully. “Is it true that he’s compromised you?” Lily’s face was red as an ember. She couldn’t have answered that question to save her life. “There might be a child,” he reasoned. “Did you ever think of that?” “Yes,” Caleb collaborated. “Did you ever think of that?” Lily groped for a chair and sank into it. Pregnancy was a possibility she hadn’t once considered. She’d been too wrapped up in her problems for that. “Shut up, both of you,” she murmured, feeling ill. “I think you’d better marry the major,” said Rupert. “I think I’d sooner marry the devil,” countered Lily. Caleb chuckled. “Isn’t she beautiful?” Rupert frowned. “Personally, I think she needs a spanking.” “I agree,” said Caleb. “Will you two please stop talking about me as if I weren’t here? And it would take a bigger man than either of you to get the best of me.” Caleb leaned forward in his chair. “Is that a challenge?” “No,” Lily said, and the word took a great piece of her pride with it as it left her mouth. “I thought not,” said Caleb. “Don’t push your luck,” said Lily. Nothing

She yanked open the door, and her smile faded. The same Indian who had wanted to trade two horses for her was standing on the apple crate that served as a front step, his black hair dripping with water, his calico shirt so wet that his copper skin showed through in places. “No house!” he said. Lily was paralyzed for a moment. Here it was, she thought, the moment she’d been warned about. She was going to be scalped, or ravaged, or carried off to an Indian village. Maybe all three. She cast a desperate glance toward the shutgun, at the same time smiling broadly at the Indian. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said, “but of course you can see that there is a house.” “Woman go away!” the Indian insisted. Lily’s heart was flailing in her throat like a bird trapped in a chimney, but she squared her shoulders and put out her chin. “I’m not going anywhere, you rude man,” she replied. “This is my land, and I have the papers to prove it!” The Indian spouted a flock of curses; Lily knew the words for what they were only because of their tone. She started to close the door. “If you’re going to be nasty,” she said, “you’ll just have to leave.” Undaunted, the red man pushed past Lily and strode right over to the stove. He got a cup from the shelf, filled it with coffee, and took a sip. He grimaced. “You got firewater?” he demanded. “Better with firewater.” Lily had never been so frightened or so angry in her life. With one hand to her bosom she edged toward the shotgun. “No firewater,” she said apologetically, “but there is a little sugar. There”—she pointed—“in the blue bowl.” When her unwanted guest turned around to look for the sugar, Lily lunged for the shotgun and cocked it. There was no shell in the chamber; she could only hope the Indian wouldn’t guess. “All right, you,” she said, narrowing her eyes and pointing the shotgun. “Get out of here right now. Just ride away and there won’t be any trouble.” The Indian stared at her for a moment, then had the audacity to burst out laughing. “The major’s right about you,” he said in perfectly clear English. “You are a hellcat.” Now it was Lily who stared, slowly lowering the shotgun. “So that’s why Caleb wasn’t alarmed that day when you and your friends rode up and made all that fuss about the land. He knows you.” “The name’s Charlie Fast Horse,” the man said, offering his hand. Lily’s blood was rushing to her head like lava flowing to the top of an erupting volcano. “Why, that polecat—that rounder—that son-of-a—” Charlie Fast Horse set his coffee aside and held out both hands in a plea for peace. “Calm down, now, Miss Lily,” he pleaded. “It was just a harmless little joke, after all.” “When I see that scoundrel again I’m going to peel off his hide!” Charlie was edging toward the door. “Lord knows I’d like to warm myself by your fire, Miss Lily, but I’ve got to be going. No, no—don’t plead with me to stay.” “Get out of here!” Lily screamed, and Charlie Fast Horse ran for his life. Obviously he didn’t know the shotgun wasn’t loaded. The

I tracked down a vegan baker and had this cake special ordered for tonight. It’s a vanilla cake made with almond milk and maple syrup, glazed with cocoa icing. The damn thing smells delicious, yet my mouth is as dry as the Sahara Desert. That’s probably because of the message. Or, I should say, question iced on top of the cake. Walking up to the kitchen, I see her shaking her booty as she sings to the loud music blasting through the apartment. In her hand, she has a knife and is cutting up a banana. On the stove, I can see a small pot of melted dark chocolate and what looks like toasted and chopped walnuts on a plate. “Hey, babe! You’re home too early.” She gives me a fake pout. “I wanted to surprise you.” Setting my chin on her shoulder, I place my hands on her hips and watch as she starts cutting up another banana. “Surprise me with what, Pixie?” “Something sweet for us to eat while we watch the movie tonight.” Kissing the side of her neck, I murmur into her skin, “I’ve got your sweet covered.” She looks at the box with curious eyes. “Oh? And what do you have there, Trevor Blake?” Lifting the lid, I push the now visible cake with its question closer to her, and she gasps. Her hands start to tremble, and I watch the hand holding the knife with a wary eye. Perhaps I should have asked her to put that down first. I watch her face as her eyes tear up at the question in red icing. Will You Marry Me? The ring is the dot at the bottom of the question mark, shiny and blinking at her. Standing here, I wait for an answer. And I wait more. Thing is, it’s too quiet. There are silent tears running down her face, but she’s not said a single word. Fuck. What if she isn’t ready for this? I open my mouth to try to fix this, but suddenly my little sprite is squealing loudly, jumping up and down. I should be fucking thrilled that she’s happy, but all I can see is that knife bouncing up and down with her little body. She’s talking so fast I can barely understand what she’s saying. “Oh-my-gosh-Trevor-are-you-serious-right-now!” “Babe, happy as hell that you’re excited, but can you do me a favor really quick?” Paisley stops jumping up and down and nods her head repeatedly like a bobble head doll. I have to stop myself from laughing at her. She smiles brightly at me. “If you wanna know my answer, it’s yes!” “Well, that, too. But, Pixie, can you please put down the knife? Would really fucking hate it if one of us got accidentally stabbed on the night that I’m asking you to become my wife.

Baking soda can take the place of most scrubbing products – I find it very helpful on my stove top or counters when they get gunky, and it takes away the ring around the tub like few other things can. Just put a little on a damp cloth and scrub away. Note that I said “a little”. If you use too much, you'll spend your time cleaning up your cleaning product. For the things that need to be shiny, I like 1 part of white vinegar to 3 parts water. It's a streak-free window cleaner, you can use it when mopping the floors, and the mild acidic content will help kill germs while being non-toxic to people and pets. It will also help you see where you left any traces of baking soda – just spritz where you were cleaning, and any remaining baking soda will react to the vinegar and fizz up! If you can't stand the vinegar smell, I've heard of many people using essential oils or soaking fragrant herbs in the vinegar to change the scent. Use

When she'd come down to the kitchen after her shower, she'd deliberately left the lights off. She liked the way the cake looked in the bright light of the full moon that was streaming in through the windows. On the kitchen table a wooden spoon sat in a small saucepot, which held crushed hazelnuts that had been soaked and heated in Frangelico, next to the bowl of thick, velvety pastry cream she had prepared earlier. She released one of the layers from its baking pan and settled it onto the cake plate. She had sprinkled them while they were still warm with the same infused brandy, so they were now redolent with a harmonious perfume of filberts and chocolate. She deftly spread some of the pastry cream on the first layer and sprinkled a tablespoon of the crushed nuts on top of it. She added the second layer of cake, more buttery cream, and a dusting of nuts. Angelina always aimed for an extra shading of flavor when she created a recipe, something to complement and embrace the most prominent flavor in a dish, something that tickled the palate and the imagination. Here, she had chosen aromatic, earthy hazelnuts to add an extra dimension of texture and taste. She'd heard someplace that some musical composers said that it was the spaces between the notes that made all the difference; when you were cooking, it was the little details, too. Each layer of the dense cake covered the one beneath it as she laid them on, like dark disks of chocolate eclipsing moons made of creme anglaise instead of green cheese. In short order, the sixth and final layer had efficiently been fixed into place. She took a half step back to check for symmetry and balance, then moved on to the frosting. She poured the mixture of butter, milk, and chocolate that had been resting on the stove top into a mixing bowl, added a pinch of salt, a dash of real vanilla extract, and began whisking it all together with powdered sugar, which she shifted in stages to make sure that it combined thoroughly.

Angelina, I adore you...," crooned Louis. Then the New Orleans Gang picked up the beat and King Louis sang, "I eat antipasto twice, just because she is so nice, Angelina..." Fresh pasta time. Angelina cracked three eggs into the center of a mound of 00 flour, in time to the music, and began teasing the flour into the sticky center. With a hand-cranked pasta maker, she rolled out the dough into long, silky-thin sheets, laid them out until they covered the entire table, then used a 'mezza luna' to carefully slice wide strips of pasta for a new dish she wanted to try that she called Lasagna Provencal, a combination of Italian and French cheeses, Roma and sun-dried tomatoes, Herbes de Provence, and fresh basil. It was a recipe for which she had very high hopes. Angelina started assembling her lasagna. She mixed creamy Neufchatel, ricotta, and a sharp, grated Parmigiano-Reggiano in with a whole egg to bind it together. She layered fresh pasta sheets in a lasagna dish, coated them with the cheesy mixture, ripped in some fresh basil and oregano and sun-dried tomatoes. She worked quickly, but with iron concentration. "I'm-a just a gigolo, everywhere I go...," sang King Louie. For the second layer, she used more pasta topped with Gruyere and herbed Boursin cheese. The third layer was the same as the first. For the fourth layer, she used the rest of the Boursin and dollops of creme fraiche, then ladled the thick, rich tomato sauce from the stove on top and finished it with a sprinkling of shredded Gruyere. She set it aside for baking later and felt a flush of craftswomanly pride in the way it had all come together.

Instantly, I noticed that our conversation was easy, flirtatious and exciting. It didn’t take very long for us to get to know each other. To start with, I was a little taken aback with both of them being so friendly and talkative. As we talked, I really didn’t know what to call Rita and I stammered some as I attempted to navigate around the social aspects of my dilemma. I didn’t know her last name and “Mrs. Whatjamacallit” didn’t seem appropriate, so I continued using her first name. What seemed awkward to me at first, soon became and sounded acceptable. I also noticed that Connie alternated between calling her mother “Mom” and “Rita.” At first this was strange, but soon I kind of understood the unique relationship between them. For me it seemed different, however I tend to adapt easily and now I was becoming acquainted with a girl who called her mother by her first name. The house was without central heating, but it did have a big cast iron Franklin stove in the living room. Rita looked over to me and asked if I would light the fire. “Guess so,” I replied. I soon found out that lighting the fire encompassed getting and splitting the firewood, and then tending to it. Connie showed me to the front porch where there was a big pile of cordwood, just dumped in one heap. I also noticed that the wind was picking up and was blowing the white stuff onto the porch and covering the woodpile. “Might be a good idea to bring in enough wood to last the night,” I thought aloud. This was going to become a full time job! With Connie’s able help I got a roaring fire going. Rita made sandwiches and poured us all some Coca-Cola, which she topped off with some Canadian Whiskey. Turning the damper down on the fire, I thought to myself that the Franklin stove would never heat this size house, besides the wind was coming in through the cracks around the windows and doors. I knew that the house didn’t have much insulation by how cold the walls were. The windows were single pane, which also didn’t help much, but at least it was shelter. When I mentioned this, Rita said, “Never mind, we’ll all be able to stay warm in bed.” By this time, Connie and I were clowning around and Rita reminded us that she was also there. “I may be momma but I’m not about to freeze, while you kids have all the fun! Besides we only have one bed.” Suddenly the whole scene came into focus. The sandwiches on the kitchen table wouldn’t be our only food. The sandwiches we would have that night would just be the beginning of a feast.

Do you have a frying pan? Not Teflon, I hate that stuff. Cast iron? Or stainless steel?" I found River an old cast iron pan in the cabinet by the sink. I put it on the stove, and I imagined, for a second, Freddie, young, wearing a pearl necklace and a hat that slouched off to one side, standing over that very pan and making an omelet after a late night spent dancing those crazy, cool dances they did back in her day. "Brilliant," River said. He lit the gas stove and threw some butter in the pan. Then he cut four pieces of the baguette, rubbed them with a clove of garlic, and tore a hole out in each. He set the bread in the butter and cracked an egg onto the bread so it filled up the hole. The yolks of the eggs were a bright orange, which, according to Sunshine's dad, meant the chickens were as happy as a blue sky when they laid them. "Eggs in a frame," River smiled at me. When the eggs were done, but still runny, he put them on two plates, diced a tomato into little juicy squares, and piled them on top of the bread. The tomato had been grown a few miles outside of Echo, in some peaceful person's greenhouse, and it was red as sin and ripe as the noon sun. River sprinkled some sea salt over the tomatoes, and a little olive oil, and handed me a plate. "It's so good, River. So very, very good. Where the hell did you learn to cook?" Olive oil and tomato juice were running down my chin and I couldn't have cared less. "Honestly? My mother was a chef." River had the half smile on his crooked mouth, sly, sly, sly. "This is sort of a bruschetta, but with a fried egg. American, by way of Italy.

The same could not be said for the other two guys. The driver had been smashed in the face by the airbag, and then in the back of the head by the other guy, who had been thrown forward from the rear compartment like a spear, right out through the shattering windshield, where he still was, folded at the waist over the crumpled hood, face down. His feet were the nearest part of him. He wasn’t moving. Neither was the driver. Reacher forced open his door against the screech of distorted metal, and he crawled out, and he forced the door shut again after him. There was no traffic behind them. Nothing up ahead either, except dim twinkling headlights, maybe a mile in the distance. Coming toward them. A minute away, at sixty miles an hour. The vehicle the Lincoln had hit was a minivan. A Ford. It was all stoved in on the side. Bent like a banana. It had a banner in the windshield that said No Accidents. The Lincoln itself was a total mess. It was crumpled up like a concertina, all the way back to the windshield. Like a safety ad in a newspaper. Except for the guy draped on top.

Every once in a while at a restaurant, the dish you order looks so good, you don't even know where to begin tackling it. Such are HOME/MADE's scrambles. There are four simple options- my favorite is the smoked salmon, goat cheese, and dill- along with the occasional special or seasonal flavor, and they're served with soft, savory home fries and slabs of grilled walnut bread. Let's break it down: The scramble: Monica, who doesn't even like eggs, created these sublime scrambles with a specific and studied technique. "We whisk the hell out of them," she says, ticking off her methodology on her fingers. "We use cream, not milk. And we keep turning them and turning them until they're fluffy and in one piece, not broken into bits of egg." The toast: While the rave-worthiness of toast usually boils down to the quality of the bread, HOME/MADE takes it a step further. "The flame char is my happiness," the chef explains of her preference for grilling bread instead of toasting it, as 99 percent of restaurants do. That it's walnut bread from Balthazar, one of the city's best French bakeries, doesn't hurt. The home fries, or roasted potatoes as Monica insists on calling them, abiding by chefs' definitions of home fries (small fried chunks of potatoes) versus hash browns (shredded potatoes fried greasy on the griddle) versus roasted potatoes (roasted in the oven instead of fried on the stove top): "My potatoes I've been making for a hundred years," she says with a smile (really, it's been about twenty). The recipe came when she was roasting potatoes early on in her career and thought they were too bland. She didn't want to just keep adding salt so instead she reached for the mustard, which her mom always used on fries. "It just was everything," she says of the tangy, vinegary flavor the French condiment lent to her spuds. Along with the new potatoes, mustard, and herbs de Provence, she uses whole jacket garlic cloves in the roasting pan. It's a simple recipe that's also "a Zen exercise," as the potatoes have to be continuously turned every fifteen minutes to get them hard and crispy on the outside and soft and billowy on the inside.

The goal of flavor creation is to reach the seven-year-old inside the forty-seven-year-old," Brian explains of their instant connection with customers. While other ice cream start-ups in the city- and there have been plenty launches since Ample Hills, including Oddfellows (2013), Morgenstern's (2014), and Ice & Vice (2015), to name a few- have found their success in offbeat flavors like avocado, extra virgin olive oil, red bean, and chorizo caramel, they aren't made in the same spirit of evoking the fun and play of childhood that Brian finds essential. It's a different brand of creativity. Even though it inevitably meant waiting in a long line, I loved being the one to go to Ample Hills to pick up a pint because it also meant sampling the flavors. Each one is sweet and creamy, über-rich, and totally original. They're loaded with so many ingredients you never tire of taste testing them. There's Ooey Gooey Butter Cake, a full-flavor vanilla that's studded with chunks of rich, dense Saint Louis-style cake; The Munchies, a salty-sweet pretzel-infused ice cream chock-full of Ritz crackers, potato chips, M&M's, and more pretzels; Nonna D's Oatmeal Lace is brown-sugar-and-cinnamon ice cream chunked with homemade oatmeal cookies; and their signature flavor, Salted Crack Caramel, which involves caramelizing large amounts of sugar on the stove top until it's nearly burnt, giving it a bitterness that distinguishes their version from all the other salted caramels out there.

Braised Striped Bass Pavillon YIELD: 4 SERVINGS I HAD NEVER SEEN or tasted striped bass before I worked at Le Pavilion. It is similar, however, to the loup de mer of the Mediterranean, one of the most prized fish of that region and a standard menu item in restaurants along the Côte d’Azur. With flesh that is slightly softer and moister than its European cousin, striped bass was a specialty of Le Pavilion. The braised wild striped bass would be presented to the patrons whole and carved at tableside. The following is a simple, elegant, and mouth-watering adaptation of the recipe from Le Pavilion. The fish, gutted with head on, is braised with white wine, shallots, and mushrooms in the oven, then coated with the cooking juices enriched with butter. This dish is excellent served with tiny steamed potatoes or sautéed cucumbers. 1 striped bass, gutted, with head on (about 3 pounds) 2 cups thinly sliced mushrooms ¼ cup chopped shallots ½ teaspoon salt, plus more to taste ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper, plus more to taste 1 tablespoon good olive oil 1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves 2 bay leaves 1 cup dry, fruity white wine (Chardonnay or Sauvignon Blanc) 8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice 1 tablespoon minced fresh chives Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Place the fish in a gratin dish or stainless steel baking dish that is narrow enough to prevent the garnishes and the wine from spreading out too much. Sprinkle with the mushrooms, shallots, ½ teaspoon salt, ½ teaspoon pepper, olive oil, thyme, bay leaves, and wine. Cover tightly with a piece of aluminum foil so the fish will cook in its own steam. Bake for 35 to 45 minutes, or until the fish is cooked through. Check by inserting the point of a small knife into the flesh. It should be tender, and the flesh should separate from the central bone when pierced with the knife. Reduce the heat to 150 degrees. Using a large hamburger spatula, transfer the whole fish to an ovenproof serving platter, and set aside in the warm oven while you complete the recipe. Pour the fish’s cooking juices and vegetable solids into a small saucepan, and discard the bay leaves. You should have ¾ to 1 cup of liquid; cook down the liquid or add water to adjust the yield to this amount. Bring to a boil on top of the stove, and add the butter spoonful by spoonful, incorporating each piece into the mixture with a whisk before you add another. Remove the saucepan from the heat, and add the lemon juice, chives, and additional salt and pepper to taste. At serving time, pull or scrape off the skin on top of the fish with a small paring knife. Coat the fish with the sauce, and sprinkle the chives on top. Bring to the table, and carve for the guests.

Cliff went to bed early that night. Knowing I’d not sleep I stayed by the stove trying to read, but my mind kept jumping in and out of the story. That word ‘erase’ really bothered me: as if you could just wipe out a person’s home and move them on somewhere else and expect life to pick up again as normal. Being evacuated had felt like that. You just had to get on with it and try to fit in. the Kindertransport, though, must’ve been so much worse because on top of everything else Esther had to learn a new language and new customs, which would have made the fitting in part doubly hard. I shut my book with a sigh. I was trying to understand her, I really was. It was’t surprising she was angry – difficult, Mum would say. I wondered what Esther thought of me: was I annoying? Quiet? Maybe. Or was the uncomfortable truth that perhaps, from Esther’s viewpoint, it was me who was the angry, difficult one? Mulling it over, I wasn’t really listening to Ephraim as he talked on the radio upstairs. But at some point I became aware that his voice was raised. ‘They were expected days ago, you know that. It was always going to be tough. With such a small window of time they’d have to be incredibly quick,’ he was saying. ‘No, I’ve not had any contact… no… not a word.’ I moved to the bottom of the stairs to listen properly. ‘The weather was set fair so that shouldn’t have been… She had the co-ordiantes… Yes, I know the whole north coast is German-occupied, that’s whny they had to act fast. And it’ll be dangerous landing a boat her without the light…’ He went silent. Somewhere in the crackle of the radio I detected a familiar woman’s voice – Queenie’s. It startled me for a moment, though it also made sense. My hunch from the other night had been right: whatever they were up to, they were in it together. ‘Patience, Ephraim,’ Queenie said. ‘We need to sit this out for a few more days.’ ‘But it’ll only get harder, won’t it? Spratt’s got other plans for the lighthouse. He told me so this afternoon…’ ‘Losing your nerve won’t help anyone,’ she insisted. ‘Look, it sounds like we need a meeting. I’ll contact the others. Come over as soon as you can.’ I only just managed to get back into my seat before Ephraim came rushing down the stairs. ‘I’m going out for an hour,’ he muttered, grabbing his oilskins from their hook. ‘Where?’ I tried to sound innocent. ‘Out,’ he repeated. The tension, still there in his voice, made me ever so slightly afraid. Whatever was going on involved a boat, and danger, and someone who’d been expected here but still hadn’t arrived. Once Ephraim had disappeared, I shut my reading book. I really couldn’t concentrate anymore.

You are at your desk, you have set the book among your business papers as if by chance; at a certain moment you shift the file and you find the book before your eyes, you open it absently, you rest your elbows on the desk, you rest your temples against your hands, curled into fists, you seem to be concentrating on an examination of the papers and instead you are exploring the first pages of the novel. Gradually you settle back in the chair, you raise the book to the level of your nose, you tilt your chair, poised on its rear legs, you pull out a side drawer of the desk to prop your feet on it: the position of the feet during reading is of maximum importance, you stretch your legs out on the top of the desk, on the files to be expedited. But doesn’t this seem to show a lack of respect? Of respect that is, not for your job (nobody claims to pass judgment on your professional capacities: we assume that your duties are a normal element in the system of unproductive activities that occupies such a large part of the national and international economy), but for the book. Worse still if you belong—willingly or unwillingly—to the number of those for whom working means really working, performing, whether deliberately or without premeditation, something necessary or at least not useless for others as well as for oneself; then the book you have brought with you to your place of employment like a kind of amulet or talisman exposes you to intermittent temptations, a few seconds at a time subtracted from the principal object of your attention, whether it is the perforations of electronic cards, the burners of a kitchen stove, the controls of a bulldozer, a patient stretched out on the operating table with his guts exposed. In other words, it’s better for you to restrain your impatience and wait to open the book at home.

You are at your desk, you have set the book among your business papers as if by chance; at a certain moment you shift the file and you find the book before your eyes, you open it absently, you rest your elbows on the desk, you rest your temples against your hands, curled into fists, you seem to be concentrating on an examination of the papers and instead you are exploring the first pages of the novel. Gradually you settle back in the chair, you raise the book to the level of your nose, you tilt your chair, poised on its rear legs, you pull out a side drawer of the desk to prop your feet on it: the position of the feet during reading is of maximum importance, you stretch your legs out on the top of the desk, on the files to be expedited. But doesn’t this seem to show a lack of respect? Of respect that is, not for your job (nobody claims to pass judgment on your professional capacities: we assume that your duties are a normal element n the system of unproductive activities that occupies such a large part of the national and international economy), but for the book. Worse still if you belong—willingly or unwillingly—to the number of those for whom working means really working, performing, whether deliberately or without premeditation, something necessary or at least not useless for others as well as for oneself; then the book you have brought with you to your place of employment like a kind of amulet or talisman exposes you to intermittent temptations, a few seconds at a time subtracted from the principal object of your attention, whether it is the perforations of electronic cards, the burners of a kitchen stove, the controls of a bulldozer, a patient stretched out on the operating table with his guts exposed. In other words, it’s better for you to restrain your impatience and wait to open the book at home.

Whilst I was leisurely surveying these objects, I heard a noise on the top of the stove, and, looking up, perceived a human face, with long hair parted in the middle, and a full yellow beard. I was considerably astonished by this apparition, for the air in the room was stifling, and I had some difficulty in believing that any created being—except perhaps a salamander or a negro—could exist in such a position. I looked hard to convince myself that I was not the victim of a delusion.

There was a stove pipe on top of the box, but there were no bullet holes in the pipe. I was amazed. Almost all the camp stoves we had seen in Idaho had been full of bullet holes. I guess it’s only reasonable that people, when they get the chance, would want to shoot some old stove sitting in the woods.” Excerpt From Trout Fishing in America

Miss Chao was very dedicated in her practice of the Whole Body Prayer, and I had tremendous admiration for her. The biggest challenge was to calm her overactive mind, which was wasting energy that could otherwise be healing her. This is quite typical for an overachiever/Type A personality, whose mind is like a race car. In Miss Chao’s case, her brain “motor” was extremely hot, while her lower belly was cold, which presented a problem, as the Qi that we harness in the Whole Body Prayer begins in the gut. I used a metaphor to explain the problem to her: “When we put a kettle on the stove, the fire is below, and the water is on top. Your situation is the opposite—water on the bottom, fire above.” Years of unhealthy thinking habits had caused blockages in her meridians and had “rusted” the water pipes, so her spirit energy could not circulate. Decades of stagnation like this can lead to cancer. “Tumors are not your enemy,” I told Miss Chao. “It’s your nonstop lifestyle that’s eating your soul.” It was time to slow down. She accepted it. The results were extraordinary. Within three months of practicing the Whole Body Prayer, she was pain-free and could sleep without medication. Her swelling had disappeared. Her mood was uplifted. A few months later, her captivating smile was back, along with the light in her pretty eyes. Full of energy, she’d regained twenty pounds. In November 2002, nine months after she began the ZiJiu self-healing method, she went to the hospital for scans and a thorough examination. The doctors were astonished. They’d never seen a case like this. Miss Chao was entirely cancer-free. She had defeated stage 4 ovarian cancer without drugs, radiation, or any other external interventions. She’d simply used her own body’s innate power to harness cosmic Qi and heal itself. Given Miss Chao’s notoriety, this became a big news story. The three thousand friends and colleagues she’d hosted at her own “memorial service” one year earlier didn’t know what to make of this “miracle.” “It’s no ‘miracle,’” she told them. “It’s the science of Qigong.

I knocked quickly, brushing my disordered hair back from my eyes. The door swung open and I was in the shadowy, warm kitchen, almost in Mrs. Klevity’s arms. “Oh!” I backed up, laughing breathlessly. “The wind blew—” “I was afraid you weren’t coming.” She turned away to the stove. “I fixed some hot cocoa.” I sat cuddling the warm cup in my hands, savoring the chocolate sip by sip. She had made it with milk instead of water, and it tasted rich and wonderful. But Mrs. Klevity was sharing my thoughts with the cocoa. In that brief moment when I had been so close to her, I had looked deep into her dim eyes and was feeling a vast astonishment. The dimness was only on top. Underneath—underneath— I took another sip of cocoa. Her eyes—almost I could have walked into them, it seemed like. Slip past the gray film, run down the shiny bright corridor, into the live young sparkle at the far end. I looked deep into my cup of cocoa. Were all grownups like that? If you could get behind their eyes, were they different too? Behind Mom’s eyes, was there a corridor leading back to youth and sparkle?

The paper was in my left hand coat pocket. I reached into my right, felt Bonnie’s gun. I didn’t have time to aim it or even to arrange it. I just twisted enough to swing it in his direction and let it shoot in the general direction of his stomach. As I squeezed off I sidestepped, moved in close beside him and kicked at the soldering iron in his left hand. I’d hit him all right, but not in the right place to knock him down. He swore at me and twisted to bring his gun around. I stepped inside it and hit him with my fist where I guessed the bullet had hit him. It must have been the spot because he staggered and dropped the gun. But he was tough and he came after me swinging both hands. I put my foot in his stomach and pushed and he sat down on the floor. When he tried to get up, he found it difficult. He sat there long enough for me to pick up his gun and to kick the soldering iron across the floor out of reach. He started to get up again and I laid the gun barrel across the top of his head. He sat down again, then keeled over sideways and lay with his head under the stove. I pulled off his crushed hat. He had red hair. I’d been awfully lucky so far today and I just stood there for a couple of minutes, breathing hard and thanking my guardian angel. Then I paid some more attention to the man on the floor. I didn’t want him to pass out just yet. I pulled him out from under the stove and turned him on his back. His eyes were closed but his mouth moved. I went to the sink, got a milk bottle half full of cold water and poured it on his face. He opened his eyes. “Where’s Singer Batts?” I asked. “Who?” he said weakly. I nudged him on the sore side of his stomach and said, “Singer Batts. The guy you took out of a cab this morning.” “I don’t know.” “Where is he?” I kicked him in the wound again. I didn’t like doing it, but I remembered the hot soldering iron and I remembered Singer Batts.

This time he kicked the other shin. I felt tears in my eyes and blinked to keep them back. He backed across the kitchen to the gas stove, turned on one of the burners and the pilot lit it. On top of the oven was a soldering iron, the old fashioned kind with a wooden handle and a heavy point. He stuck the pointed end in the flame of the burner and left it there. His eyes didn’t leave my face. “All right,” he said. “Donna’s in your apartment at the motor court. Later, if you can still talk, you’ll call her up and tell her to meet you someplace. But right now I’ve got another question. What are you and your hick friend looking for up here?” “Dolly Spangler’s murderer,” I said. “Who do you figure that might be?” “I haven’t figured. Singer Batts does the figuring. Where did you take him?” “Forget about him. Just concentrate on what I say. I want the paper—the report out of the Control Board files that you and your hick friend are looking for. Where is it?” “What makes you think we found it?” He lifted the soldering iron out of the burner and looked at it. It was pink. He stuck it back in the flame. “I think you did,” he said. “If you didn’t, you know where it is.” “All right,” I said. “Franklin Hollander’s got it. Bonnie Claire and her boys planted it on him.” One of his eyebrows flickered. “If you know that much,” he said, “you know Hollander doesn’t have it any more. Where is it?” He lifted the iron out of the fire. It was nice and red now. He spat on it and it sizzled. He walked my way. “You win,” I said. “I’ve got the paper. It’s in my pocket. You want me to reach in and get it?” He stopped and looked me over, looked at my pockets and back at my face. He didn’t want to come close enough to reach in my pocket. He would have to put down either the gun or the iron and he didn’t want to do that either. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Reach for it slow. Pull it out and drop it on the floor.

AGES 14 TO 18: MORE ADVANCED SKILLS ARE LEARNED. By the age of fourteen, your child should have a very good mastering of all of the previous skills. On top of that, she should also be able to: • perform more sophisticated cleaning and maintenance chores, such as changing the vacuum cleaner bag, cleaning the stove, and unclogging drains • fill a car with gas, add air to and change a tire • read and understand medicine labels and dosages • interview for and get a job • prepare and cook meals

In honor of New England, he selected a can of baked beans, prying it from its clam-tight place with diligence and vindictives. He opened it, set it on the stove top, and allowed it to simmer right in the can—until the bubbling sound of it and the molasses-sweet smell of it overpowered his senses. Then he plunged into it with a wooden spoon and ate it all like a hungry terrier, surprised at the slurping noises that came out of him, glad that his mother was in Ohio.

Back at the stove, she used a spatula to dunk the puffed-up pastries into the hot oil, making sure the edges were a warm golden brown before she scooped them out of the fryer. That was the key to making sure her beignets were crispy on the outside and pillow-soft on the inside. She plated them on one of T&J's Supper Club's signature emerald-green plates and sprinkled just the right amount of powdery confectioners' sugar on the top. Perfect.

Abe's Ass-Kickin' Apple Pie (written in pencil on a much-stained sheet of paper with MARION CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTE across the top) 8 cups apples 1⁄4 cup butter 1⁄2 cup brown sugar 1⁄4 cup granulated sugar 21⁄2 Tb flour 11⁄2 tsp cinnamon pinch salt 1 Tb lemon juice 1 tsp vanilla Cut apples into thin slices. Cook in large pan with 1⁄2 cup water. While cooking, add butter. Mix sugars, flour, cinnamon, and salt in bowl. After apples are tender, add sugar mix, lemon juice, and vanilla to apples. Allow mix to simmer 10–12 minutes. Remove from stove and allow apples to cool. Once cool, place in pie crust. Be sure to slit holes in top crust. Sprinkle top with sugar if desired or mix 1 egg with 2 tablespoons water and brush over top crust. Also can add raisins to apple mix or mayhap nuts. Cook in oven 425 degrees for approx fifty minutes.

Beatrice Belladonna is the wise sister, quiet and clever as an owl in the rafters; she walks last into the tower. She never believed in crone-stories, even as a girl. She determined long ago that the Crone was an amalgamation of myths and fables, an expression of collective fear rather than an actual old woman. Old women are supposed to be doting and addled, absent-minded grandmothers who spoil their sons and keep soup bubbling on the stove-top, but the Crone is none of those things. She's the canny one, the knowing one, the too-wise witch who knows the words to every curse and the ingredients for every poison. She is Baba Yaga and Black Anna; she is the wicked fairy who hands out curses rather than christening-gifts. Bella knows her by her fingertips: ink-stained, tattooed with words in a dozen dead languages. A delicate asp coils around one wrist.

SIMPLE CANNABUTTER This is an easy, quick way to infuse cannabis into butter on your stove top. Be sure to use salted butter since it has a higher smoke point, and don’t leave your saucepan unattended! You can make this cannabutter relatively quickly, and use it in any of the recipes in this book. MAKES ½ CUP ½ cup (1 stick) salted butter* ¼ ounce cannabis buds, finely ground *To make cannamargarine, simply substitute margarine for butter in this recipe. 1. Melt the butter on low heat in a saucepan. Add the ground buds, and simmer on low heat for 45 minutes, stirring frequently. 2. Strain the butter into a glass dish with a tight-fitting lid. Push the back of a spoon against the plant matter, and smash it against the strainer to squeeze out every drop of butter available. When you’re done, discard the plant matter. 3. Use your cannabutter immediately, or refrigerate or freeze until it is time to use. You can easily scale this recipe up for larger batches of cannabutter. 1 pound of butter (4 sticks) can absorb 1 ounce of cannabis, but you may want to simmer for up to 60 minutes. Drizzle this cannabutter over freshly cooked pasta or popcorn for instant satisfaction. Reserve large batches in the fridge or freezer for use in recipes. Note: For medical patients, I would recommend using 2 ounces of cannabis for each pound of butter, effectively making a double-strength cannabutter.

The next morning Tatiana was screaming from inside the cabin. Her shrieks carried to Alexander through the pines, over the sound of his ax falling down on the cracking wood. He dropped the axe and ran to the house to find her crouching on top of the high counter. Her legs were drawn up to her neck. “What?” he exclaimed, panting. “Shura, a mouse ran by my feet as I was cooking.” Alexander stared at the eggs on the hearth, at the small pot of bubbling coffee on the Primus stove, at the tomatoes already on their plates, and then at Tatiana, ascended a meter from the floor. His mouth reluctantly, infectiously drew into a wide grin. “What are you”—he was trying to keep from laughing—“what are you doing up there?” “I told you!” she yelled. “A mouse ran by and brushed his”—she shivered—“his tail against my leg. Can you take care of it?” “Yes, but what are you doing up there?” “Getting away from the mouse, of course.” She frowned, looking at him unhappily. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to catch it?” Alexander walked to the counter and picked her up. Tatiana grabbed his neck but did not put her feet down. He hugged her, kissed her, kissed her again with enormous affection, and said, “Tatiasha, you goose, mice can climb, you know.” “No they can’t.” “I’ve seen mice climb the pole of the commander’s tent in Finland, trying to get to the piece of food at the very top.” “What was food doing at the top of the tent pole?” “We put it there.” “Why?” “To see if mice could climb.” Tatiana almost laughed. “Well, you’re not getting breakfast, or coffee, or me in this house until that mouse is gone.” After carrying her outside, Alexander went back for the breakfast plates. They ate on the bench, side by side. Alexander turned and stared at her incredulously. “Tania, are you…afraid of mice?” “Yes. Have you killed it?” “And how would you like me to do that? You never told me you were afraid of mice.

Alexander said as soon as it got cold, they would leave. September came and it was still warm; he liked that. Better still, not only was Tatiana making them a little money, she was drinking some sparkling wine, some Bisol Brut, for which she developed a bit of a taste. After work, she would sit with Anthony, have bread and cheese, and a glass of sparkler. She closed the winery, counted the money, played with the boy, waited for Alexander to finish work, and sipped her drink. By the time they drove to the B&B, had dinner, chocolate cake, more wine, a bath, put Anthony to bed, and she fell down onto the goose down covers, arms flung above her head, Tatiana was so bubbled up, so pliant, so agreeable to all his relentless frenzies, and so ceaselessly and supernally orgasmic that Alexander would not have been a mortal man if he allowed anything to come between his wife and her Bisol Brut. Who would do a crazy thing like quit to go into dry country? This country was flowing with foaming wine, and that is just how they both liked it. He started whispering to her again, night by night, little by little. Tania . . . you want to know what drives me insane? Yes, darling, please tell me. Please whisper to me. When you sit up straight like this with your hands on your lap, and your breasts are pushed together, and your pink nipples are nice and soft. I lose my breath when your nipples are like that. The trouble is, as soon as I see you looking at me, the nipples stop being nice and soft. Yes, they are quite shameful, he whispers, his breath lost, his mouth on them. But your hard nipples also drive me completely insane, so it’s all good, Tatia. It’s all very very good. Anthony was segregated from them by an accordion room partition. A certain privacy was achieved, and after a few nights of the boy not being woken up, they got bolder; Alexander did unbelievable things to Tatiana that made her sparkler-fueled moaning so extravagant that he had to invent and devise whole new ways of sustaining his usually impeccable command over his own release. Tell me what you want. I’ll do anything you want, Tania. Tell me. What can I do—for you? Anything, darling . . . anything you want, you do . . . There was nothing Gulag about their consuming love in that enchanted bed by the window, the bed that was a quilted down island with four posters and a canopy, with pillows so big and covers so thick . . . and afterward he lay drenched and she lay breathless, and she murmured into his chest that she should like a soft big bed like this forever, so comforted was she and so very pleased with him. Once she asked in a breath, Isn’t this better than being on top of the hard stove in Lazarevo? Alexander knew she wanted him to say yes, and he did, but he didn’t mean it, and though she wanted him to say it, he knew she didn’t want him to mean it either. Could anything come close to crimson Lazarevo where, having been nearly dead, without champagne or wine or bread or a bed, without work or food or Anthony or any future other than the wall and the blindfold, they somehow managed for one brief moon to live in thrall sublime? They had been so isolated, and in their memories they still remained near the Ural Mountains, in frozen Leningrad, in the woods of Luga when they had been fused and fevered, utterly doomed, utterly alone. And yet!—look at her tremulous light— as if in a dream—in America—in fragrant wine country, flute full of champagne, in a white quilted bed, her breath, her breasts on him, her lips on his face, her arms in rhapsody around him are so comforting, so true—and so real.

RUE MORGUE BEANS WITH BACON 8 slices bacon 1 15-ounce can pinto beans, drained 1 15-ounce can kidney beans, drained 1 15-ounce can garbanzo beans, drained 1 28-ounce can baked beans, including sauce (recommended brand: Β & M) 4 cups onions, quartered and thinly sliced (about 2 large onions) ½ cup dark corn syrup ¼ cup cider vinegar 1 tsp. dry mustard Cook bacon, drain, and cut into 1-inch slices. Combine bacon and rest of ingredients in Dutch oven on top of stove. Simmer uncovered for 2 hours, stirring every 15 minutes, until sauce is slightly reduced and onions are completely cooked. Serves 8.

Turning to the stove, he picked up the pan of veggie sauce and dumped it over a bowl of whole-grain pasta. He sprinkled shredded soy cheese over the top. “Eat something before you go— this’ll give you sustained energy.” “No, thanks,” I said. “I’ve lost my appetite.” A wry grin crossed his lips. “Like hell you have. Ten minutes after you leave, you’re heading to the drive-through window of the nearest Whataburger.” “You think I’d cheat on you?” I demanded with all the innocent outrage I could muster. “With another guy, no. With a cheeseburger . . . in a heartbeat.” -Dane & Ella

Cooking for him is a craft of spice and oil. His food burns the tongue and clogs the arteries. When he looks around him here, he does not see prickly leaves and hairy little berries for an effervescent salad, tan stalks of wheat for a heavenly balloon of sone-ground, stove-top-baked flatbread. He sees instead units of backbreaking toil. He sees hours and days and weeks and years. He sees the labor by which a farmer exchanges his allocation of time in this world for an allocation of time in this world.

Listen, I was wanting to ask you a couple of things. Like about your daddy. What do you know about your daddy?” She turned back to the stove again, very busy, very intent on her imaginary project. “He has a big plane,” she said without looking at him. “He’s bery important with a big plane.” “Is that so?” She nodded. “I have news for you, Rose. It turns out I’m your daddy. How about that?” She looked over her shoulder at him. She didn’t look terribly impressed. “Where’s the plane?” Sean’s hearing was exceptional, despite the roar of jet engines for the past ten years and the blasting of rock bands in the O Club on top of that. He heard a muffled giggle he recognized as Rosie’s mother. The sneak. He leaned over to peek out the bedroom door, but he didn’t see her. “At Beale Air Force Base. That’s where the plane is kept when it’s not flying. Would you like to see it sometime?” Rosie nodded so vigorously her curls bounced and her tiara slid farther to one side. “Can I go for a wide in it?” “That’s not allowed, I’m afraid. You can go inside with me while it’s parked on the ground.” “My mommy goes in the helifropter.” “You mean helicopter?” he asked. Again she bobbed enthusiastically. “Uh-huh. Helifropter.” “She mentioned that.

So I march into this pizzeria, and smell hot cheese and basil and oregano and garlic and onions and maybe pepperoni in the air, and notice some youngsters and loud cowboys eating pizzas and drinking beer at wooden tables, and start studying all the scrumptious pies in the display case in front of the big oven. There's one with sausage and mushrooms and three cheeses, and one with bacon and charred peppers and black olives and shrimp, and another with tiny meatballs and broccoli and whole garlic cloves, and one called the Super Deluxe, with everything but the kitchen stove.

Are you cooking the peppers?" she asked. "I was going to slice them over the top with the cheese," Leo said. "Too much?" "Nope." Thea let him handle the jalapeños while she shaved off a few thin slices of cheese, a mild cheddar the cooks kept on hand for baking into cornbread or slicing onto burgers at staff meal. It was just the sort of thing she would have been moved to eat if she'd been by herself, except she would have just toasted it on bread or eaten it cold on crackers, meditating on the ring of toothmarks she left in each slice as she chewed. Leo swirled his pan, tilting it to let the last soft rivulets of egg hit the hot pan, and then wordlessly reached one hand back toward her. Thea set the sliced cheese in his palm, realizing as she did that she was a little more buzzed than she'd intended to be, because she placed the cheddar on Leo's warm skin as delicately as if it were a piece of jewelry, a hollowed, painted eggshell. He laid the cheese over the eggs, then scattered a thick layer of chorizo coins over the cheese, and finally a handful of fresh sliced jalapeño. "And we're done," Leo said. He paused, looking around frantically until Thea realized that he had forgotten where the plates were kept. She reached beneath the prep counter and handed him two. "Thanks," he said. He ran a spatula down the center of the eggs and lifted a golden orange pillow onto each plate, dropping yet more paprika-scented oil onto the stove and the counter.

Reese’s Corn Bread Chili Pie For a weekday dinner with family, you need something that will please both kids and adults and that isn’t too complicated to make. My favorite thing is chili pie. This is an easy one-dish dinner if you are using a cast-iron or other oven-safe skillet. If using a baking dish or casserole, cook the filling on the stove top in a skillet or sauté pan and transfer to the baking dish before adding the corn bread batter topping. 2 tablespoons olive oil 1 medium onion, chopped 2 cloves garlic, minced 1 pound ground beef 1 pound ground pork 2 (1.75 oz.) packets chili seasoning 1 (14 oz.) can diced tomatoes 2 tablespoons tomato paste 2 cups chicken broth 2 (8.5 oz.) boxes Jiffy Corn Muffin Mix 2 eggs

Stir the remaining 1/2 cup of corn and the kidney beans into the meat mixture. 5. If using a baking or casserole dish, transfer the meat mixture from the stove top to the baking dish. Pour the corn bread batter over the meat mixture and bake in the oven for 35 to 40 minutes, until golden brown on top. Remove from the oven and allow to sit for 10 minutes before serving with optional toppings such as salsa, green

True, there's an aisle devoted to foreign foods, and then there are familiar foods that have been through the Japanese filter and emerged a little bit mutated. Take breakfast cereal. You'll find familiar American brands such as Kellogg's, but often without English words anywhere on the box. One of the most popular Kellogg's cereals in Japan is Brown Rice Flakes. They're quite good, and the back-of-the-box recipes include cold tofu salad and the savory pancake okonomiyaki, each topped with a flurry of crispy rice flakes. Iris and I got mildly addicted to a Japanese brand of dark chocolate cornflakes, the only chocolate cereal I've ever eaten that actually tastes like chocolate. (Believe me, I've tried them all.) Stocking my pantry at Life Supermarket was fantastically simple and inexpensive. I bought soy sauce, mirin, rice vinegar, rice, salt, and sugar. (I was standing right in front of the salt when I asked where to find it This happens to me every time I ask for help finding any item in any store.) Total outlay: about $15, and most of that was for the rice. Japan is an unabashed rice protectionist, levying prohibitive tariffs on imported rice. As a result, supermarket rice is domestic, high quality, and very expensive. There were many brands of white rice to choose from, the sacks advertising different growing regions and rice varieties. (I did the restaurant wine list thing and chose the second least expensive.) Japanese consumers love to hear about the regional origins of their foods. I almost never saw ingredients advertised as coming from a particular farm, like you'd see in a farm-to-table restaurant in the U.S., but if the milk is from Hokkaido, the rice from Niigata, and the tea from Uji, all is well. I suppose this is not so different from Idaho potatoes and Florida orange juice. When I got home, I opened the salt and sugar and spooned some into small bowls near the stove. The next day I learned that Japanese salt and sugar are hygroscopic: their crystalline structure draws in water from the air (and Tokyo, in summer, has enough water in the air to supply the world's car washes). I figured this was harmless and went on licking slightly moist salt and sugar off my fingers every time I cooked.

This is Carlos's Three-Cheese Casserole." In between my appointment with Dr. D-P and my trip to the loft to supervise the installation of the range, I'd run home and gathered some ingredients from my father's pantry, intending to break in my new stove and play around with my kids' cooking assignment. I'd used tricolor bows, mixed with a combination of cottage cheese, Gruyère, the end of a piece of hard cheese I'd found in the back of the fridge, and a couple of eggs. I baked it all in a hot oven and served it topped with a fresh tomato basil sauce.

She reached for a tiny white dish on top of the stove. "Oops, and salt. I almost forgot salt." "Salt?" I wrinkled my nose, and then widened my eyes. "Is that your secret ingredient?" Sophie laughed. "Salt isn't a secret ingredient, doofus. Besides, you just add a pinch. Salt brings out all the flavors." She paused. "It's weird, isn't it? How something so opposite of sweet can make things taste even better?" "How does it do that?" I asked. "I don't know," Sophie answered. "It just kind of brings everything together in its own strange little way.

I watched Pascal sleep. He had long, curved eyelashes and lips that swelled with every little breath. I nestled into him, and his body responded in turn. He pushed his leg in between mine, nuzzling the top of his head against my cheek. His hair smelled like smoked wood chips. He looked old, in a good way. Even in his sleep, he had a reassuring quality. Restaurants were about hospitality, but the chef wasn't usually the one with open arms. Pascal was, though. He was everything at Bakushan: the genius behind the stove, the draw through the door, the face on the magazine covers. He embodied so many things, and I was floored that he was the one cuddling into me. He was the one who gave me little kisses as he slept.

Why do you think my life matters more than your life?” “Because it does!” he barked. But if his anger was smoke from a burnt pan, that truth—that simple truth that he cradled in his hands—had the same effect as throwing open a window next to the stove. All of the smoke, all of the fight left him in a rush. In a soft, choked voice, he said, “It matters more to me.” Esther settled back onto her heels. “Hank….” Hank took a deep breath. “I have felt more like myself in the last month since meeting you than I had for seventeen years. Seventeen years, Esther! Do you know what it feels like to be a ghost in your own house? In your own life?” She bit her bottom lip and Hank watched her top teeth make a dent in the soft pink peach slice of her mouth. He went on. “And then you came along. And you… you made me hope. You made me hope that things could change. That they could get better. That I could have a life again.” He stopped and rubbed a hand down his face. And then his hoarse voice cracked with emotion as he said, “You made me hope that I could be happy again.