Stuffed Chicken Quotes

Go to Old Delhi,and look at the way they keep chickens there in the market. Hundred of pale hens and brightly colored roosters, stuffed tightly into wire-mesh cages. They see the organs of their brothers lying around them.They know they are next, yet they cannot rebel. They do not try to get out of the coop. The very same thing is done with humans in this country.

Why me?" I blurted out, and then closed my eyes briefly. "Okay. Don't answer that." The food arrived just then一thank God一and the conversation was deterred...for about two minutes. "I'm going to answer that question," Cam said, peering at me through his lashes. I wanted to face-plant my stuffed chicken. "You don't have to." "No, I think I do.

A girl wearing a wicker chicken and playing the harp bopped me with a book about buns and then stuffed me under a piano.

On the nights I stuffed myself full of myths, I dreamed of college, of being pumped full of all the old knowledge until I knew everything there was to know, all the past cultures picked clean like delicious roasted chicken.

My mom says, "Do you know what the AIDS memorial quilt is all about?" Jump to how much I hate my brother at this moment. I bought this fabric because I thought it would make a nice panel for Shane," Mom says. "We just ran into some problems with what to sew on it." Give me amnesia. Flash. Give me new parents. Flash. Your mother didn't want to step on any toes," Dad says. He twists a drumstick off and starts scraping the meat onto a plate. "With gay stuff you have to be so careful since everything means something in secret code. I mean, we didn't want to give people the wrong idea." My Mom leans over to scoop yams onto my plate, and says, "Your father wanted a black border, but black on a field of blue would mean Shane was excited by leather sex, you know, bondage and discipline, sado and masochism." She says, "Really, those panels are to help the people left behind." Strangers are going to see us and see Shane's name," my dad says. "We didn't want them thinking things." The dishes all start their slow clockwise march around the table. The stuffing. The olives. The cranberry sauce. "I wanted pink triangles but all the panels have pink triangles," my mom says. "It's the Nazi symbol for homosexuals." She says,"Your father suggested black triangles, but that would mean Shane was a lesbian. It looks like female pubic hair. The black triangle does." My father says, "Then I wanted a green border, but it turns out that would mean Shane was a male prostitute." My mom says, "We almost chose a red border, but that would mean fisting. Brown would mean either scat or rimming, we couldn't figure which." Yellow," my father says, "means watersports." A lighter shade of blue," Mom says, "would mean just regular oral sex." Regular white," my father says, "would mean anal. White could also mean Shane was excited by men wearing underwear." He says, "I can't remember which." My mother passes me the quilted chicken with the rolls still warm inside. We're supposed to sit and eat with Shane dead all over the table in front of us. Finally we just gave up," my mom says, "and I made a nice tablecloth out of the material." Between the yams and the stuffing, Dad looks down at his plate and says, "Do you know about rimming?" I know it isn't table talk. And fisting?" my mom asks. I say, I know. I don't mention Manus and his vocational porno magazines. We sit there, all of us around a blue shroud with the turkey more like a big dead baked animal than ever, the stuffing chock full of organs you can still recognize, the heart and gizzard and liver, the gravy thick with cooked fat and blood. The flower centerpiece could be a casket spray. Would you pass the butter, please?" my mother says. To my father she says, "Do you know what felching is?

Motherhood is when eating chicken soup; the kids get the chicken and you get the soup and you would still feel happily stuffed.

Of course, consumers might notice that their chickens don’t taste quite right — how good could a drug-stuffed, disease-ridden, shit-contaminated animal possibly taste? — but the birds will be injected (or otherwise pumped up) with “broths” and salty solutions to give them what we have come to think of as the chicken look, smell, and taste.

In a society that is essentially designed to organize, direct, and gratify mass impulses, what is there to minister to the silent zones of man as an individual? Religion? Art? Nature? No, the church has turned religion into standardized public spectacle, and the museum has done the same for art. The Grand Canyon and Niagara Falls have been looked at so much that they've become effete, sucked empty by too many stupid eyes. What is there to minister to the silent zones of man as an individual? How about a cold chicken bone on a paper plate at midnight, how about a lurid lipstick lengthening or shortening at your command, how about a Styrofoam nest abandoned by a 'bird' you've never known, how about a pair of windshield wipers pursuing one another futilely while you drive home alone through a downpour, how about something beneath a seat touched by your shoe at the movies, how about worn pencils, cute forks, fat little radios, boxes of bow ties, and bubbles on the side of a bathtub? Yes, these are the things, these kite strings and olive oil cans and Valentine hearts stuffed with nougat, that form the bond between the autistic vision and the experiential world, it is to show these things in their true mysterious light that is the purpose of the moon.

What is a turducken? An exclusive culinary creation available by special order from some little Cajun town down south. Entirely deboned, a turducken consists of a turkey, stuffed with duck, stuffed with a chicken, like an edible Russian nesting doll. Some were stuffed with alligator, crap, shrimp; my favorite was the traditional cornbread variety.

Scientific studies and government records suggest that virtually all (upwards of 95 percent of) chickens become infected with E. coli (an indicator of fecal contamination) and between 39 and 75 percent of chickens in retail stores are still infected. Around 8 percent of birds become infected with salmonella (down from several years ago, when at least one in four birds was infected, which still occurs on some farms). Seventy to 90 percent are infected with another potentially deadly pathogen, campylobacter. Chlorine baths are commonly used to remove slime, odor, and bacteria. Of course, consumers might notice that their chickens don't taste quite right - how good could a drug-stuffed, disease-ridden, shit-contaminated animal possibly taste? - but the birds will be injected (or otherwise pumped up) with "broths" and salty solutions to give them what we have come to think of as the chicken look, smell, and taste. (A recent study by Consumer Reports found that chicken and turkey products, many labeled as natural, "ballooned with 10 to 30 percent of their weight as broth, flavoring, or water.

The German birds didn't taste as good as their French cousins, nor did the frozen Dutch chickens we bought in the local supermarkets. The American poultry industry had made it possible to grow a fine-looking fryer in record time and sell it at a reasonable price, but no one mentioned that the result usually tasted like the stuffing inside of a teddy bear.

After five years spent in retirement, he died of a chill caught while experimenting on refrigeration by stuffing a chicken full of snow. Bacon

Thomas More still has some credit with the king. And he has written him a letter, saying,” he manages to smile, “that I am Wycliffe, Luther and Zwingli rolled together and tied up in string—one reformer stuffed inside another, as for a feast you might parcel a pheasant inside a chicken inside a goose.

If you read any poetry or stories coming out these days, you know what I mean when I say that you can smell the stench of liquor coming from the words they write. And underneath their sentences lies a pile of chicken and goat bones, and the skeletons of the innocent ones. If you poke the head of the broom into contemporary literature, you'll find a hollow wall stuffed full of money — impure, dirty money.

A good cook was like a good educator; his duty was solely to bring out the talent of the chicken and show it to best advantage, as a good teacher brings out the talent inherent in a young man. Granted that the original talent was there in the chicken, too much coaxing, stuffing, imposing, and spicing would merely distract from its simple beauty and virtue.

The office itself was windowless and lined with shelves stuffed to the brim with books each sporting titles more Hellish than the last. Chicken Soup for the Damned Mephistopheles Money and You: Finances in Hell One Born Every Minute: A Novice Demon's Guide to Tempting Humans ...The Complete Works of Jane Austen.

Would I taste like chicken? Then it occurred to her what meal these people planned, which brought on an even more evil realization. They’re going to shove their hand up my butt and fill me with stuffing. Squawk.

Guava-stuffed chicken with caramelized mango and a spicy mango mojito sauce. Alim had ruined mango for her, but every time Feyi remembered how shocked and open his face looked with desire, she wasn't sure she minded. There was a lemongrass-and-pineapple-glazed pork belly with Zanzibari spiced octopus, grilled jerk watermelon with couscous and a basil oil, and finally, a banana cream parfait with coconut shortbread alongside broiled pineapple with macadamia toffee, drizzled with rum caramel.

Anticipating their calamity and fright when deportation day came (August 6, 1942) he [Henryk Goldszmit, pen name: Janusz Korczak] joined them aboard the train bound for Treblinka, because, he said, he knew his presence would calm them—“You do not leave a sick child in the night, and you do not leave children at a time like this.” A photograph taken at the Umschlagplatz (Transshipment Square) shows him marching, hatless, in military boots, hand in hand with several children, while 192 other children and ten staff members follow, four abreast, escorted by German soldiers. Korczak and the children boarded red boxcars not much larger than chicken coops, usually stuffed with seventy-five vertical adults, though all the children easily fit. In Joshua Perle’s eyewitness account in The Destruction of the Warsaw Ghetto, he describes the scene: “A miracle occurred, two hundred pure souls, condemned to death, did not weep. Not one of them ran away. None tried to hide. Like stricken swallows they clung to their teacher and mentor, to their father and brother, Janusz Korczak.” In 1971, the Russians named a newly discovered asteroid after him, 2163 Korczak, but maybe they should have named it Ro, the planet he dreamed of. The Poles claim Korczak as a martyr, and the Israelis revere him as one of the Thirty-Six Just Men, whose pure souls make possible the world’s salvation. According to Jewish legend, these few, through their good hearts and good deeds, keep the too-wicked world from being destroyed. For their sake alone, all of humanity is spared. The legend tells that they are ordinary people, not flawless or magical, and that most of them remain unrecognized throughout their lives, while they choose to perpetuate goodness, even in the midst of inferno.

Eli keeps showing me random things." he said, shaking his head. "Like what?" I whispered, not able to help myself. "His toes in the dirt, chicken noodle soup, Legos, pine cones, and Calico. Always Calico." He shrugged and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “What do you think he’s trying to tell me?” "Those are his favorite things. He’s telling you his greats.

Jennifer Anne had prepared some complicated-looking recipe involving chicken breasts stuffed with sweet potatoes topped with a vegetable glaze. They looked perfect, but it was the kind of dish where you just knew someone had to have been pawing at your food for a long while to get it just right, their fingers all in what now you were having to stick in your mouth.

It's weird not being in our subculture of two any more. There was Jen's culture, her little habits and ways of doing things; the collection of stuff she'd already learnt she loved before we met me. Chorizo and Jonathan Franken and long walks and the Eagles (her dad). Seeing the Christmas lights. Taylor Swift, frying pans in the dishwasher, the works absolutely, arsewipe, heaven. Tracy Chapman and prawn jalfrezi and Muriel Spark and HP sauce in bacon sandwiches. And then there was my culture. Steve Martin and Aston Villa and New York and E.T. Chicken bhuna, strange-looking cats and always having squash or cans of soft drinks in the house. The Cure. Pink Floyd. Kanye West, friend eggs, ten hours' sleep, ketchup in bacon sandwiches. Never missing dental check-ups. Sister Sledge (my mum). Watching TV even if the weather is nice. Cadbury's Caramel. John and Paul and George and Ringo. And then we met and fell in love and we introduced each other to all of it, like children showing each other their favourite toys. The instinct never goes - look at my fire engine, look at my vinyl collection. Look at all these things I've chosen to represent who I am. It was fun to find out about each other's self-made cultures and make our own hybrid in the years of eating, watching, reading, listening, sleeping and living together. Our culture was tea drink from very large mugs. And looking forward to the Glastonbury ticket day and the new season of Game of Thrones and taking the piss out of ourselves for being just like everyone else. Our culture was over-tipping in restaurants because we both used to work in the service industry, salty popcorn at the cinema and afternoon naps. Side-by-side morning sex. Home-made Manhattans. Barmade Manhattans (much better). Otis Redding's "Cigarettes and Coffee" (our song). Discovering a new song we both loved and listening to it over and over again until we couldn't listen to it any more. Period dramas on a Sunday night. That one perfect vibrator that finished her off in seconds when we were in a rush. Gravy. David Hockney. Truffle crisps. Can you believe it? I still can't believe it. A smell indisputably reminiscent of bums. On a crisp. And yet we couldn't get enough of them together - stuffing them in our gobs, her hand on my chest, me trying not to get crumbs in her hair as we watched Sense and Sensibility (1995). But I'm not a member of that club anymore. No one is. It's been disbanded, dissolved, the domain is no longer valid. So what do I do with all its stuff? Where so I put it all? Where do I take all my new discoveries now I'm no longer a tribe of two? And if I start a new sub-genre of love with someone else, am I allowed to bring in all the things I loved from the last one? Or would that be weird? Why do I find this so hard?

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

Wait." Walter went to the basket, taking what was a gray sleeve, drawing it out fro the middle of the heap. "Oh," He said. He held the shapeless wool sweater to his chest. Joyce had knit for months the year Daniel died, and here was the result, her handiwork, the garment that would fit a giant. It was nothing more than twelve skeins of yarn and thousands of loops, but it had the power to bring back in a flash the green-tiled walls of the hospital, the sound of an ambulance trying to cut through city traffic in the distance, the breathing of the dying boy, his father staring at the ceiling, the full greasy bucket of fried chicken on he bed table. "I'll take this one," Walter said, balling up the sweater as best he could, stuffing it into a shopping bag that was half full of the books he was taking home, that he was borrowing. "Oh, honey," Joyce said. "You don't want that old scrap." "You made it. I remember your making it." Keep it light, he said to himself, that's a boy. "There's a use for it. Don't you think so, Aunt Jeannie? No offense, Mom, but I could invade the Huns with it or strap the sleeves to my car tires in a blizzard, for traction, or protect our nation with it out in space, a shield against nuclear attack." Jeannie tittered in her usual way in spite of herself. "You always did have that sense of humor," she said as she went upstairs. When she was out of range, Joyce went to Walter's bag and retrieved the sweater. She laid it on the card table, the long arms hanging down, and she fingered the stitches. "Will you look at the mass of it," she exclaimed. "I don't even recall making it." ""'Memory -- that strange deceiver,'" Walter quoted.

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

Have you seen the two little boys sitting in Sylvia's? Stuffing chicken and cornbread down their tasteless mouths... Tryin' to revive a dying heart, Shrinking lungs And wasted minds. Have you seen the sickness of our people? And all the while we parade around In robes of our ancestors And wisdoms of the universe. And all the while there are children dying Chasing the white ghost Whitey is dying and his fucking ghost is killing us! from "Two Little Boys" by the Last Poets

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

She opened the oven with a potholder and poked a meat fork into both buttercup squash halves cooking under tinfoil, one stuffed with sausage and sage and the other with butter, apples, black walnuts, and cinnamon. She pressed the side of the fork against the chicken Titus had brought them last night. Herself had inspired to guide Dorothy through stuffing it, and a little extra stuffing was in a pan on the shelf below. As she closed the door, the sausage, cinnamon, and chicken smells wafted into the warm room.

Memories fill my mind, as though they are my own, of not just events from Gideon's life, but of various flavors and textures: breast milk running easily down into my stomach, chicken cooked with butter and parsley, split peas and runner beans and butter beans, and oranges and peaches, strawberries freshly picked from the plant; hot, strong coffees each morning; pasta and walnuts and bread and brie; then something sweet: a pan cotta, with rose and saffron, and a white wine: tannin, soil, stone fruits, white blossom; and---oh my god---ramen, soba, udon, topped with nori and sesame seeds; miso with tofu and spring onions, fugu and tuna sashimi dipped in soy sauce, onigiri with a soured plum stuffed in the middle; and then something I don't know, something unfamiliar but at the same time deeply familiar, something I didn't realize I craved: crispy ground lamb, thick, broken noodles, chili oil, fragrant rice cooked in coconut milk, tamarind... and then a bright green dessert---the sweet, floral flavor of pandan fills my mouth.

Behind the counter, owner-cook Jim Bo Sweeny darted from flipping crab cakes on the griddle to stirring a pot of creamed corn on the burner to poking chicken thighs in the deep fryer, then back again. Putting piled-high plates in front of customers in between. People said he could mix biscuit dough with one hand while filleting a catfish with the other. He offered up his famous specialty- grilled flounder stuffed with shrimp served on pimento-cheese grits- only a few times a year. No advertising needed; word got out.

Cold leek and potato soup. Little pastry boats filled with minced chicken or fish in a white sauce. A large green salad, a tomato and spring onion salad, a cold roast of beef with horseradish or port wine jelly to taste, cold roasted chickens with sage and onion stuffing, with a variety of crisp cold vegetables, each with their proper sauces. Fruit salad. A marmalade-filled roulade with slices of sugared oranges and crème Chantilly which was even now rolling in its damp tea towel as though there were no such things as culinary accidents in the world. Cheeses and fruits and coffee or tea.

The world is wide, wide, wide, and I am young, young, young, and we’re all going to live forever!' We were very hungry but we didn’t want to leave, so we ate there. We had chicken sandwiches; boy, the chicken of the century. Dry, wry, and tender, the dryness sort of rubbing against your tongue on soft, bouncy white bread with slivers of juicy wet pickles. Then we had some very salty potato chips and some olives stuffed with pimentos and some Indian nuts and some tiny pearl onions and some more popcorn. Then we washed the whole thing down with iced martinis and finished up with large cups of strong black coffee and cigarettes. One of my really great meals.

...the question of portion size. When I ate Doritos or a Big Mac, I dept on eating and eating, and later experienced McRegret. So why when I ate a fourteen-week-old barred rock [heirloom breed chicken] or a grapefruit did I find it tremendously delicious and yet tremendously satisfying? If these foods tasted better, shouldn't I have just kept on gorging? Fred Provenza believes the difference comes down to what he calls "deep satiety." "Fundamentally," he told me, "eating too much is an inability to satiate." Wen food meets needs at "multiple levels," it provides a feeling of "completeness" and offers a satisfaction that's altogether different from being stuffed.

While Venice cowered under the watchful eyes of soldiers, the kitchen staff kept busy preparing foreign dishes for the inquisitive doge's steady stream of scholarly guests. We served professors from some of the oldest universities (pork and buttered dumplings for one from Heidelberg, and pasta with a creamy meat sauce for another from Bologna), a renowned herbalist from France (rich cassoulet), a noted librarian from Sicily (cutlets stuffed with anchovies and olives), a dusky sorcerer from Egypt (marinated kebabs), a Florentine confidant of the late Savonarola (grilled fish with spinach), an alchemist from England (an overdone roast joint), and monk-copyists from all the major monasteries (boiled chicken and rice).

He worked at a feverish pace. He experimented with all manner of pies: tortoises, eel, chicken, frog, mushroom, artichoke, apricot, cherry, and his favorite of all, a luscious strawberry pie. He made omelets, stuffed eggs, and poached eggs with rosemary over toast. There were soups galore: fennel, tortellini, Hungarian milk, millet, kohlrabi, pea, and his famous Venetian turnip soup, which this time he made with apples instead. He molded jelly into the shapes of the cardinali crests, colored with wine, carrot, and saffron. He delighted most in the moments when he worked with his favorite knife, carving and slicing roasted cockerel, peacock, capons, turtledoves, ortolans, blackbirds, partridges, pheasants, and wood grouse. Every slice of the knife gave him greater confidence and belief in his power to make the world his.

It's different from both chicken and duck. It's flavorful and tender. Lots of umami.' 'The skin is crispy like Peking duck, but the flesh is so moist and creamy.' 'I've never eaten anything like this before! The stuffing in the middle is out of this world. Did you make it all from scratch? I'd love the recipe. Will you give it to me later?' Rika was the last to pick up her fork and tuck in to the meat. The first thing she experienced was simple relief that the pink flesh was sufficiently cooked. It had a unique fragrance to it, which made her think of walking along a path with fallen leaves crunching underfoot, and its clear juice filled her mouth. The stuffing of mochi rice, mince and pine nuts, now swollen with all the turkey juice and butter it had soaked up, had a sticky texture and a concentrated richness of flavor totally different to before it had been stuffed, which made Rika feel that she wanted to carry on eating it forever.

Chicken Roast Puff your plume in anger and fight, cock, delight the owner of knife smear sting with pollen and flap your wings As I said: Twist the arms and keep them bent roll the rug and come down the terrace after disturbed sleep Shoeboots-rifle-whirring bullets-shrieks The aged undertrial in the next cell weeps and wants to go home Liberate me let me go let me go home On its egg in the throne the gallinule doses asphyxiate in dark fight back, cock, die and fight, shout with the dumb Glass splinters on tongue-breast muscles quiver Fishes open their gills and enfog water A piece of finger wrapped in pink paper With eyes covered someone wails in the jailhouse I can't make out if man or woman Keep this eyelash on lefthand palm- and blow off with your breath Fan out snake-hood in mist Cobra's abdomen shivers in the hiss of female urination Deport to crematorium stuffing blood-oozing nose in cottonwool Shoes brickbats and torn pantaloons enlitter the streets I smear my feet with the wave picked up from a stormy sea That is the alphabet I drew on for letters. (Translation of Bengali original 'Murgir Roast')

STUFFIN’ MUFFINS Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position. 4 ounces salted butter (1 stick, 8 Tablespoons, ¼ pound) ½ cup finely chopped onion (you can buy this chopped or chop it yourself) ½ cup finely chopped celery ½ cup chopped apple (core, but do not peel before chopping) 1 teaspoon powdered sage 1 teaspoon powdered thyme 1 teaspoon ground oregano 8 cups herb stuffing (the kind in cubes that you buy in the grocery store—you can also use plain bread cubes and add a quarter-teaspoon more of ground sage, thyme, and oregano) 3 eggs, beaten (just whip them up in a glass with a fork) 1 teaspoon salt ½ teaspoon black pepper (freshly ground is best) 2 ounces (½ stick, 4 Tablespoons, pound) melted butter ¼ to ½ cup chicken broth (I used Swanson’s) Hannah’s 1st Note: I used a Fuji apple this time. I’ve also used Granny Smith apples, or Gala apples. Before you start, find a 12-cup muffin pan. Spray the inside of the cups with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray OR line them with cupcake papers. Get out a 10-inch or larger frying pan. Cut the stick of butter in 4 to 8 pieces and drop them inside. Put the pan over MEDIUM heat on the stovetop to melt the butter. Once the butter has melted, add the chopped onions. Give them a stir. Add the chopped celery. Stir it in. Add the chopped apple and stir that in. Sprinkle in the ground sage, thyme, and oregano. Sauté this mixture for 5 minutes. Then pull the frying pan off the heat and onto a cold burner. In a large mixing bowl, combine the 8 cups of herb stuffing. (If the boxed stuffing you bought has a separate herb packet, just sprinkle it over the top of the mixture in your frying pan. That way you’ll be sure to put it in!) Pour the beaten eggs over the top of the herb stuffing and mix them in. Sprinkle on the salt and the pepper. Mix them in. Pour the melted butter over the top and mix it in. Add the mixture from your frying pan on top of that. Stir it all up together. Measure out ¼ cup of chicken broth. Wash your hands. (Mixing the stuffing is going to be a lot easier if you use your impeccably clean hands to mix it.) Pour the ¼ cup of chicken broth over the top of your bowl. Mix everything with your hands. Feel the resulting mixture. It should be softened, but not wet. If you think it’s so dry that your muffins might fall apart after you bake them, mix in another ¼ cup of chicken broth. Once your Stuffin’ Muffin mixture is thoroughly combined, move the bowl close to the muffin pan you’ve prepared, and go wash your hands again. Use an ice cream scoop to fill your muffin cups. If you don’t have an ice cream scoop, use a large spoon. Mound the tops of the muffins by hand. (Your hands are still impeccably clean, aren’t they?) Bake the Stuffin’ Muffins at 350 degrees F. for 25 minutes. Yield: One dozen standard-sized muffins that can be served hot, warm, or at room temperature. Hannah’s 2nd Note: These muffins are a great accompaniment to pork, ham, chicken, turkey, duck, beef, or . . . well . . . practically anything! If there are any left over, you can reheat them in the microwave to serve the next day. Hannah’s 3rd Note: I’m beginning to think that Andrea can actually make Stuffin’ Muffins. It’s only April now, so she’s got seven months to practice.

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

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

The cuisine of Northern Iran, overlooked and underrated, is unlike most Persian food in that it's unfussy and lighthearted as the people from that region. The fertile seaside villages of Mazandaran and Rasht, where Soli grew up before moving to the congested capital, were lush with orchards and rice fields. His father had cultivated citrus trees and the family was raised on the fruits and grains they harvested. Alone in the kitchen, without Zod's supervision, he found himself turning to the wholesome food of his childhood, not only for the comfort the simple compositions offered, but because it was what he knew so well as he set about preparing a homecoming feast for Zod's only son. He pulled two kilos of fava beans from the freezer. Gathered last May, shucked and peeled on a quiet afternoon, they defrosted in a colander for a layered frittata his mother used to make with fistfuls of dill and sprinkled with sea salt. One flat of pale green figs and a bushel of new harvest walnuts were tied to the back of his scooter, along with two crates of pomegranates- half to squeeze for fresh morning juice and the other to split and seed for rice-and-meatball soup. Three fat chickens pecked in the yard, unaware of their destiny as he sharpened his cleaver. Tomorrow they would braise in a rich, tangy stew with sour red plums, their hearts and livers skewered and grilled, then wrapped in sheets of lavash with bouquets of tarragon and mint. Basmati rice soaked in salted water to be steamed with green garlic and mounds of finely chopped parsley and cilantro, then served with a whole roasted, eight kilo white fish stuffed with barberries, pistachios, and lime. On the farthest burner, whole bitter oranges bobbed in blossom syrup, to accompany rice pudding, next to a simmering pot of figs studded with cardamom pods for preserves.

Thick and creamy egg, fragrant roast quail... and the rice! It all makes such a hearty, satisfying combination! Wait, something just crunched? "See, there are five parts to a good chicken-and-egg rice bowl. Chicken... eggs... rice... onions... and warishita. *Warishita is a sauce made from a combination of broth, soy sauce and sugar.* "I seared the quail in oil before putting it in the oven to roast. That made the skin nice and crispy... while leaving the meat inside tender and juicy. For the eggs, I seasoned them with salt and a generous pinch of black pepper to give them some bite and then added cream to make them thick and creamy! It's the creaminess of the soft-boiled egg that makes or breaks a good chicken-and-egg bowl, y'know. Some milk made the risotto extra creamy. I then mixed in onions as well as ground chicken that was browned in butter. I used the Suer technique on the onions. That should have given some body to their natural sweetness. For the sauce, I sweetened some Madeira wine with sugar and honey and then added a dash of soy sauce. Like warishita in a regular chicken-and-egg rice bowl, this sauce ties all the parts of the dish together. Try it with the poached egg. It's seriously delicious! Basically I took the idea of a Japanese chicken-and-egg rice bowl... ... and rebuilt it using only French techniques!" "Yukihira! I wanna try it too!" "Oh, uh, sorry. I only made that one." "Awww! You've gotta make one for me someday!" "There is one thing I still don't understand. When you stuff a bird, out of necessity the filling has to remain firm to stay in place. Something soft and creamy like risotto should have fallen right back out! "How did you make this filling work?!" "I know! The crunch!" "Yep! It's cabbage! I quickly blanched a cabbage leaf, wrapped the risotto in it... ... and then stuffed it inside the quail!" "Aha! Just like during the Camp Shokugeph!" It's the same idea behind the Chou Farci Shinomiya made! The cabbage leaf is blanched perfectly too. He brought out just enough sweetness while still retaining its crispy texture. And it's that very sweetness that softly ties the fragrant quail meat together with the creamy richness of the risotto filling!

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

She started to head out, but she passed her room. It was the same as she'd left it: a pile of cushions by her bed for Little Brother to sleep on, a stack of poetry and famous literature on her desk that she was supposed to study to become a "model bride," and the lavender shawl and silk robes she'd worn the day before she left home. The jade comb Mulan had left in exchange for the conscription notice caught her eye; it now rested in front of her mirror. Mulan's gaze lingered on the comb, on its green teeth and the pearl-colored flower nestled on its shoulder. She wanted to hold it, to put it in her hair and show her family- to show everyone- she was worthy. After all, her surname, Fa, meant flower. She needed to show them that she had bloomed to be worthy of her family name. But no one was here, and she didn't want to face her reflection. Who knew what it would show, especially in Diyu? She isn't a boy, her mother had told her father once. She shouldn't be riding horses and letting her hair loose. The neighbors will talk. She won't find a good husband- Let her, Fa Zhou had consoled his wife. When she leaves this household as a bride, she'll no longer be able to do these things. Mulan hadn't understood what he meant then. She hadn't understood the significance of what it meant for her to be the only girl in the village who skipped learning ribbon dances to ride Khan through the village rice fields, who chased after chickens and helped herd the cows instead of learning the zither or practicing her painting, who was allowed to have opinions- at all. She'd taken the freedom of her childhood for granted. When she turned fourteen, everything changed. I know this will be a hard change to make, Fa Li had told her, but it's for your own good. Men want a girl who is quiet and demure, polite and poised- not someone who speaks out of turn and runs wild about the garden. A girl who can't make a good match won't bring honor to the family. And worse yet, she'll have nothing: not respect, or money of her own, or a home. She'd touched Mulan's cheek with a resigned sigh. I don't want that fate for you, Mulan. Every morning for a year, her mother tied a rod of bamboo to Mulan's spine to remind her to stand straight, stuffed her mouth with persimmon seeds to remind her to speak softly, and helped Mulan practice wearing heeled shoes by tying ribbons to her feet and guiding her along the garden. Oh, how she'd wanted to please her mother, and especially her father. She hadn't wanted to let them down. But maybe she hadn't tried enough. For despite Fa Li's careful preparation, she had failed the Matchmaker's exam. The look of hopefulness on her father's face that day- the thought that she'd disappointed him still haunted her. Then fate had taken its turn, and Mulan had thrown everything away to become a soldier. To learn how to punch and kick and hold a sword and shield, to shoot arrows and run and yell. To save her country, and bring honor home to her family. How much she had wanted them to be proud of her.

Maybe I'll go to Rosedale's, get some really good seafood. Maybe I'll see if there is a recipe in here for shrimp and grits, which Taffy prepared for me whenever I visited Atlanta, knowing it's my favorite. Whenever I asked my mother-in-law for the recipe she would smile and say, "Oh, it's just a little of this and a little of that." Except, no, I wouldn't be able to find stone-ground grits in the city and would have to put the shrimp over rice instead. Maybe I'll make the trout stuffed with bread crumbs, shallots, and lemon slices, or the chicken and dumplings, which are simply biscuits made with cream, cooked on top of a chicken stew. I keep turning the pages of the book, thinking I might make dessert, too. Something comforting. Rice pudding, or a fruit cobbler. The first dessert listed is called "Juneteenth Cake." Juneteenth, I read, is a celebration of blacks' emancipation from slavery. The cake is made from fresh coconuts, both the grated meat and the milk from within. Sounds delicious but laborious.

Alone in the kitchen, without Zod's supervision, he found himself turning to the wholesome food of his childhood, not only for the comfort the simple compositions offered, but because it was what he knew so well as he set about preparing a homecoming feast for Zod's only son. He pulled two kilos of java beans from the freezer. Gathered last May, shucked and peeled on a quiet afternoon, they defrosted in a colander for a layered frittata his mother used to make with fistfuls of dill and sprinkled with sea salt. One flat of pale green figs and a bushel of new harvest walnuts were tied to the back of his scooter, along with two crates of pomegranates- half to squeeze for fresh morning juice and the other to split and seed for rice-and-meatball soup. Three fat chickens pecked in the yard, unaware of their destiny as he sharpened his cleaver. Tomorrow they would braise in a rich, tangy stew with sour red plums, their hearts and livers skewered and grilled, then wrapped in sheets of lavash with bouquets of tarragon and mint. Basmati rice soaked in salted water to be steamed with green garlic and mounds of finely chopped parsley and cilantro, then served with a whole roasted, eight kilo white fish stuffed with barberries, pistachios, and lime. On the farthest burner, whole bitter oranges bobbed in blossom syrup, to accompany rice pudding, next to a simmering pot of figs studded with cardamom pods for preserves.

The meal itself was equally elaborate and expensive. It began with sea hedgehogs, fresh oysters, mussels, and asparagus with mustard sauce. There were fattened fowl: roasted duck and chicken, stuffed pheasant, flamingo steaks, boiled teals, ostrich meatballs, fried songbirds, and roasted peacock presented with its feathers rearranged in full display.

Out comes everything: piles of blistered shishito peppers, golden fried sandwiches of taro root stuffed with minced pork, bowls of dashi-braised daikon, a tower of yakitori, including my favorite, tsukune, a charcoal-kissed chicken meatball rich with fat and cartilage, meant to be dipped in raw egg yolk. My chopsticks cannot move fast enough.

Saturday afternoon she deboned chicken breasts and put the raw meat aside; then she simmered the bones with green onions and squashed garlic and ginger. She mixed ground pork with diced water chestnuts and green onions and soy sauce and sherry, stuffed the wonton skins with this mixture, and froze them to be boiled the next day. Then she made the stuffing for Richard's favorite egg rolls. It was poor menu planning- Vivian would never have served wontons and egg rolls at the same meal- but she felt sorry for Richard, living on hot dogs as he'd been. Anyway they all liked her egg rolls, even Aunt Barbara. Sunday morning she stayed home from church and started the tea eggs simmering (another source of soy sauce for Annie). She slivered the raw chicken breast left from yesterday- dangling the occasional tidbit for J.C., who sat on her stool and cried "Yeow!" whenever she felt neglected- and slivered carrots and bamboo shoots and Napa cabbage and more green onions and set it all aside to stir-fry at the last minute with rice stick noodles. This was her favorite dish, simple though it was, and Aunt Rubina's favorite; it had been Vivian's favorite of Olivia's recipes, too. (Vivian had never dabbled much in Chinese cooking herself.) Then she sliced the beef and asparagus and chopped the fermented black beans for her father's favorite dish.

I grabbed a menu and looked at the selections. There were several tempting salads, including one with field greens, goat cheese, pecans, raisins, and fresh sliced apple. The tuna salad also looked good- albacore, diced celery, onion, capers, and mayonnaise, served on mixed greens. Capers? I'd never heard of putting capers in tuna salad. It sounded interesting. Farther down the menu I saw sandwiches. Rare roast beef and Brie with sliced tomato on a toasted French baguette. That sounded great, but I'd have to forgo the Brie- too much cholesterol. But then, without the Brie, what did you really have but just another roast beef sandwich? The chicken salad sandwich also looked good, with baby greens, tomato, sprouts, grapes, and crumbled Gorgonzola, but there was the issue of the cheese again. Then I saw something that really caught my eye- the Thanksgiving Special. Oven-roasted turkey breast, savory stuffing, and fresh cranberry sauce on whole wheat bread. Perfect.

In the evenings the family gathered at Kirkwood Hall. Sometimes Andrew cooked, sometimes Delphine. There was a bounty of vegetables from the kitchen garden: tiny patty-pan squash, radishes both peppery and sweet, beets striped deep magenta and white, golden and green, butter lettuce and spinach and peas, zucchini blossoms stuffed with Graham's mozzarella and salty anchovies. Delphine whipped eggs from the chickens into souffles. Chicken- from the chickens, sadly- were roasted in a Dutch oven or grilled under a brick. Plump strawberries from the fields and minuscule wild ones from the forest were served with a drizzle of balsamic syrup or a billow of whipped cream. Delphine's baking provided custardy tarts, flaky biscuits, and deep, dark chocolate cake.

To begin with, she would focus on tried-and-true dishes that she loved to make and which she knew would turn a profit. She had a petite filet mignon planned, which she would rotate with different sauces, but she would keep lobster and lump crabmeat confined to supporting roles with fresh pasta, in ravioli and in sauces, rather than serving up whole Maine lobsters at "market price." Her Chicken Cacciatore de Provence was an upscale twist on a farmhouse classic that paired her love of exotic mushrooms, sun-dried tomatoes, and fresh herbs with imminently affordable cuts of chicken. She wanted to serve a Spiral Stuffed Pork Loin in a savory reduction with yam patties and fresh garden peas, in season, which lent itself to a marvelous visual presentation and tasted like Thanksgiving dinner all on one plate.

Reading about these meals is making me hungry," Isabetta declared one afternoon. Her finger ran down the page. "There is so much food. Even on a Lenten day these cardinali knew how to eat! Listen to this menu: pieces of gilded marzipan; radish and fennel salad; braised lampreys from the Tevere; fried trout with vinegar, pepper, and wine; white tourtes; razor clams; grilled oysters; pizza Neapolitan with almonds, dates, and figs; octopus and fish in the shape of chickens; fried sea turtle; prune crostatas; stuffed pears with sugar; elderflower fritters; candied almonds... Oh, the list goes on and on!

Barbara was all too familiar with the reality that boys are very different from girls. For example, their sense of humor is different. A group of boys can watch old "Three Stooges" episodes and howl with laughter while girls just shake their heads in confusion, wondering what's so funny. Boys' eating habits (and preferences) are also very different than girls. It's not that one is right and the other wrong. It's just that a boy finds nothing strange about a ketchup-and-peanut butter sandwich, or a cold piece of pizza for breakfast, or putting French fries inside his hamburger. In a boy's room, it's not altogether unlikely to discover a petrified chicken bone or a year-old empty Coke can stuffed into the back of a sock drawer.

Starting from the top left: thinly sliced Akashi sea bream sashimi, with a prickly ash bud and miso dressing-- to be enjoyed with the ponzu dipping sauce. Miso-glazed Kamo aubergine. Maizuru cockles sandwiched between slices of myoga ginger. Gizzard shad marinated in sweet vinegar, served in a miniature sushi roll. Fried matsutake, conger eel grilled two ways, Manganji sweet pepper tempura, abalone pickled in Kyoto-style sweet white miso and then grilled. Fish paste noodles, Kurama-style local chicken, smoked mackerel with a pine nut stuffing. Fresh soy milk curd and vegetables pickled with red perilla.

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

While on his multi-year, orgiastic bender of speed and steroids, JFK ran the country with appropriate amounts of paranoia, unpredictability, and raging aggression. It’s not a surprise that Kennedy’s two years as president were so stuffed full of crises and scandals. That roided-up speed freak was in a rush, baby! Kennedy invaded Cuba, played nuclear chicken with Khrushchev during the Cuban Missile Crisis, maniacally tried to cripple the power of the CIA and the FBI, cooked up a top-secret operation to kill Castro, belly flopped into Vietnam, tried to topple Hoffa and the Teamsters, and went on a rampage against the same gangsters that stole the presidency for him — all at the same time.

Someone knocked. I paused, the chicken halfway to my mouth, and glared at the door. The knocking persisted. It wasn’t Derek. His knock would be careful, almost apologetic. This bastard knocked like he was doing me a favor. I looked at the chicken, glanced to the door, stuffed a whole piece into my mouth, and went to see who dared to make demands on my time. The door swung open, revealing Curran. He wore old jeans a green sweatshirt and carried a brown paper sack. He raised his face and sucked air in through his nostrils in the manner of shapechangers. “Tso’s, seafood delight, and fried rice,” he said. “You’re going to share?” I leaned against the wall. The door was open but the ward still blocked his entrance, affording me a bit of leisure. “Oh, it’s you.” I dug in the container with my fork. “I thought it was somebody important.” Curran stepped forward, brushing against the ward. A flash of carmine rippled through the magic barrier and the lord of shapechangers withdrew. “A ward,” he said. “A good one.” He put his palm against the ward and pushed. Red pulsed from his fingers, spreading through the ward like waves from a pebble tossed into a quiet pond. “I can break it,” Curran said. I raised an eyebrow at him. “Be my guest.

Mel was just here. She’s complaining about the food.” “Huh?” Jack answered. “Mel?” “Yeah. She says my food is making her fat.” Jack chuckled. “Oh, that. Yeah, she’s making noises about that. Don’t worry about it.” “She didn’t make it sound like I shouldn’t worry about it. She was pretty much loaded for bear.” “She had two babies in fourteen months, plus a hysterectomy. And—she doesn’t like to be reminded about this—she’s getting older in spite of herself. Women get a little thicker. You know.” “How do you know that?” “Four sisters,” Jack said. “It’s all women ever worry about—the size of their butts and boobs. And thighs—thighs come up a lot.” “She yelled at me,” he said, still kind of startled. Paul laughed and Jack just shook his head. “Did you tell her that?” Preacher asked. “About women getting thicker with age?” “Do I look like I have a death wish? Besides, I don’t think she’s getting fat—but my opinion about that doesn’t count for much.” “She wants salads. And fresh fruit.” “How hard is that?” Jack asked. “Not hard,” Preacher said with a shrug. “But I don’t stuff that pie down her neck every day.” A sputter of laughter escaped Paul, and Jack said, “You’re gonna want to watch that, Preach.” “She wants me to use less butter and cream, take a few calories out of my food. Jack, it isn’t going to taste as good that way. You can’t make sauces and gravies without cream, butter, fat, flour. People love that stuff, salmon in dill sauce, fettuccine Alfredo, stuffed trout, brisket and garlic mash. Stews with thick gravy. People come a long way for my food.” “Yeah, I know, Preach. You don’t have to change everything—but make Mel a little something, huh? A salad, a broiled chicken breast, fish without the cream sauce, that kind of thing. You know what to do. Right?” “Of course. You don’t think she wants everyone in this town on a diet? Because she says it’s not healthy, the way I cook.” “Nah. This is a phase, I think. But if you don’t want to hear any more about it, just give her lettuce.” He grinned. “And an apple instead of the pie.” Preacher shook his head. “See, I think no matter what she says, that’s going to make her pissy.” “She said it’s what she wants, right?” “Right.” “May the force be with you,” Jack said with a grin.

Ingredients:   4 whole boneless skinless chicken breasts, cubed 1 box of stuffing mix 1 can of cream of mushroom soup 1/2 cup water 2 celery stalks, diced ½ green pepper, diced     Directions:   Spray slow cooker with Pam. Place chicken breasts at the bottom of the slow cooker. In a separate bowl, mix stuffing, green pepper, celery, soup and water. Pour over chicken. Cook at low for 6 – 8 hours.

customers. But this girl was weaving in and out of the picnic tables, handing out chicken-sandwich samples to those of us who were already stuffing our faces with these same chicken sandwiches.   Most people give up just when they're about to achieve success. They quit on the one-yard line. They give up at the last minute of the game, one foot from a winning touchdown. H. ROSS PEROT   “Ed,” Lisa said, “that's hilarious. I mean, all she has to do is walk about fifteen paces and offer those samples to the people who haven't eaten yet.” Hundreds of starving shopaholics were nearby,

why do guys think it’s a turn on to touch you as if they’re stuffing a chicken?

PORTOBELLO MUSHROOMS STUFFED WITH GRILLED CHICKEN, PESTO AND SUN-DRIED TOMATOES 4 large Portobello mushrooms (approximately 1 pound) MARINADE FOR MUSHROOMS: 5 tablespoons best-quality olive oil 5 tablespoons best-quality dry sherry

Jay got up and walked to the trash to scrape off his plate, but when the trash can popped open, he stopped and reached in. Mae got cold inside. Shit. That was where she had put everything from her satisfying clear-out earlier in the day, and she hadn't covered up the things she was discarding with other trash, as she usually did. Damn it! She knew exactly what was coming. Jay stood up with a ratty stuffed chicken in his hand. "You can't throw this away. Ryder loves this." He did, but Mae hated it. The little stuffed chicken---a gift from her sister when Ryder was born---had grown gray and smelly and was beyond washing, and Mae had been able to slip it away from Ryder's bed for several nights running. With the trip, she figured he would forget about it, although she'd felt a tiny twinge of regret as she'd stuffed it into the trash can. It was just that it was so gross now, and there were so many stuffies. If she didn't get rid of them, they'd take over. "He doesn't care about it. Not really," she said. It sounded weak, even to her. "It's so filthy, Jay. He's little. He'll like other things. It's just junk, anyway." Jay turned on her. "You don't always get to decide what's junk, Mae. You don't get to pick and choose everything we have and everything we do and everywhere we go." "I don't. Just---some things. And it's not the same." Throwing away a toy was not the same as making all their life decisions---and how could she not make decisions right now, when everything Jay wanted to do felt so precarious? Couldn't he see that they wanted the same things, for the world to stay nice and safe and solid around Madison and Ryder and around themselves? She knew Jay had moved around a lot as a kid, and that at least once his dad had handed him a shoebox and told him if it didn't fit in there, it couldn't come. But sometimes you had to get rid of those things, even things you once loved, to make room for better things. And sometimes you made mistakes. Don't bring up the baseball glove. Don't bring up the baseball glove. She hadn't known the baseball glove was a perfectly worn-in classic Rawlings. Or that Jay had been hoping Madison or Ryder might use it someday. All she'd seen was that it was old. And kinda moldy. She honestly hadn't thought he would notice it was gone.

feel as if I’ve been stuffed like one of those beer can chickens.

At six, Daisy slid the stuffed figs and the pastry-wrapped goat cheese purses into the oven, crammed her feet into a pair of navy-blue high heels, and put a giant straw hat with a navy-blue ribbon on her head. The theme of the party was the Kentucky Derby, even though the Derby itself wasn't until May. At least it had made the menu easy: mint julep punch and bourbon slushies, fried chicken sliders served on biscuits, with hot honey, tea sandwiches with Benedictine spread, bite-sized hot browns, the signature sandwich of Louisville, and miniature Derby pies for dessert.

Kitchen people understood that food didn't have to be gourmet to taste good, and that sometimes gourmet food didn't taste good at all. "Kiwis are a soulless fruit," my mother once said when she saw them in a fruit tart on the Ritz's dessert tray. "Don't ever use sun-dried tomatoes," my father told his staff. "They'll take your magic powers." Even junk food could be better. Once, for Jake's birthday, the staff laid out his favorite foods--- frozen meatballs and Twinkies--- on brass serving plates in the dining room. When they sliced the Twinkies horizontally to expose the cream, even my mother admitted they made an attractive dessert. At staff Christmas parties we served junk food, too: sour-cream-and-onion potato chips, chicken wings, and hot dogs, and for dessert more Twinkies. The rest of the year I never ate food like that, and by the holidays Cotswold tarts and melon wrapped in prosciutto bored me. In my black velvet dresses, I gnawed on fried drumsticks, with a napkin stuffed into my lace collars to catch the crumbs. "I'm not whipping up any foie gras for you tonight, kiddo," said Carla, who, in her olive-green T-shirt and holding a beer, looked the same as she did behind the line. "Fend for yourself.

Table of Contents Free Gift! Abbreviations Conversions Cranberry Sauce Make-Ahead Turkey Gravy Roasted Asparagus Roasted Vegetables Honey Glazed Carrots Double Cornbread Squash Casserole Crawfish Dressing Chicken Pot Pie Soup Chicken Stuffing Casserole Sweet Potato Casserole Corn Casserole Squash Dressing Bacon Cornbread Dressing Cornbread Stuffing Chicken and Dumplings Lemon Garlic Turkey Breast Turkey and Gravy Cajun Dressing Chicken Pot Pie Cornish Hens Meatloaf Marinated Chicken Roast Turkey Breast Apple Stuffed Pork Chops More Simple and Easy Recipes

With standard pot stickers, the filling is enclosed in a wheat-dough wrapper. But with these, the filling is stuffed into a chicken wing. "Stuffed chicken wings. You can call 'em chicken-wing pot stickers too. So you made some stuffed Satsuma Jidori chicken-wing pot stickers, eh, Yukihira?" "You got it! First, you remove the two long bones inside the wing... Then you stuff the filling in the cavity they leave behind and fry 'em up! That's the basics of a stuffed chicken wing." "Mmm! I can smell their savory aroma from here. What's in the filling?" "Well, there're the basics, like ground pork, chives and cabbage. I added some diced pork jowl too. Oh! And shiitake mushrooms. That's the important part. See, chicken meat has inosinic acid in it, and shiitake mushrooms have guanylic acid. Both of those are umami components. Together, they magnify each other, giving the dish a richer flavor.

Alice and I have photographed and eaten jerk chicken over plantains, spicy and sweet; cups of icy, sweet, rich halo-halo piled with red beans and fruit cocktail; lobster roll sliders stuffed full of delicate shellfish on buttery brioche; pani puri, the fried Indian hollow rounds of dough loaded up with mashed potato and chickpeas and sweet, tangy tamarind chutney. My camera was happy. I was happy.

The feast is family-style, of course. Every six-person section of the table has its own set of identical dishes: garlicky roasted chicken with potatoes, a platter of fat sausages and peppers, rigatoni with a spicy meat sauce, linguine al olio, braised broccoli rabe, and shrimp scampi. This is on top of the endless parade of appetizers that everyone has been wolfing down all afternoon: antipasto platters piled with cheeses and charcuterie, fried arancini, hot spinach and artichoke dip, meatball sliders. I can't begin to know how anyone will touch the insane dessert buffet... I counted twelve different types of cookies, freshly stuffed cannoli, zeppole, pizzelles, a huge vat of tiramisu, and my favorite, Teresa's mom's lobster tails, sort of a crispy, zillion-layered pastry cone filled with chocolate custard and whipped cream.

He ranted at me while I put out the next course: a dish of boiled pigeons enveloped in a blancmange, the best I had ever made, with pulverized chicken, rose water, almonds, sugar, capon broth, ginger, verjuice and cinnamon. I had them placed in a deep dish, poured on the blancmange and scattered the snow-white surface with a thick covering of poppy seeds until the silver dish seemed to hold nothing but tiny black grains. Over this I arranged stars cut out of fine silver foil. There was a breast of veal, stuffed with cheese, eggs, saffron, herbs and raisins, upon which I scattered the darkest rose petals I could find at the flower market. There was a soup of black cabbage; boiled calves' feet with a sauce of figs and black pepper; and boiled ducks with more sliced black truffle.

What an impact! Wrapped together in strips of piecrust... ... the two distinct layers of stuffing each amplify the deliciousness of the other! The top layer is a chicken mousse! Tender, juicy cooked chicken... ... put through a food processor with heavy cream and seasonings until it was a silky-smooth puree! Its thick yet gentle savory flavor, accented with a touch of sweetness, slides across the tongue like satin! And the bottom layer is a beef meat loaf! Its flavors are perfectly paired with both the creamy chicken mousse and the demi-glace. What a frighteningly defined dish!" "Okay, but he used convenience store food for all that?! There's no way it could be that delicious..." "Oh, but it is. His skill elevated the ingredients to new heights." "Um, i-it really wasn't all that much. All I did was, well... To give the chicken mousse a more luxuriant texture, I carefully mixed in some egg whites beaten into a stiff meringue... And then added a little mushroom paste (Duxelles) to boost its richness. Canned mushrooms have a mild funk to them, so to get rid of that smell, I minced and sautéed them until nearly all their moisture was gone. I also reduced some red wine as far as I could, leaving behind just its umami components, and added that to the demi-glace. It isn't the best, but I had only cheap ingredients to work with. What about that isn't "all that much"?! "The main common ingredients he used were a precooked hamburger patty, chicken salad and a frozen piecrust. They're prepackaged foods anyone can buy, designed to be tasty right out of the box. In other words... They're average foods with completely average flavors! Use them as they are and you'll never pass this trial! Out of all of them, he singled out the ones that could stand up to haute cuisine cooking... ... and melded them together into a harmonious whole that brought out their best qualities while eliminating anything inferior! It's a level of quality only someone of Eishi Tsukasa's skill could reach!

She hadn't wanted to make plain cinnamon cookies. She'd wanted to blend in ginger and try something fun like rosewater. She'd thought about going to the market and buying fresh spring vegetables, then making a red wine risotto with the crunchy, delicious vegetables served with a perfect roasted chicken stuffed with garlic and spices.

Baked or fried salmon, with sautéed chard, and cheese and macadamia nuts for dessert. 2 Bacon burgers with cheese and a salad. 3 Lamb stew meat sautéed in butter or ghee, topped with blue cheese, and a side of plain Greek yogurt with macadamia nuts. 4 Almond-flour coated chicken fried in butter or ghee, with sautéed-in-butter chard, and shredded Parmesan cheese. 5 Super Cobb salad with blue cheese or olive oil and vinegar dressing fortified with broccoli and extra bacon or other meat. 6 Scallops wrapped in bacon and fried in bacon grease, with sautéed broccolini, and soft-boiled eggs on the side. 7 Liver, onions, and bacon sautéed in bacon grease, with plain, full-fat Greek yogurt mixed with crumbled blue cheese on the side, macadamia nuts for dessert. 8 Village-style Greek salad of cucumbers, bell peppers, onions, feta cheese, olives, tomatoes, with sautéed chicken with the skin. 9 Omelet stuffed with Parmesan, red onions, sautéed mushrooms, with a few sheets of dried nori (seaweed). 10 Fatty wieners or bratwurst split lengthwise and fried in butter till they’re curly and their skins are crisp and blackish in the places that touch the pan most, with steamed sauerkraut and strong, grainy brown mustard. Yum.

Her reputation as a cook spread without her knowledge- for the soups she brought to the bakery in a lidded tin for her midday meal, for her stews, for the scraps of dough that she turned into what the Russians called pelmeni and the Jews kreplach, dumplings stuffed with chopped meat and onions. She prepared hot borscht with beef in winter, shchi or cold borscht in summer, chicken cooked with prunes or a tsimmes with sweet potatoes, carrots and prunes.

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

SPINACH-ARTICHOKE HUMMUS Creamy texture, pretty green color, and assertive taste—this dip has it all! SERVES 8 | ¼ cup per serving 2 ounces spinach (about 2 cups) 1 cup canned no-salt-added chickpeas, rinsed and drained 4 medium canned artichoke hearts, rinsed, squeezed dry, and quartered ¼ cup Chicken Broth or commercial fat-free, low-sodium chicken broth 2 tablespoons shredded or grated Parmesan cheese ½ teaspoon grated lemon zest 2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice 2 tablespoons tahini 1 to 2 medium garlic cloves, minced ¼ teaspoon pepper In a food processor or blender, process all the ingredients until the desired consistency. Serve at room temperature or cover and refrigerate until needed. COOK’S TIP ON TAHINI Tahini is a thick paste made from ground sesame seeds. Add small amounts to enhance salad dressings, marinades, soups, stuffings, and other dips and spreads. Look for tahini in the condiment or ethnic sections in the grocery store. PER SERVING calories 101 total fat 3.5 g saturated 0.5 g trans 0.0 g polyunsaturated 1.5 g monounsaturated 1.5 g cholesterol 1 mg sodium 89 mg carbohydrates 13 g fiber 4 g sugars 2 g protein 5 g calcium 40 mg potassium 188 mg dietary exchanges 1 starch ½ lean meat

A formal ten-course Chinese dinner was a deliberate courtship of the senses. The appetizers of cold plate meats gave way to steaming fish maw soup, cold and hot introductions to titillate and delight before the showcase of entrees: beef, pork, chicken, fish, seafood, vegetables. The ensuing textures, aromas, and flavors seduced, fulfilling the promises of the first courses. The inclusion of noodle and rice dishes provided a sense of comfort. The final dessert course of sesame balls stuffed with red-bean paste sealed the engagement on the sweetest of notes.

This stuffing! He didn't use the standard Chou Farci filling of roast pork and onions. It's a stuffed chicken breast! He used breast meat from locally raised chickens... ... and filled it with morel mushrooms, asparagus, and foie gras that were sautéed together in beef grease... ... along with a mixture of diced chicken breast, egg, butter and cream that was pureed into a mousse. He then steamed the entire ensemble to perfection! The smooth, creamy mousse slides onto the tongue and melts... ... filling the mouth with the rich, savory flavor of chicken." "But most impressive of all is the cabbage leaf that wraps all of it together. Savoy cabbage... smelling strongly of grass when raw, it has a very delicate sweetness when cooked. Through blanching and steaming, he cooked it to perfection, accentuating all the strengths of the filling. The resulting delicate sweetness refines the overall taste of the dish by an order of magnitude... almost as if by magic!

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

Owls belong to the night world" as Hitchcock pointed out; "they are watchers, and this appeals to Perkins's masochism. He knows the birds and he knows that they're watching him all the time. He can see his own guilt reflected in their knowing eyes." This explains other avian imagery: the crucial shot of Perkins knocking over a sketch of a bird when (in his "son personality") he discovers the body of Janet Leigh—the last "stuffed bird" is, aptly, a woman named Crane, who came from Phoenix (a city named for the mythic bird that returns from the dead); and why, when Perkins suggested candy, Hitchcock insisted it be candy corn, a confection that resembles the kernels pecked by chickens. (As will become clear, everything about Psycho points forward to and aesthetically necessitates Hitchcock's next feature film, The Birds.)

Olive Garden Catering Menu (Updated for 2025) When it comes to catering for special occasions, Olive Garden has long been a favorite choice for its delicious Italian cuisine and family-style dining. Whether you’re planning a wedding, birthday, corporate event, or casual gathering, Olive Garden’s catering menu offers a variety of mouthwatering options to please every guest. Here’s an updated look at the Olive Garden catering menu for 2025, so you can plan your next event with ease. What’s New on the 2025 Olive Garden Catering Menu? Olive Garden has made some exciting updates to its catering menu for 2025. With a focus on fresh ingredients, diverse flavors, and convenience, they’ve added new dishes and enhanced classic favorites to ensure everyone leaves the table satisfied. Here are some of the standout additions: Family-Style Appetizers: Now featuring options like crispy calamari platters and stuffed mushrooms for a crowd. New Entrée Choices: Expanded options include Chicken Marsala, Shrimp Scampi, and a vegetarian-friendly Eggplant Parmigiana. Customizable Pasta Bar: Build your own pasta station with a variety of noodles, sauces, and protein add-ons, perfect for tailoring to guests’ preferences. Olive Garden Catering Menu Highlights The 2025 catering menu is designed to accommodate events of all sizes and includes: Appetizers: Start your meal with crowd-pleasers like Breadsticks with Alfredo Sauce, Spinach-Artichoke Dip, or a classic Antipasto Platter. Entrées: Chicken Alfredo Lasagna Classico Five Cheese Ziti al Forno Spaghetti with Meat Sauce Sides: Complement your main courses with options like Garlic Mashed Potatoes, Fresh Steamed Vegetables, and, of course, their signature Salad and Breadsticks. Desserts: Satisfy your sweet tooth with Tiramisu, Chocolate Lasagna, or Cannoli. Why Choose Olive Garden Catering? Olive Garden catering offers several advantages: Convenience: With delivery and setup services available, catering with Olive Garden is stress-free. Variety: Their extensive menu ensures there’s something for everyone, including vegetarians and gluten-sensitive diners. Affordability: Catering packages are reasonably priced and designed to serve groups of various sizes. How to Order Olive Garden Catering Browse the Menu: Visit their official website or contact your local Olive Garden for the latest catering options. Plan Ahead: Place your order at least 24-48 hours in advance to ensure availability. Customize Your Order: Tailor your selections to match your event’s theme or dietary preferences. Pick Up or Deliver: Choose whether you’ll pick up your order or have it delivered directly to your event. Final Thoughts Whether you’re hosting a small gathering or a large celebration, Olive Garden’s updated 2025 catering menu offers something for every occasion. With their commitment to quality, variety, and convenience, it’s no wonder Olive Garden remains a go-to choice for catering Italian cuisine. Explore the menu today and make your next event unforgettable with Olive Garden’s delicious offerings.