This Kitchen Is Seasoned With Love Quotes

Nothing screams SUMMER like strawberry shortcake, and yet in Florida the season for strawberries is December through March! But then, by March the daytime temperature is likely to be in the mid-70s to low 80s. So, it’s really easy to think “Ahhh, summer’s almost here.” So, when we planned a BD Party for our friend Bob Mason, we said, “It’s strawberry season! Let’s party!

Brewster Place became especially fond of its colored daughters as they milled like determined spirits among its decay, trying to make it home. Nutmeg arms leaned over windowsills, gnarled ebony legs carried groceries up double flights of steps, and saffron hands strung out wet laundry on backyard lines. Their perspiration mingled with the steam from boiling pots of smoked pork greens, and it curled on the edges of the aroma of vinegar douches and Evening in Paris cologne that drifted through the street where they stood together - hands on hips, straight-backed, round-bellied, high-behinded women who threw their heads back when they laughed and exposed strong teeth and dark gums. They cursed, badgered, worshiped, and shared their men. Their love drove them to fling dishcloths in someone else's kitchen to help him make the rent, or to fling hot lye to help him forget that bitch behind the counter at the five-and-dime. They were hard-edged, soft-centered, brutally demanding, and easily pleased, these women of Brewster Place. They came, they went, grew up, and grew old beyond their years. Like an ebony phoenix, each in her own time and with her own season had a story.

the difference between restaurant cooking and home cooking—and often, too, the difference between great flavor and tasteless food—is two things: more heat and more seasoning. His constant refrain as he made his way around the kitchen: “More heat. More salt. More butter.

Still, this moment belongs to the two of them, Mom and this handsome stranger. He reaches the passenger side door and stares down at her with steely violet eyes-down at my mother who never cries, down at my mother who’s now bawling like a spanked child-his face contorted in a rainbow of so many emotions, some that I can’t even name. Then Grom the Triton king sinks to his knees in front of her, and a single tear spills down his face. “Nalia,” he whispers. And then my mother slaps him. It’s not the kind of slap you get for talking back. It’s not the kind of punch she dealt Galen and Toraf in our kitchen. It’s the kind of slap a woman gives a man when he’s hurt her deeply. And Grom accepts it with grace. “I looked for you,” she shouts, even though he’s inches from her. Slowly, as if in a show of peace, he takes the hand that slapped him and sandwiches it between his own. He seems to revel in the feel of her touch. His face is pure tenderness, his voice like a massage to the nerves. “And I looked for you.” “Your pulse was gone,” she insists. By now she chokes back sobs between words. She’s fighting for control. I’ve never seen my mother fight for control. “As was yours.” I realize Grom knows what not to say, what not to do to provoke her. He is the complete opposite of her, or maybe just a completion of her. Her eyes focus on his wrist, and tears slip down her face, leaving faint trails of mascara on her cheeks. He smiles and slowly pulls his hand away. I think he’s going to show her the bracelet he’s wearing, but instead he rips it off his wrist and holds it out for her inspection. From where I’m standing it looks like a single black ball tied to some sort of string. By my mom’s expression, this black ball has meaning. So much meaning that I think she’s forgotten to breathe. “My pearl,” she whispers. “I thought I’d lost it.” He encloses it in her hand. “This isn’t your pearl, love. That one was lost in the explosion with you. For almost an entire season, I scoured the oyster beds, looking for another one that would do. I don’t know why, but I thought maybe if I found another perfect pearl, I would somehow find you, too. When I found this though, it didn’t bring me the peace I’d hoped for. But I couldn’t bring myself to discard it. I’ve worn it on my wrist ever since.” This is all it takes for my mom to throw herself into his arms, bringing Rachel partially with her. Even so, it’s probably the most moving moment I’ve ever encountered in my eighteen years. Or at least it would be, if my mom weren’t clinging to a man who is not my dad.

Black Rook in Rainy Weather On the stiff twig up there Hunches a wet black rook Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain. I do not expect a miracle Or an accident To set the sight on fire In my eye, nor seek Any more in the desultory weather some design, But let spotted leaves fall as they fall, Without ceremony, or portent. Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain; A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of the kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then -- Thus hallowing an interval Otherwise inconsequent By bestowing largesse, honor, One might say love. At any rate, I now walk Wary (for it could happen Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical, Yet politic; ignorant Of whatever angel may choose to flare Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook Ordering its black feathers can so shine As to seize my senses, haul My eyelids up, and grant A brief respite from fear Of total neutrality. With luck, Trekking stubborn through this season Of fatigue, I shall Patch together a content Of sorts. Miracles occur, If you dare to call those spasmodic Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again, The long wait for the angel, For that rare, random descent.

Their cook at Badenoch was a crotchety old lady who hadn't tried a new recipe in decades. "Dinna tell Mrs. MacGuff that or she'll put a spider in your tea." "Try it and tell me 'tis not worth the risk." He tore off a corner of the bridie and lifted the bite to Katherine's lips. It fairly melted on her tongue. In addition to the crusty pasty, a unique mix of spices seasoned the savory meat inside, a burst of sensations for her mouth. "Och, you're right. This is worth braving a spider. I'll get Cook to show me how she makes these, and then Mrs. MacGuff will either learn from me or she'll have to suffer my presence in her kitchen from time to time. And we know how she loves that!" "So," he said smugly, his dark eyes alight with triumph, "ye do intend to come home with me after Christmas, then.

In 1976, a doctoral student at the University of Nottingham in England demonstrated that randomizing letters in the middle of words had no effect on the ability of readers to understand sentences. In tihs setncene, for emalxpe, ervey scarbelmd wrod rmenias bcilasaly leibgle. Why? Because we are deeply accustomed to seeing letters arranged in certain patterns. Because the eye is in a rush, and the brain, eager to locate meaning, makes assumptions. This is true of phrases, too. An author writes “crack of dawn” or “sidelong glance” or “crystal clear” and the reader’s eye continues on, at ease with combinations of words it has encountered innumerable times before. But does the reader, or the writer, actually expend the energy to see what is cracking at dawn or what is clear about a crystal? The mind craves ease; it encourages the senses to recognize symbols, to gloss. It makes maps of our kitchen drawers and neighborhood streets; it fashions a sort of algebra out of life. And this is useful, even essential—X is the route to work, Y is the heft and feel of a nickel between your fingers. Without habit, the beauty of the world would overwhelm us. We’d pass out every time we saw—actually saw—a flower. Imagine if we only got to see a cumulonimbus cloud or Cassiopeia or a snowfall once a century: there’d be pandemonium in the streets. People would lie by the thousands in the fields on their backs. We need habit to get through a day, to get to work, to feed our children. But habit is dangerous, too. The act of seeing can quickly become unconscious and automatic. The eye sees something—gray-brown bark, say, fissured into broad, vertical plates—and the brain spits out tree trunk and the eye moves on. But did I really take the time to see the tree? I glimpse hazel hair, high cheekbones, a field of freckles, and I think Shauna. But did I take the time to see my wife? “Habitualization,” a Russian army-commissar-turned-literary-critic named Viktor Shklovsky wrote in 1917, “devours works, clothes, furniture, one’s wife, and the fear of war.” What he argued is that, over time, we stop perceiving familiar things—words, friends, apartments—as they truly are. To eat a banana for the thousandth time is nothing like eating a banana for the first time. To have sex with somebody for the thousandth time is nothing like having sex with that person for the first time. The easier an experience, or the more entrenched, or the more familiar, the fainter our sensation of it becomes. This is true of chocolate and marriages and hometowns and narrative structures. Complexities wane, miracles become unremarkable, and if we’re not careful, pretty soon we’re gazing out at our lives as if through a burlap sack. In the Tom Andrews Studio I open my journal and stare out at the trunk of the umbrella pine and do my best to fight off the atrophy that comes from seeing things too frequently. I try to shape a few sentences around this tiny corner of Rome; I try to force my eye to slow down. A good journal entry—like a good song, or sketch, or photograph—ought to break up the habitual and lift away the film that forms over the eye, the finger, the tongue, the heart. A good journal entry ought be a love letter to the world. Leave home, leave the country, leave the familiar. Only then can routine experience—buying bread, eating vegetables, even saying hello—become new all over again.

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.

I love you, Konstantin. I love you like salt. And I'm going to fix this." Salt. More than salt. Morton's. Himalayan. Sweat. Blood. Capers. Roe. Maura. So much more than salt. Something shakes loose inside of him. An instinct to feed her. He only has one memory left, enough for a single ingredient. Something salty--- he was salty in it--- all attitude. But with an undertone of regret, a dash of guilt. A longing for affection. He recalls it--- the kitchen, the refrigerator door, the way the cold air felt along his skin--- lets it travel along his tongue--- his father and that awful tie, the kids and all of their unkindness, his own fear and shame and loneliness--- rolls it like a marble inside his mouth--- the anger that exploded from his chest, his dad's defeat, his own terrible regret--- and feels it harden, rough and textured, crystalline, saline, its nooks and crannies and hand-harvested flakes seasoned to taste, flavored by this memory--- the ache for attention, for connection, for love. It's a subtle salt. Delicate. Fleur de sel.

I make the very best halwa chebakia. With mint tea, or qamar-el-deen- you can take some home to your family." Such an offer cannot be refused. I know this from experience. Years of traveling with my mother have taught me that food is a universal passport. Whatever the constraints of language, culture or geography, food crosses over all boundaries. To offer food is to extend the hand of friendship; to accept is to be accepted into the most closed of communities. I wondered if Francis Reynaud had ever thought of this approach. Knowing him, he hasn't. Reynaud means well, but he isn't the type to buy halwa chebakia or to drink a glass of mint tea in the little café on the corner of the Boulevard P'tit Baghdad. I followed Fatima into the house, making sure to leave my shoes at the door. It was pleasantly cool inside and smelt of frangipani; the shutters closed since midday to guard against the heat of the sun. A door led into the kitchen, from which I caught the mingled scents of anise and almond and rosewater and chickpeas cooked in turmeric, and chopped mint, and toasted cardamom, and those wonderful halwa chebakia, sweet little sesame pastries deep-fried in oil, just small enough to pop into the mouth, flower-shaped and brittle and perfect with a glass of mint tea...

My mint chocolate is delicious----and not at all leafy. Benny has made a mixed-berries-and-cream concoction that is, I hate to admit upon tasting it, next level. Nia, Seb, and Lily are brought in as the blind taste testers, and while they stress that both ice creams were excellent, two out of three prefer Benny's. He takes an obnoxious bow as the whole group---including me, grudgingly---gives him a round of applause. I try not to let my annoyance show until filming wraps up and most people disperse from the kitchen, at which point I take it out on a sticky spot on the counter where some batter spilled. "I think you got it all." Benny's voice is so close behind me that I nearly jump out of my shoes. "Keep scrubbing that hard and you'll wear a hole through the counter." "Keep minding your own business if you don't want me to wear a hole through your head, mister." He laughs as he leans against the counter beside me, one muscular forearm making its way into my line of sight. "I'm not even sure what that means, but you're cute when you're grumpy. Relax, Reese's Pieces. It's still early in the season and we're only oh-and-one. Not that anyone's keeping score." I grit my teeth but say no more, and soon enough he gets the picture and makes himself scarce. He's joking around, but I'm already all too aware of the score, picturing it in bold letters and neon lights: Benny---1, Reese---0.

If loneliness or sadness or happiness could be expressed through food, loneliness would be basil. It’s not good for your stomach, dims your eyes, and turns your mind murky. If you pound basil and place a stone over it, scorpions swarm toward it. Happiness is saffron, from the crocus that blooms in the spring. Even if you add just a pinch to a dish, it adds an intense taste and a lingering scent. You can find it anywhere but you can’t get it at any time of the year. It’s good for your heart, and if you drop a little bit in your wine, you instantly become drunk from its heady perfume. The best saffron crumbles at the touch and instantaneously emits its fragrance. Sadness is a knobby cucumber, whose aroma you can detect from far away. It’s tough and hard to digest and makes you fall ill with a high fever. It’s porous, excellent at absorption, and sponges up spices, guaranteeing a lengthy period of preservation. Pickles are the best food you can make from cucumbers. You boil vinegar and pour it over the cucumbers, then season with salt and pepper. You enclose them in a sterilized glass jar, seal it, and store it in a dark and dry place. WON’S KITCHEN. I take off the sign hanging by the first-floor entryway. He designed it by hand and silk-screened it onto a metal plate. Early in the morning on the day of the opening party for the cooking school, he had me hang the sign myself. I was meaning to give it a really special name, he said, grinning, flashing his white teeth, but I thought Jeong Ji-won was the most special name in the world. He called my name again: Hey, Ji-won. He walked around the house calling my name over and over, mischievously — as if he were an Eskimo who believed that the soul became imprinted in the name when it was called — while I fried an egg, cautiously sprinkling grated Emmentaler, salt, pepper, taking care not to pop the yolk. I spread the white sun-dried tablecloth on the coffee table and set it with the fried egg, unsalted butter, blueberry jam, and a baguette I’d toasted in the oven. It was our favorite breakfast: simple, warm, sweet. As was his habit, he spread a thick layer of butter and jam on his baguette and dunked it into his coffee, and I plunked into my cup the teaspoon laced with jam, waiting for the sticky sweetness to melt into the hot, dark coffee. I still remember the sugary jam infusing the last drop of coffee and the moist crumbs of the baguette lingering at the roof of my mouth. And also his words, informing me that he wanted to design a new house that would contain the cooking school, his office, and our bedroom. Instead of replying, I picked up a firm red radish, sparkling with droplets of water, dabbed a little butter on it, dipped it in salt, and stuck it into my mouth. A crunch resonated from my mouth. Hoping the crunch sounded like, Yes, someday, I continued to eat it. Was that the reason I equated a fresh red radish with sprouting green tops, as small as a miniature apple, with the taste of love? But if I cut into it crosswise like an apple, I wouldn't find the constellation of seeds.

this same love for her own people, and her desire to establish the future greatness of her house on a solid foundation reacted, in her policy with regard to the other servants, in one unvarying maxim, which was never to let any of them set foot in my aunt’s room; indeed she shewed a sort of pride in not allowing anyone else to come near my aunt, preferring, when she herself was ill, to get out of bed and to administer the Vichy water in person, rather than to concede to the kitchen-maid the right of entry into her mistress’s presence. There is a species of hymenoptera, observed by Fabre, the burrowing wasp, which in order to provide a supply of fresh meat for her offspring after her own decease, calls in the science of anatomy to amplify the resources of her instinctive cruelty, and, having made a collection of weevils and spiders, proceeds with marvellous knowledge and skill to pierce the nerve-centre on which their power of locomotion (but none of their other vital functions) depends, so that the paralysed insect, beside which her egg is laid, will furnish the larva, when it is hatched, with a tamed and inoffensive quarry, incapable either of flight or of resistance, but perfectly fresh for the larder: in the same way Françoise had adopted, to minister to her permanent and unfaltering resolution to render the house uninhabitable to any other servant, a series of crafty and pitiless stratagems. Many years later we discovered that, if we had been fed on asparagus day after day throughout that whole season, it was because the smell of the plants gave the poor kitchen-maid, who had to prepare them, such violent attacks of asthma that she was finally obliged to leave my aunt’s service.

New England Clam Chowder YIELD: 4 TO 6 SERVINGS (ABOUT 8 CUPS) I DON’T REMEMBER ever eating clams when I was in France. Oysters and mussels, yes, but not clams. Fried clams and New England clam chowder were popular menu items at Howard Johnson’s, and I soon learned to love them. Although HoJo’s clam chowder recipe was made in 3,000-gallon amounts and canned, it was quite good. I reproduce that taste at home when a bit of Howard Johnson’s nostalgia creeps in. 5 quahog clams or 10 to 12 large cherrystone clams 4 cups water 4 ounces pancetta or lean, cured pork, cut into 1-inch pieces (about ¾ cup) 1 tablespoon good olive oil 1 large onion (about 8 ounces), peeled and cut into 1-inch pieces (1½ cups) 2 teaspoons chopped garlic 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour 2 sprigs fresh thyme 1 pound Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and cut into ½-inch dice (2¼ cups) 1 cup light cream 1 cup milk ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper Wash the clams well under cold water, and put them in a saucepan with 2 cups of the water. Bring to a boil (this will take about 5 minutes), and boil gently for 10 minutes. Drain off and reserve the cooking liquid, remove the clams from their shells, and cut the clams into ½-inch pieces (1½ cups). Put the clam pieces in a bowl, then carefully pour the cooking liquid into another bowl, leaving behind any sediment or dirt. (You should have about 3½ cups of stock.) Set aside the stock and the clams. Put the pancetta or pork pieces in a large saucepan, and cover with the remaining 2 cups water. Bring to a boil, and boil for 30 seconds. Drain the pancetta, and wash it in a sieve under cold water. Rinse the saucepan, and return the pancetta to the pan with the oil. Place over medium heat, and cook gently, stirring occasionally, for 7 to 8 minutes. Add the onion and garlic, and continue cooking, stirring, for 1 minute. Add the flour, mix it in well, and cook for 10 seconds. Add the reserved stock and the thyme, and bring to a boil. Then add the potatoes and clams, bring to a boil, cover, reduce the heat to very low, and cook gently for 2 hours. At serving time, add the cream, milk, and pepper, bring to a boil, and serve. (Note: No salt should be needed because of the clam juice and pancetta, but taste and season to your liking.)

On some nights it's best to stop thinking about the past, and all that's been won and lost. On nights like this, just getting into bed, crawling between clean white sheets, is a great relief. It's only a June night like any other, except for the heat, and the green light in the sky, and the moon. And yet, what happens to the lilacs when everyone sleeps is extraordinary. In My there were a few droopy buds, but now the lilacs bloom again, out of season and overnight, in a single exquisite rush, bearing flowers so fragrant the air itself turns purple and sweet. Before long bees will grow dizzy. Birds won't remember to continue north. For weeks people will find themselves drawn to the sidewalk in fount of Sally Owen's house, pulled out of their own kitchens and dining rooms by the scent of lilacs, reminded of desire and real love and a thousand other things they'd long ago forgotten, and sometimes now wish they'd still forgotten.

Alexander may or may not have peeked out of the kitchen office to make sure Eden actually ate the rest of her Asian fusion abomination. Her delicious Asian fusion abomination. As much as it bothers him to admit, Alexander has never tasted anything so amazing before. The sauce was tangy, notes of lime coming to the forefront without being overpowering. The mini pita shells she'd used had been warmed on the skillet, offering a lovely crunchy texture to offset the softness of the Pad Thai.

This time, it's some kind of dessert. Eden's always had a sweet tooth, and it shows. She moans, willingly drowning in the rich cocoa powder, icing sugar, and savoring the sourness of the raspberries baked in. "Wow, that's good," she mumbles. She helps herself to a larger spoonful and sighs. "Mm, fuck me. More of where that came from, please." She swears she sees the tips of his ears turn red. He shifts in his seat. Her breath hitches when her eyes flit down towards the growing tent in his pants. Oh?

Welcome to the world of haute cuisine, sweetheart." Her breath catches in her throat. Sweetheart. She knows he's being sarcastic, but the word echoes around inside her skull and makes her feel so terribly strange. Tingly. Oddly warm. Her heart picks up in pace and her skin burns like soft fire. A tiny voice in the back of her head craves to hear him say it again. Alexander leans forward, officially leaving no space between them. They're so close that all it would take is for Eden to tilt her chin up just so for their lips to touch. "Here's what's going to happen," he says, tone low and smooth. He smells like peppermint toothpaste and clean laundry, hints of hazelnuts and vanilla lingering just beneath the surface. "Chef?" she mumbles, mesmerized by the warmth radiating off of his body.

Let me get this straight,” I hear the swish of her bathwater. “Three days ago, you called me to help you with the seating chart for your posh, high society Atlanta wedding, and today you’re in Triple Falls because you had a dream, tore up your wedding dress, broke up with your fiancé, decided to sell your father’s business to a man who ripped you apart, and shortly after your college boyfriend confessed he was still in love with you?” “Yes, I know it sounds crazy but—” “Crazy? No, crazy would be a downgrade. This is a late-season Grey’s Anatomy episode. Everything but the kitchen sink.

We only have five minutes before dessert's ready," she protests. "I can do a lot to you in five minutes, sweetheart." "Then what are you waiting for, boyfriend?" He moves with purpose, hooking his hands around her thighs so that he can lift her up and lay her down on the kitchen table. The dishes have already been cleared, save for a pair of forks that clink together with the sudden movement. His skillful hands make quick work of the front of her jeans, tugging them off hurriedly before kneeling on the kitchen tile between her thighs. They've already eaten dinner, but he's ravenous. With the time now sitting at four minutes and thirty seconds, he wastes no more time and dips down to enjoy his meal. The sounds she makes. Alexander's so hard, it's almost painful. He teases her with his tongue, his fingers; makes his business her pleasure. Eden reaches her peak just as the timer on the oven beeps. Alexander can't help but smirk at himself. He always knew he worked well under pressure. "Mmph, thank you for that," Eden mumbles. "Sit tight. I'll go get dessert." "I've already had dessert." She rolls her eyes. "Cheesy." Alexander reclaims his seat just as Eden returns with a piping hot baking dish. It's a layer of molten chocolate topped with a gooey marshmallow layer and a buttery graham cracker crust. She also retrieves a tub of vanilla bean ice cream from the fridge and a can of whipped cream... Which she immediately sprays all over his chest. He's momentarily shocked by the cold, but then Eden gets on her knees with that mischievous glint in her eye that he adores so much. "Food needs to cool," she reasons. "We've got time to kill.

Why does anybody have to be tough? I didn't realize that being tough was a requirement to work in a fucking kitchen. But I guess that's what the mighty Alexander Chen needs to feel like a man, or whatever the fuck grumpy asshole persona you decide to use when you wake up in the morning.

Nigga, you ain’t gotta know her like that to love her! You been boiling over and mad at the world for five years! And it always shows during the Christmas holiday. It’s called soul ties! Love at first sight type shit. You a cold nigga for asking for that money back, though. That girl might need that for child support, and groceries cause yo’ daughter can eat. Her lil’ greedy ass is still in the kitchen. She done stole my mama and won’t share any of the cookies. We even got into a lil argument; you know when I get high, I like to snack. Ion like that shit. She better hope I feel like going out and getting her lil’ ass a Christmas gift.” He shook his head and I had to laugh at his ass

Now, if faith is the gaze of the heart at God, and if this gaze is but the raising of the inward eyes to meet the all-seeing eyes of God, then it follows that it is one of the easiest things possible to do. It would be like God to make the most vital thing easy and place it within the range of possibility for the weakest and poorest of us. Several conclusions may fairly be drawn from all this. The simplicity of it, for instance. Since believing is looking, it can be done without special equipment or religious paraphernalia. God has seen to it that the one life-and-death essential can never be subject to the caprice of accident. Equipment can break down or get lost, water can leak away, records can be destroyed by fire, the minister can be delayed or the church burn down. All these are external to the soul and are subject to accident or mechanical failure: but looking is of the heart and can be done successfully by any man standing up or kneeling down or lying in his last agony a thousand miles from any church. Since believing is looking it can be done any time. No season is superior to another season for this sweetest of all acts. God never made salvation depend upon new moons nor holy days or sabbaths. A man is not nearer to Christ on Easter Sunday than he is, say, on Saturday, August 3, or Monday, October 4. As long as Christ sits on the mediatorial throne every day is a good day and all days are days of salvation. Neither does place matter in this blessed work of believing God. Lift your heart and let it rest upon Jesus and you are instantly in a sanctuary though it be a Pullman berth or a factory or a kitchen. You can see God from anywhere if your mind is set to love and obey Him.

Arin was in the still room, trying to soothe the anxiety of a woman who was saying that she had just preserved the jams, and must all of them be used for the banquet, every last one? She didn’t think the Dacrans appreciated ilea fruit. Why serve something they wouldn’t love as much as the Herrani did? It would be best, surely, to keep at least those jars for winter. Trying to explain the politics of such lavish consumption tangled Arin up in frustrated half sentences, because it didn’t make much sense to him, either, to consume every edible thing in one night. And then he heard Roshar’s accented voice in Herrani drifting down the hall from the ktichens. “…you don’t understand. The piece of meat must be the finest, cut from the loin, seasoned with this spice, not that one…” Arin excused himself, told the woman he’d discuss jams later, and followed the prince’s voice. “…and it must be well roasted on the outside, almost charred, yet bloody inside. Bright pink. Listen. This is crucial. If anything goes wrong, the banquet will be ruined.” Arin entered the main kitchen to find the prince haranguing the head cook, who slid a half-lidded look of annoyed sufferance at Arin. “There you are.” Roshar beamed. “I need your help, Arin.” “For the preparation of meat?” “It’s very important. You must impress this importance upon your cook here. The fate of political relations between my country and yours hangs in the balance.” “Because of meat.” “It’s for his tiger,” said the cook. Arin palmed his face, eyes squeezed shut. “Your tiger.” “He’s very particular,” said Roshar. “You can’t bring the tiger to the banquet.” “Little Arin has missed me. I will not be parted from him.” “Would you consider changing his name?” “No.” “What if I begged?” “Not a chance.” “Roshar, the tiger has grown.” “And what a sweet big boy he is.” “You can’t bring him into a dining hall filled with hundreds of people.” “He’ll behave. He has the mien and manners of a prince.” “Oh, like you?” “I resent your tone.” “I’m not sure you can control him.” “Has he ever been aught but the gentlest of creatures? Would you deny your namesake the chance to bear witness to our victorious celebration? And, of course, to the vision of you and Kestrel: side by side, Herrani and Valorian, a love for the ages. The stuff of songs, Arin! How you’ll get married, and make babies--” “Gods, Roshar, shut up.

Arin was in the still room, trying to soothe the anxiety of a woman who was saying that she had just preserved the jams, and must all of them be used for the banquet, every last one? She didn’t think the Dacrans appreciated ilea fruit. Why serve something they wouldn’t love as much as the Herrani did? It would be best, surely, to keep at least those jars for winter. Trying to explain the politics of such lavish consumption tangled Arin up in frustrated half sentences, because it didn’t make much sense to him, either, to consume every edible thing in one night. And then he heard Roshar’s accented voice in Herrani drifting down the hall from the ktichens. “…you don’t understand. The piece of meat must be the finest, cut from the loin, seasoned with this spice, not that one…” Arin excused himself, told the woman he’d discuss jams later, and followed the prince’s voice. “…and it must be well roasted on the outside, almost charred, yet bloody inside. Bright pink. Listen. This is crucial. If anything goes wrong, the banquet will be ruined.” Arin entered the main kitchen to find the prince haranguing the head cook, who slid a half-lidded look of annoyed sufferance at Arin. “There you are.” Roshar beamed. “I need your help, Arin.” “For the preparation of meat?” “It’s very important. You must impress this importance upon your cook here. The fate of political relations between my country and yours hangs in the balance.

Isabel had always enjoyed a house full of people. 'Feed your friends, and their mouths will be too full to gossip,' Bubbie used to say. 'Feed your enemies, and they'll become your friends.' Throughout Isabel's childhood, the Johansen household had been full of people coming over, sitting down for a glass of wine or a slice of pie, staying up late, talking and laughing. Bubbie and Grandfather had been determined that she should never feel like an orphan. Except that, despite their efforts, sometimes she had. It wasn't their fault, she reflected as she placed wedges of quiche on plates. There was just something inside her- an urge, a yearning- that made her long to be someone's daughter, not the granddaughter. She never said so, though, not aloud. Yet somehow, they heard her. Somehow, they knew. Perhaps, in the aftermath of Bubbie's final illness and passing, that was why Isabel had become so bound to Bella Vista. Now she couldn't imagine being anywhere else. Her heart resided here, her soul. She still loved having people over, creating beautiful food, watching the passing of the seasons. Even now, with all the trouble afoot and secrets being revealed like the layers of a peeled onion, she found the rhythm of the kitchen soothing.

RJ gets to work in the kitchen on the dinner he is preparing, allowing me to sous chef. He seasons duck breasts with salt, pepper, coriander, and orange zest. Puts a pot of wild rice on to cook, asks me to top and tail some green beans. We open a bottle of Riesling, sipping while we cook, and I light a fire. The place gets cozy, full of delicious smells and the crackling fire. We ignore the dining table in favor of sitting on the floor in front of the fire, and tuck in. "This is amazing," I tell him, blown away by the duck, perfectly medium-rare and succulent, with crispy, fully rendered skin. "Really, honey, it couldn't be better." "Thank you, baby. That's a major compliment. And I have to say, I love cooking with you." "I love cooking with you." And I did. I never once felt like I wanted to jump in or make a change, or suggest a different choice. I followed him as I would have followed any chef, and the results of trusting him are completely delicious, literally and figuratively.

Bok Choy Seitan Pho (Vietnamese Noodle Soup) After sampling pho at a Vietnamese noodle shop in Los Angeles, I was on a mission to create a simple plant-based version of this aromatic, festive noodle dish in my own kitchen. My recipe features seitan, a wonderful plant-based protein found in many natural food stores. My whole family loves the interactive style in which this soup is served. In fact, you can plan a dinner party around this traditional meal. Simply dish up the noodles and bubbling broth into large soup bowls, set out a variety of vegetable toppings, and let your guests serve it up their way. MAKES 4 SERVINGS BROTH 4 cups reduced-sodium vegetable broth ½ medium yellow onion, chopped ½ cup sliced shiitake mushrooms 1 medium carrot, sliced 4 garlic cloves, minced 8 thin slices peeled fresh ginger root 1 tablespoon reduced-sodium soy sauce 1 tablespoon rice wine vinegar 1 tablespoon agave syrup ¼ teaspoon ground black pepper 2 cinnamon sticks 2 star anise pods ½ teaspoon whole coriander 6 sprigs of fresh basil 6 sprigs of fresh cilantro NOODLES One 8-ounce package flat rice noodles TOPPINGS One 8-ounce package seitan (wheat gluten) strips, thinly sliced 2 small bunches of fresh bok choy, sliced thinly 1 cup fresh bean sprouts ½ cup coarsely chopped cilantro ½ cup coarsely chopped basil 1 small lime, cut into wedges 1 small jalapeño pepper, seeded and diced 4 green onions, sliced TO PREPARE THE BROTH: 1. Combine all the broth ingredients in a large pot, cover, and bring to a low boil. Reduce the heat and simmer for 30 minutes. Strain the broth, discarding the vegetables and seasonings. Return the strained broth to the pot, cover, and keep warm (broth should be bubbling right before serving time). While broth is cooking, prepare noodles and toppings. TO PREPARE THE NOODLES: 1. Bring a medium pot of water to a boil. Add the rice noodles, cover, and cook until just tender, about 5 minutes, or according to package directions. Drain the noodles immediately and rinse with cold water. Return the drained noodles to the pot and cover. TO PREPARE THE TOPPINGS: 1. Arrange the toppings on a large platter. 2. To serve the soup, divide the noodles among four very large soup bowls. Either garnish the noodles with desired toppings or let your guests do their own. Ladle boiling broth over the noodles and toppings, and serve immediately. Allow hot broth to wilt vegetables and cool slightly before eating it. PER SERVING (ABOUT 2 OUNCES NOODLES, 2 OUNCES SEITAN, 1 CUP VEGETABLE TOPPINGS, AND 1 CUP BROTH): Calories: 310 • Carbohydrates: 55 g • Fiber: 4 g • Protein: 17 g • Total fat: 2 g • Saturated fat: 0 g • Sodium: 427 mg • Star nutrients: Vitamin A (39% DV), vitamin C (23% DV), iron (11% DV), selenium (13% DV)

The dark came down on All Hallows’ Eve. We went to sleep to the sound of howling wind and pelting rain, and woke on the Feast of All Saints to whiteness and large soft flakes falling down and down in absolute silence. There is no more perfect stillness than the solitude in the heart of a snowstorm. This is the thin time, when the beloved dead draw near. The world turns inward, and the chilling air grows thick with dreams and mystery. The sky goes from a sharp clear cold where a million stars burn bright and close, to the gray-pink cloud that enfolds the earth with the promise of snow. I took one of Bree’s matches from its box and lit it, thrilling to the tiny leap of instant flame, and bent to put it to the kindling. Snow was falling, and winter had come; the season of fire. Candles and hearth fire, that lovely, leaping paradox, that destruction contained but never tamed, held at a safe distance to warm and enchant, but always, still, with that small sense of danger. The smell of roasting pumpkins was thick and sweet in the air. Having ruled the night with fire, the jack-o’-lanterns went now to a more peaceful fate as pies and compost, to join the gentle rest of the earth before renewal. I had turned the earth in my garden the day before, planting the winter seeds to sleep and swell, to dream their buried birth. Now is the time when we reenter the womb of the world, dreaming the dreams of snow and silence. Waking to the shock of frozen lakes under waning moonlight and the cold sun burning low and blue in the branches of the ice-cased trees, returning from our brief and necessary labors to food and story, to the warmth of firelight in the dark. Around a fire, in the dark, all truths can be told, and heard, in safety. I pulled on my woolen stockings, thick petticoats, my warmest shawl, and went down to poke up the kitchen fire. I stood watching wisps of steam rise from the fragrant cauldron, and felt myself turn inward. The world could go away, and we would heal.

I was so happy. I had changed lots of diapers in my twenty-two years and cared for lots of babies, but our Lily was ours, and to us, she was perfect and healthy. She was easy and quiet, and she slept really good. I always knew I was going to love being a mom, and I was right. I loved it. I could even take her to the movies, and she wouldn’t make a peep. Phil always says Lily was the first granddaughter who wasn’t afraid of him. And it was true. From the very first time they laid eyes on each other, baby Lily was a match for Phil. She just took to him. I guess it was the beard, and it was a good thing Jep had a hunting-season beard when she was born because she was used to it. She loved her Papaw Phil, and as soon as she was a few months old and could sit up, she’d sit in his lap and watch Fox News. Jep had always said he wanted his children to be around his family, especially his parents, so I made an effort to bring Lily down to Phil and Kay’s as often as possible. While Lily sat with Phil, I’d help Miss Kay with work or in the kitchen or just sit and visit. In the back of my mind, I still carried some of the fear and worry from my pregnancy. As she got closer to a year old, Jep and I noticed Lily hadn’t started talking yet, although she seemed to be normal and healthy in every other way. She was alert and sweet and smart, but she was quiet. Her eyes were big, and she watched everything going on around her. But she didn’t talk. In her second year, we got a little more worried because Lily still wasn’t talking. Developmentally, everything else was on track. She grew and ate solid good and crawled and walked, but still no words. We were concerned and afraid something might be wrong. Lily finally started talking when she was three, and she has turned out to be as smart as can be and does very well in school. There is nothing wrong with her. Lily is on her own timetable, and we had to wait patiently for her personality to emerge. I’m guessing her quiet personality came from her dad. I don’t know, but maybe I did all her talking for her, and she didn’t feel the need those first few years! Lily is twelve years old now. She’s still sweet and smart and quiet, and she still loves her family.

The poissonnier is delivering some of his beautiful daurades and scallops." I let out a sigh of relief. "Perfect. If there's anything I can handle, it's sea bream, lovely and light," I said, nodding my head. I needed to do this. "It's winter. Fennel is in season, yes?" I asked, thinking about what would plate well with the duck, and she nodded. "Pomegranate? And hazelnuts?" "Of course," said Philippa, rubbing her hands together. "I can't wait to see what you've got up your sleeve." That would make two of us. What was I going to do with the daurade? Something simple like daurade with almonds and a romesco sauce? Did the kitchen even have almonds? The more I thought about this recipe, the more boring it sounded. Roasted daurade with lemon and herbs? Again, typical. I had an opportunity to create something special, something out of this world, on my own terms. I wanted to get creative and do something colorful, playing with the colors of winter and whatever was in season. My imagination raced with all of the possibilities- a slideshow in my mind presenting delicious temptations. A crate of oranges caught my eye. I licked my lips- a light sweet potato purée infused with orange. Braised cabbage. Seared daurade filets. Saffron. The colors, ingredients, and plating came together in my mind.

We ate all our meals in the kitchen nook, with its banquette seating around a small table. We liked it because it nestled against a window and gave us an eastward view of Kah Tai Lagoon, down the hill from our house. We both loved watching the light of different seasons play across the still water, gleaming in summer, shimmering in autumn, as gray and dull as old pewter in wintertime.

Now, no one likes to grill more than I do. But everyone in the business knows there's a huge difference between grill and sauté. Grill guys- and by no means would I want to imply that grilling isn't an art- but grill guys tend to be the cavemen of the kitchen. The guys who don't possess much in the way of artistic flair but can give you a perfectly pink tenderloin of venison after sprinkling it with salt and pepper, searing it, and poking it a couple of times. These are not the men for delicate seasonings and sauce making. They stick to the meat, mostly. And they can take a lot of heat. Sautéing is the highest station in the kitchen, below the sous chef and chef. And I, for one, goddammit, have piled enough skyscraper salads to be given consideration. I'm not working my way up the kitchen ladder for my goddamn health. I know all too well the sting of vinegar in an open cut. Oh yes, that salad you're eating as a light appetizer? My bare hands have massaged dressing into every leaf. Lettuce loves me. But I've got ambition and, I don't mind saying, a decent palate. I believe I'm capable of executing the finer sauce nuances. I want to start my own place. I want to be The Chef. And the only way to do this (aside from buying a place outright) is by becoming the greatest cook I can be. Which means kicking ass on the line, not just salads and desserts. These are my hopes. These are my dreams.

No, I am stating a fact. Find some other gullible bitch to bite, fuck and fetch your slippers.” Javier’s laughter washed over her in a warm wave she enjoyed way too much. Fuming that they wouldn’t take her seriously, she clamped her lips shut as the overgrown cat carried her into her home. He finally set her down on her couch, but then instead of leaving, Ethan sat in the chair opposite her while Javier wandered off in the direction of the kitchen. “Shouldn’t you be leaving?” she asked with a pointed stare toward the door. A shrug from massive shoulders answered her. “Make me.” “Ooh,” she almost shrieked in exasperation. Only the pulsing of her painful head held her back. “Why are you both being so stubborn? Can’t you tell you’re not wanted?” “My mama said the same thing to my dad when they first met,” Ethan admitted. “Not liking her answer, he tossed her over his shoulder and kept her prisoner in a cave for two weeks, making love to her numerous times a day until she finally admitted she loved him, too,” he added with a smug grin. Naomi’s jaw dropped and her throat worked soundlessly for a moment. “You wouldn’t dare!” Her mouth said one thing, her pussy, drenching at his words, screamed another. “Well, as you’ve mentioned a few times, I’m probably too dumb to know better. Although, don’t worry, because of the lacrosse season, maybe I’ll just handcuff you to a bed instead of finding a cave.” “My family won’t stand for it!” “Children, children,” Javier chided returning to them holding two open beers, and one tall glass of juice. “Can’t we all get along? After all, since our beasts have seen fit to join us in a ménage, we’ll be together a long, long time.” “Over my dead body,” she growled. “Not dead, but gagged can definitely be arranged,” Ethan grumbled. “Hmm, a little kinky, but I’m not averse to the idea,” Javier added.

f you're living in a place that's just not big enough for that huge Christmas tree you'd love to have, get branches of evergreen, balsam, or juniper and use them to outline mirrors, arrange on mantels or windowsills, or decorate tabletops and bookshelves. Add gold or silver balls or showcase your holiday collectibles among the branches, such as snow villages, angels, and Christmas teacups. And don't forget to use plenty of unlit candles in seasonal colors. If you do light them, make sure the branches are arranged so they're not a fire hazard. Add a nativity scene to set the significant tone of the season. Make your home warm and welcoming, overflowing with love and good cheer. hose food shows on TV don't have anything on me! Cooking with your friends-inviting them to sit with you while you prepare a fantastic meal is something I've been doing for years. More often, though, I'll put my friends to work. We all have fun pitching in. I've had some of my best conversations while I was stirring a pot of soup and someone else was tossing a salad. I've also had some of my closest times with my husband in that warm, creative room in our house. Good talk seems to happen naturally in the kitchen. And teamwork is great fun! No one is lonely; no one feels left out. Creativity flourishes as you work together.

Sealing fish and a few other aromatic ingredients in a parchment paper package is one of the best ways to achieve perfectly cooked white fish with minimal work. And it always makes an impression when the packages are snipped open at the table, revealing the lovely fish and vegetables inside and releasing their amazing aroma. You need only parchment and kitchen string to form the packages and you can serve this with your favorite seasoned rice.

branzino in salt crust branzino in crosta di sale 1 whole 4-pound branzino, sea bass, striped bass, loup de mer, or red snapper, cleaned and scaled Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper ½ cup extra virgin olive oil ½ lemon, sliced ½ orange, sliced 3 sprigs fresh tarragon 3 sprigs fresh oregano 1 bay leaf 1 garlic clove, sliced 2 pounds kosher salt 1 tablespoon fennel seeds 1 tablespoon black peppercorns 8 large egg whites 1 tablespoon chopped fresh tarragon 1 tablespoon chopped fresh basil 1 tablespoon chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley 4 lemon wedges or slices 1 Preheat the oven to 375°F. 2 With a pair of shears, cut out the gills of the fish, if necessary, and wash the inner cavity. Season the cavity to taste with salt and pepper and drizzle with about ¼ cup of olive oil. Put the lemon and orange slices, tarragon, oregano, bay leaf, and garlic in the cavity of the fish and gently press the two sides of the fish together. 3 In a large bowl, stir 2 pounds of kosher salt and the fennel seeds, peppercorns, and egg whites to a paste-like consistency. You might find it easiest to mix this with your hands. 4 Spread a ½-inch layer of the salt paste over a shallow baking pan, such as a jelly roll pan, large enough to hold the fish. Put the stuffed fish on top of the salt. 5 Pack the rest of the salt paste around and over the fish so that it is completely encased. 6 Bake the fish for 30 to 45 minutes, depending on the weight of the fish. A full 4-pound fish will require 40 minutes; a fish that weighs a little more than 4 pounds will need 45 minutes. Do not overcook. 7 Remove the pan from the oven and let the fish rest, still encased in the salt, for 5 to 8 minutes. Using a mallet or the handle of a heavy knife, crack the salt. If the fish is cooked through so that the flesh just flakes and is opaque, remove all the salt using a knife and spoon to lift it off. If the fish needs a little more cooking, rest the chunks of salt back on top of it and return it to the oven for 5 or 6 minutes, or until done. Let it rest again for about 5 minutes before removing all the salt. 8 Drizzle the fish with ¼ cup of olive oil and sprinkle with the chopped tarragon, basil, and parsley. Serve with a wedge or slice of lemon. This is one of my all-time favorite recipes—partly because I love the drama of cracking open the salt shell and exposing the fish, but mainly because it tastes so good. The salt case keeps the fish perfectly moist but does not make it especially salty. In fact, the fish is perfectly cooked and flavored. Cooking fish this way is a technique as old as ancient Rome, and for all its tableside drama it’s surprisingly easy. It’s important to begin with a 4-pound fish (or one slightly larger). I like this

sausage and escarole soup minestra di scarola e salsiccia ½ pound dried cannellini beans ½ cup olive oil 8 garlic cloves, minced 1 tablespoon ground fennel seeds 1 tablespoon crushed red pepper flakes 4 sprigs fresh thyme 1¼ pounds Italian sausage, crumbled 4 celery ribs, cut into large dice 2 carrots, cut into large dice 1 onion, cut into large dice Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper 2 quarts chicken stock 2 quarts Parmesan Broth (recipe follows) 2 heads escarole, washed and dried 2 quarts Stewed Tomatoes (recipe follows) 2 tablespoons sherry vinegar 1 In a bowl or pot, cover the beans with cold water by about 1 inch. Set aside to soak for at least 6 hours or overnight. Change the water two or three times during soaking, if possible. 2 In a large soup pot, heat the olive oil over medium heat. Add the garlic, fennel seeds, red pepper, and thyme and cook for 2 to 3 minutes, or until the garlic softens but does not color and the spices are fragrant. 3 Add the sausage and cook, breaking it into large chunks and stirring until browned. When the sausage is about halfway cooked through, add the celery, carrots, and onion, season to taste with salt and pepper, and cook for about 5 minutes longer, or until the vegetables soften and the sausage is nicely browned. 4 Drain the beans and discard the water. Put the beans in the pot with the sausage. Add the stock and Parmesan Broth and bring to a simmer over medium-high heat. Reduce the heat to low and cook for 1 to 1½ hours, until the beans are softened but still hold their shape. Do not overcook. 5 Add the escarole and tomatoes and season to taste with salt. Cook at a gentle simmer for about 10 minutes, or until the escarole is tender. Stir in the vinegar and season to taste with salt and pepper. Ladle into bowls and serve. I love this warm, homey soup, and because it’s one I grew up eating, I am not surprised it hits the spot for so many. In Italy, the region where it’s made dictates the kind of sausage used. In some parts they use pork, in others game or duck sausages. I rely on spicy pork sausage, but if you prefer sweet sausage or turkey sausage, for example, substitute it. The secret to this soup’s special goodness lies with the Parmesan broth, which is a delicious way to use Parmesan rinds—those rock-hard ends on the cheese. It has a wonderful salty and cheesy flavor that makes it perfect for soups and pasta sauces.  serves 6 to 8 parmesan broth makes 1 gallon 1 tablespoon black peppercorns 1 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes 1 gallon chicken stock 1½ pounds Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese rind 1 bay leaf 1 sprig fresh thyme 2 tablespoons olive oil Kosher salt

With food, cultures are transcended, walls are broken down, heartfelt stories are seasoned and salted. There’s a reason that the kitchen is called “the heart of the home.” It’s where love is blended.

How Do I Call Expedia for a Chef-Led Food Tour? ☎️+1-888-217-6907 If you’ve always dreamed of tasting authentic dishes with expert guidance, a chef-led food tour is perfect. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 By calling Expedia, you’ll unlock incredible culinary journeys worldwide, from vibrant street markets to Michelin-level kitchens. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Booking by phone makes gourmet travel easy. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 When you call Expedia, trained agents connect you with unique food tours led by chefs passionate about culture. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Imagine walking through Rome’s markets, Tokyo’s sushi alleys, or Mexico City’s taco stands with culinary masters. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Each experience feels authentic. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Expedia’s phone advisors also share insider knowledge about seasonal tours, limited-capacity events, and hidden culinary gems. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Online listings often lack those details, but agents ensure you never miss special tastings. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Calling guarantees insider-level access. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Couples booking romantic culinary trips benefit greatly from Expedia’s support. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Picture strolling hand-in-hand through Paris food stalls, enjoying cooking lessons for two, and savoring wine pairings prepared by expert chefs. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 It’s unforgettable romance. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Families also love chef-led food tours arranged over the phone. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Expedia ensures you find family-friendly experiences, like pizza-making workshops in Naples or dumpling classes in Beijing. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Everyone enjoys delicious learning together. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Solo travelers can also thrive on culinary journeys, finding both adventure and connection. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Expedia agents recommend group tours where food unites people, creating friendships while sharing meals. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Solo doesn’t mean lonely here. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Groups such as cooking clubs or friends traveling together find Expedia’s phone booking especially helpful. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Agents coordinate shared schedules, private tastings, and group rates for multiple travelers. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Planning becomes stress-free and exciting. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Luxury seekers enjoy chef-led food tours with premium touches, from five-star hotel stays to exclusive dining reservations. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Expedia’s advisors know which properties offer gourmet experiences with VIP access. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 A call ensures indulgent itineraries. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Budget-conscious travelers also benefit, as Expedia agents compare affordable culinary packages that don’t sacrifice flavor. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Street food tours, local market tastings, and cooking classes can all fit modest budgets. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Savings never mean compromise. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Timing is everything for a chef-led food tour. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Calling Expedia helps you plan trips during seasonal harvests, food festivals, or special regional celebrations. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Perfect timing enhances every flavorful bite. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 International culinary travel can be tricky, but Expedia simplifies the process. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Their experts handle flights, hotels, transfers, and food tour bookings across borders smoothly. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Global food journeys become seamless adventures. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Another advantage of calling Expedia is flexibility when plans change. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 If flights delay or tours reschedule, their support team quickly adjusts bookings. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Stress-free arrangements mean more time enjoying cuisine. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Even after booking, Expedia’s phone line remains your reliable travel companion. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Need to add an extra cooking class, extend your stay, or upgrade accommodations? Advisors assist instantly. ☎️+1-888-217-6907 Ongoing support ensures smooth journeys.

☎️+1(844) 584-4767 Booking a mountain cabin with Expedia over the phone is easier than most people imagine. Picture yourself escaping the noise, trading city streets for serene forests and breathtaking views. Expedia gives you the flexibility to reserve cozy log cabins, modern mountain lodges, or luxury retreats directly with a simple call. Whether you’re looking for a romantic hideaway or a family getaway, reserving over the phone ensures every detail fits your needs perfectly. ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 Many travelers wonder why they should call instead of booking online, but here’s the insider secret. When you call Expedia, you sometimes gain access to exclusive cabin deals or hidden inventory not listed on the site. Phone agents can walk you through cabin options, answer questions about amenities, and even check local availability in real time. This means you’ll secure the perfect mountain cabin without endless scrolling. That personal touch makes a huge difference in planning. ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 Another advantage of reserving a mountain cabin with Expedia by phone is flexibility with customization. Online listings often give limited descriptions, but talking directly with an agent allows you to discuss specific preferences. Want a cabin with a fireplace, hot tub, or ski-in access? Agents can filter results faster than a website algorithm. Plus, they can apply discounts, loyalty perks, or seasonal promos. That combination of personalization and savings makes the phone option highly appealing. ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 When you think about it, cabin getaways are trending like never before, especially for adventurous travelers. Expedia offers listings across iconic mountain destinations, from the Rockies to the Smokies, and even secluded alpine gems. By calling, you not only secure your stay but also gain advice on nearby attractions. Need hiking trails, ski resorts, or dining recommendations? Expedia’s team has the inside scoop to help plan a complete mountain escape. That’s travel made smarter. ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 Families especially love the convenience of calling Expedia for mountain cabin reservations instead of relying solely online. Larger groups often need multiple bedrooms, spacious kitchens, or pet-friendly spaces, and those details are easier to confirm by phone. Parents appreciate knowing in advance that the cabin setup truly matches what their family requires. When you call, you remove guesswork and reduce stress, ensuring everyone has room to relax comfortably after exploring the mountains together. ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 Couples, on the other hand, are drawn to mountain cabins for privacy and romance. Expedia makes it simple to find cabins with breathtaking balconies, secluded hot tubs, or cozy living rooms perfect for a getaway. By booking on the phone, you can mention special occasions like anniversaries or honeymoons. Hotels and cabin hosts often throw in extras when they know you’re celebrating. That’s how a simple phone call can transform your reservation into a memorable experience. ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 Of course, some travelers assume reserving online is faster—but speed isn’t always the best benefit. While clicking through Expedia’s site is quick, it doesn’t offer the same real-time flexibility as phone booking. Cabin availability can change daily, and calling allows you to lock in options instantly. That means fewer surprises and better peace of mind. Especially for peak seasons, when mountain cabins sell out quickly, phone booking ensures you don’t miss the perfect spot.

Are you ready to spice up your travel plans? Start by dialing ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 to explore cooking class vacations. Whether it's pasta in Italy or sushi in Tokyo, ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 will guide you through each flavorful destination. Let your next adventure begin with a simple call to ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 and explore culinary creativity. Cooking vacations are more than food—they’re immersive experiences. Call ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 to find programs that mix sightseeing and hands-on learning. Whether you’re a kitchen pro or a total beginner, ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 can pair you with the perfect class. Don’t wait—unlock your inner chef through ☎️+1(888) 714-9824. If you’re looking for a vacation full of flavor, learning, and culture, call ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 today. From private villa workshops to group cooking schools, ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 connects you with options worldwide. Food and travel go hand in hand, so plan them both through ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 with confidence. Want to learn to cook local cuisine while staying near a scenic view? Ask ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 for locations with both. Whether it’s French pastries in Paris or Thai street food in Chiang Mai, ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 will curate the perfect package. Let culinary dreams come true via ☎️+1(888) 714-9824. Expedia makes it easy to combine flights, hotels, and culinary classes when you call ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 directly. Don’t spend hours searching online—just ask ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 to tailor your entire journey. Customized cooking vacations start with one helpful phone call to ☎️+1(888) 714-9824. Do you travel solo or with a group? Mention this when you call ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 so they can match you accordingly. Many classes welcome solo travelers or offer small-group formats. ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 ensures you feel comfortable and included. Reserve the right culinary fit through ☎️+1(888) 714-9824. Want to know what’s included? Ask ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 about meals, tools, and transport covered in each package. Some classes offer market visits, others include wine tastings. Get every flavorful detail sorted out in advance by calling ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 before booking. Looking for local instructors or world-famous chefs? Call ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 and request options based on your culinary goals. Whether you want authentic home cooking or advanced technique, ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 can help you choose wisely. Your experience matters—plan it with ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 guiding every step. Is your goal to learn farm-to-table techniques or regional dishes? Just ask ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 for classes focused on specific cooking styles. Whether you love slow food or bold street flavors, ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 knows where to send you. Curated experiences begin at ☎️+1(888) 714-9824. Want to combine relaxation and food? Call ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 to explore spa resorts that include cooking workshops. Balance comfort with creativity through packages booked via ☎️+1(888) 714-9824. Enjoy luxurious lodging and culinary learning in one place—book both via ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 today. Curious about seasonal dishes? Ask ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 which months offer the best cooking trips based on harvest times and local ingredients. Timing is essential for flavor. Let ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 align your calendar with the best food moments worldwide. Prefer city kitchens or countryside culinary retreats? Let ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 know your setting preferences so they can narrow down locations. You might want a fast-paced kitchen or a calm rural escape. Either way, ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 helps match your pace. Traveling for an anniversary, birthday, or surprise trip? Let ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 help plan an unforgettable culinary celebration. Choose romantic destinations or fun group escapes through the experience of ☎️+1(888) 714-9824. One call to ☎️+1(888) 714-9824 sets the tone for tasty memories.

☎️+1(844) 584-4767 If your family loves the outdoors but prefers comfort over roughing it, glamping is the answer. Expedia makes ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 booking a family-friendly glamping trip easy, combining nature’s beauty with hotel-style amenities. From luxury tents to ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 treehouses, Expedia offers countless options to match your style, budget, and sense of adventure. ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 Start by deciding the kind of scenery your crew will love most—mountains, beaches, forests, or ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 desert landscapes. Expedia’s search filters let you choose destinations with kid-friendly amenities, nearby attractions, and ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 activities for all ages, making sure everyone in the family has something exciting to do. ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 When calling Expedia, mention your must-have comforts. Heated beds, private bathrooms, or on-site dining ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 can make all the difference for families with kids. The right combination of amenities ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 keeps everyone happy while still enjoying the magic of the great outdoors. ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 Consider the season when booking. Some glamping spots are magical in summer, while ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 others shine in cooler months with cozy fires and autumn colors. Expedia ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 agents can recommend the best destinations for your travel dates. ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 If you’re bringing young children, look for sites with on-site activities like nature walks, ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 craft classes, or mini-farms. Expedia can point you toward properties that ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 specialize in creating memorable experiences for the whole family. ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 Families with teens might prefer adventure-based glamping. Think kayaking, hiking, or zip-lining during ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 the day and stargazing by night. Expedia’s listings often note adventure ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 packages perfect for keeping older kids engaged. ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 One of the best perks of calling Expedia is the insider knowledge. Agents ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 know which glamping spots have the most reliable service, safest trails, and ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 friendliest staff—details that matter when traveling with kids. ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 Don’t forget to ask about meal options. Some glamping sites include gourmet breakfasts or ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 campfire dinners, while others have kitchens for DIY cooking. Expedia helps ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 you pick what works best for your family’s style. ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 Another tip is to inquire about group accommodations. Larger tents or adjoining cabins ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 make it easier for families to stay close together. Expedia ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 can recommend the most spacious setups for comfort. ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 Budget-conscious families can take advantage of off-peak rates. Traveling midweek or outside ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 school holidays often means lower prices. Expedia agents know ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 how to spot the best seasonal deals. ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 Before booking, ask about local attractions. National parks, beaches, or wildlife tours ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 nearby can enhance your trip. Expedia packages ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 sometimes include tickets to these activities. ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 Once booked, download the Expedia app for easy access to your itinerary, ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 confirmation numbers, and directions. The app even alerts you ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 about weather changes or local event updates. ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 Pack smart—bring layers, comfortable shoes, and any extras your kids ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 might need. Expedia often shares packing lists ☎️+1(844) 584-4767 tailored to specific destinations.