Yolk Quotes

We've searched our database for all the quotes and captions related to Yolk. Here they are! All 200 of them:

By the Angel, Bridget’s depressing,” said Henry, setting down his newspaper directly on his plate and causing the edge to soak through with egg yolk. Charlotte opened her mouth as if to object, and closed it again. “It’s all heartbreak, death and unrequited love.” “Well, that is what most songs are about,” said Will. “Requited love is nice, but it doesn’t make much of a ballad.
Cassandra Clare (Clockwork Princess (The Infernal Devices, #3))
Home is where the heart is, I thought now, gathering myself together in Betty's Luncheonette. I had no heart any more, it had been broken; or not broken, it simply wasn't there any more. It had been scooped neatly out of me like the yolk from a hard-boiled egg, leaving the rest of me bloodless and congealed and hollow. I'm heartless, I thought. Therefore I'm homeless.
Margaret Atwood (The Blind Assassin)
The sun had become a light yellow yolk and was walking with red legs across the sky.
Zora Neale Hurston (Seraph on the Suwanee)
She wore a cantilevered, augmented-breast-skimming satin dress the colour of egg-yolk. Somewhere in deepest Nebraska, a prom queen two sizes smaller than Selena was wondering where the fuck her outfit had disappeared to.
Tabitha McGowan (The Tied Man (The Tied Man, #1))
I’m frightened of eggs, worse than frightened, they revolt me. That white round thing without any holes … have you ever seen anything more revolting than an egg yolk breaking and spilling its yellow liquid? Blood is jolly, red. But egg yolk is yellow, revolting. I’ve never tasted it.
Alfred Hitchcock
What if people really did that - sent their love through the mail to get rid of it? What would it be that they sent? A box of chocolates with centers like the yolks of turkey eggs. A mud doll with hollow eye sockets. A heap of roses slightly more fragrant than rotten. A package wrapped in bloody newspaper that nobody would want to open.
Alice Munro (The Love of a Good Woman)
It was April the season of blood oranges, emotion running like the stream behind my house upstate, turbulent and thawing. I thought about how fragile people get when they withdraw from anything, how they become bloody yolks protected only by the thinnest shell
Chris Kraus (I Love Dick)
Maddock stabbed his fried egg with his fork, and bright yellow yolk bled all over his plate like a sunshine hemorrhage.
Rachel Vincent (The Stars Never Rise (The Stars Never Rise, #1))
Maddie took the top of her egg off. The hot bright yolk was like summer sun breaking through cloud. The first daffodil in the snow. A gold sovereign wrapped in a white silk handkerchief. She dipped her spoon in it and licked it.
Elizabeth Wein (Code Name Verity)
His eyes were eggy with blue yolks.
Donald E. Westlake
Trauma waits for stillness. Lydia feels like a cracked egg, and she doesn’t know if she’s the shell or the yolk or the white. She is scrambled.
Jeanine Cummins (American Dirt)
Featherweight by Suzy Kassem One evening, I sat by the ocean and questioned the moon about my destiny. I revealed to it that I was beginning to feel smaller compared to others, Because the more secrets of the universe I would unlock, The smaller in size I became. I didn't understand why I wasn't feeling larger instead of smaller. I thought that seeking Truth was what was required of us all – To show us the way, not to make us feel lost, Up against the odds, In a devilish game partitioned by An invisible wall. Then the next morning, A bird appeared at my window, just as the sun began Spreading its yolk over the horizon. It remained perched for a long time, Gazing at me intently, to make sure I knew I wasn’t dreaming. Then its words gently echoed throughout my mind, Telling me: 'The world you are in – Is the true hell. The journey to Truth itself Is what quickens the heart to become lighter. The lighter the heart, the purer it is. The purer the heart, the closer to light it becomes. And the heavier the heart, The more chained to this hell It will remain.' And just like that, it flew off towards the sun, Leaving behind a tiny feather. So I picked it up, And fastened it to a toothpick, To dip into ink And write my name.
Suzy Kassem (Rise Up and Salute the Sun: The Writings of Suzy Kassem)
Love’s like an egg. Break it, and you might still have almost every bit of yolk and white, but there’s no way you’re getting that back in the shell. And even if you could, there’d be still all the cracks.
Cath Crowley (Gracie Faltrain Takes Control (Gracie Faltrain, #2))
Normality in our part of the world is a bit like a boiled egg: its humdrum surface conceals at its heart a yolk of egregious violence. It is our constant anxiety about that violence, our memory of its past labours and our dread of its future manifestations, that lays down the rules for how a people as complex and as diverse as we continue to coexist – continue to live together, tolerate each other and, from time to time, murder one another. As long as the centre holds, as long as the yolk doesn’t run, we’ll be fine. In moments of crisis it helps to take the long view.
Arundhati Roy (The Ministry of Utmost Happiness)
It's crazy how lonely it is to be in a family.
Mary H.K. Choi (Yolk)
Live or die, but don't poison everything... Well, death's been here for a long time -- it has a hell of a lot to do with hell and suspicion of the eye and the religious objects and how I mourned them when they were made obscene by my dwarf-heart's doodle. The chief ingredient is mutilation. And mud, day after day, mud like a ritual, and the baby on the platter, cooked but still human, cooked also with little maggots, sewn onto it maybe by somebody's mother, the damn bitch! Even so, I kept right on going on, a sort of human statement, lugging myself as if I were a sawed-off body in the trunk, the steamer trunk. This became perjury of the soul. It became an outright lie and even though I dressed the body it was still naked, still killed. It was caught in the first place at birth, like a fish. But I play it, dressed it up, dressed it up like somebody's doll. Is life something you play? And all the time wanting to get rid of it? And further, everyone yelling at you to shut up. And no wonder! People don't like to be told that you're sick and then be forced to watch you come down with the hammer. Today life opened inside me like an egg and there inside after considerable digging I found the answer. What a bargain! There was the sun, her yolk moving feverishly, tumbling her prize -- and you realize she does this daily! I'd known she was a purifier but I hadn't thought she was solid, hadn't known she was an answer. God! It's a dream, lovers sprouting in the yard like celery stalks and better, a husband straight as a redwood, two daughters, two sea urchings, picking roses off my hackles. If I'm on fire they dance around it and cook marshmallows. And if I'm ice they simply skate on me in little ballet costumes. Here, all along, thinking I was a killer, anointing myself daily with my little poisons. But no. I'm an empress. I wear an apron. My typewriter writes. It didn't break the way it warned. Even crazy, I'm as nice as a chocolate bar. Even with the witches' gymnastics they trust my incalculable city, my corruptible bed. O dearest three, I make a soft reply. The witch comes on and you paint her pink. I come with kisses in my hood and the sun, the smart one, rolling in my arms. So I say Live and turn my shadow three times round to feed our puppies as they come, the eight Dalmatians we didn't drown, despite the warnings: The abort! The destroy! Despite the pails of water that waited, to drown them, to pull them down like stones, they came, each one headfirst, blowing bubbles the color of cataract-blue and fumbling for the tiny tits. Just last week, eight Dalmatians, 3/4 of a lb., lined up like cord wood each like a birch tree. I promise to love more if they come, because in spite of cruelty and the stuffed railroad cars for the ovens, I am not what I expected. Not an Eichmann. The poison just didn't take. So I won't hang around in my hospital shift, repeating The Black Mass and all of it. I say Live, Live because of the sun, the dream, the excitable gift.
Anne Sexton (The Complete Poems)
We all have the same boring problems. Sometimes the best thing you can do is talk about it.
Mary H.K. Choi (Yolk)
It's easier to watch myself be sad than actually feel sad.
Mary H.K. Choi (Yolk)
Under the magic of the Dionysian, not only does the bond between man and man lock itself in place once more, but also nature itself, no matter how alienated, hostile, or subjugated, rejoices again in her festival of reconciliation with her prodigal son, man. The earth freely offers up her gifts, and the beasts of prey from the rocks and the desert approach in peace. The wagon of Dionysus is covered with flowers and wreaths; under his yolk stride panthers and tigers.
Friedrich Nietzsche
Her imagination was such that she could hear the song of the bird when it was still but a yolk in an egg.
Dean Koontz (Ashley Bell)
The daughter of Lithuanian immigrants, born with a precocious scientific intellect and a thirst for chemical knowledge, Elion had completed a master's degree in chemistry from New York University in 1941 while teaching high school science during the day and preforming her research for her thesis at night and on the weekends. Although highly qualified, talented, and driven, she had been unable to find a job in an academic laboratory. Frustrated by repeated rejections, she had found a position as a supermarket product supervisor. When Hitchings found Trudy Elion, who would soon become on of the most innovative synthetic chemists of her generation (and a future Nobel laureate), she was working for a food lab in New York, testing the acidity of pickles and the color of egg yolk going into mayonnaise. Rescued from a life of pickles and mayonnaise…
Siddhartha Mukherjee (The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer)
The night sky was distended in my dreams, sinking to earth with the weight of destructive glory behind it. In one of those dreams I reached up and touched it gently with a fingertip, and it burst like a yolk, releasing a deluge of light.
Sofia Samatar (A Stranger in Olondria)
Marriages are the original tiny cult.
Mary H.K. Choi (Yolk)
Don’t stop,’ said Lymond pleasantly. ‘You’ve my father, my brother, my late sister and a whole clecking of aunts to get through. Auntie May is a good one to start with. Fifteen stone, and every spring she goes broody; and we find her out in the hen run on a clutch of burst yolks; except the year mother got there first and hard-boiled them.
Dorothy Dunnett (Queens' Play (The Lymond Chronicles, #2))
Mother Nature’s no dingbat. She didn’t package the good stuff with bad stuff so she could watch us struggle for thousands of years until the invention of Egg Beaters.
Liz Wolfe (Eat the Yolks)
People don’t really want to know how you’re doing. They want to wait until you’re done telling them so they can tell you how they’re doing.
Mary H.K. Choi (Yolk)
You're only as sick as your secrets. The second you talk about it, pfth. She blows a raspberry and waggles her fingers into the air. It all starts to get a little better. Humans need to share their darkest parts. Unburdening makes you closer to everyone.
Mary H.K. Choi (Yolk)
I sat in a room the color of egg yolk for two hours while the officer got my story down. The whole time I was thinking about Natalie going to autopsy, and how I would like to sneak in and put a fresh Band-Aid on her knee.
Gillian Flynn (Sharp Objects)
Back in the market, people collapsed, then got up, their hands pressed to their wounds, as if they had smashed eggs against their bodies in hypnotic agreement and were unsure about what to do with the runny, bloody yolk. Most
Karan Mahajan (The Association of Small Bombs)
This infantile sense of order tended to infect my life at large. Up at 5:30 a.m., coffee, oatmeal, perhaps sausage (homemade), and fresh eggs giving one of the yolks to Lola. Listening to NPR and grieving more recently over the absence of Bob Edwards who was the sound of morning as surely as birds. Reading a paragraph or two of Emerson or Loren Eiseley to raise the level of my thinking. Going out to feed the cattle if it was during our six months of bad weather.
Jim Harrison (The English Major)
It is likely your own eyes were closed when you were born, so that you left the safe place of your mother’s womb—or, if you are a seahorse, your father’s yolk sac—and joined the treachery of the world without seeing exactly where you were going.
Lemony Snicket (The End (A Series of Unfortunate Events, #13))
we’ve been obsessed with calories for so long that we’ve forgotten what’s supposed to come with our calories: nutrients.
Liz Wolfe (Eat the Yolks)
You know how it is, church-folk are all up in your business until that shit actually gets dark. Then, they just think you’re contagious.
Mary H.K. Choi (Yolk)
Sisters never stand a chance to be friends. We're pitted against each other from the moment we are born. A daughter is a treasure. Two is a tax.
Mary H.K. Choi (Yolk)
He holds me longer than I’d expected him to. I leech everything I can out of the hug. Bleed it.
Mary H.K. Choi (Yolk)
When the sun touched the earth, it spread out along the horizon like a giant yolk oozing free of its skin.
Christopher Paolini (Inheritance (The Inheritance Cycle, #4))
His eyes were glowing egg yolks, burning Scut Farkus eyes to make your kidneys cringe.
Kevin Hearne (Tricked (The Iron Druid Chronicles, #4))
In the cowshed, my head hard against the floor, Natan broke the very yolk of my soul.
Hannah Kent
Was there supposed to be a moment of blinding clarity when the path through the thicket appeared, brightly illuminated, and Good, Bad, and Morally Neutral all sorted themselves out, slightly messy but completely unambiguous, like egg yolk and egg white and shell? If so, I missed it
Ann Redisch Stampler (Afterparty)
The Key lime pie is very simple to make. First you line a 9-inch pie plate with a graham cracker crust. Then beat 6 egg yolks. Add I cup lime juice (even bottled lime juice will do), two 14-ounce cans sweetened condensed milk, and I tablespoon grated lime rind. Pour into the pie shell and freeze. Remove from freezer and spread with whipped cream. Let sit five minutes before serving.
Nora Ephron (Heartburn)
When You Return Fallen leaves will climb back into trees. Shards of the shattered vase will rise and reassemble on the table. Plastic raincoats will refold into their flat envelopes. The egg, bald yolk and its transparent halo, slide back in the thin, calcium shell. Curses will pour back into mouths, letters un-write themselves, words siphoned up into the pen. My gray hair will darken and become the feathers of a black swan. Bullets will snap back into their chambers, the powder tamped tight in brass casings. Borders will disappear from maps. Rust revert to oxygen and time. The fire return to the log, the log to the tree, the white root curled up in the un-split seed. Birdsong will fly into the lark’s lungs, answers become questions again. When you return, sweaters will unravel and wool grow on the sheep. Rock will go home to mountain, gold to vein. Wine crushed into the grape, oil pressed into the olive. Silk reeled in to the spider’s belly. Night moths tucked close into cocoons, ink drained from the indigo tattoo. Diamonds will be returned to coal, coal to rotting ferns, rain to clouds, light to stars sucked back and back into one timeless point, the way it was before the world was born, that fresh, that whole, nothing broken, nothing torn apart.
Ellen Bass (Like a Beggar)
history tells us of the case of a man living under the peculiar delusion that he was a fried egg. Quite how or when this idea had entered his head, no one knew, but he now refused to sit down anywhere for fear that he would ‘break himself’ and ‘spill the yolk’. His doctors tried sedatives and other drugs to appease his fears, but nothing seemed to work. Finally, one of them made the effort to enter the mind of the deluded patient and suggested that he should carry a piece of toast with him at all times, which he could place on any chair he wished to sit on, and thereby protect himself from breaking his yolk. From then on, the deluded man was never seen without a piece of toast handy, and was able to continue a more or less normal existence.
Alain de Botton (Essays in Love)
There was more than one type of perfectionist. And that I qualified because the kind of perfectionist I was, was the kind that abandoned everything if I wasn’t good enough at it. And that’s why I couldn’t finish tasks.
Mary H.K. Choi (Yolk)
While we're on brunch, how about hollandaise sauce? Not for me. Bacteria love hollandaise. And hollandaise, that delicate emulsion of egg yolks and clarified butter, must be held at a temperature not too hot nor too cold, lest it break when spooned over your poached eggs. Unfortunately, this lukewarm holding temperature is also the favorite environment for bacteria to copulate and reproduce in. Nobody I know has ever made hollandaise to order. Most likely, the stuff on your eggs was made hours ago and held on station. Equally disturbing is the likelihood that the butter used in the hollandaise is melted table butter, heated, clarified, and strained to get out all the breadcrumbs and cigarette butts. Butter is expensive, you know. Hollandaise is a veritable petri-dish of biohazards.
Anthony Bourdain (Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly)
I find that the more I hide, the more presentable I am to the world
Mary H.K. Choi (Yolk)
I know what it's like to want to leave. How it feels when the home you have is a mirage, an illusion. But I know that wherever I am, if June's around, I'll be ok.
Mary H.K. Choi (Yolk)
The only thing more infuriating than finding out that we’ve been lied to is finding out that we’ve been eating those lies for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, day in and day out, for decades.
Liz Wolfe (Eat the Yolks)
The official erasure of any existence before enslavement – as if black Americans did not exist before the yolk and the chains and whip – has always created a passion for us. Black people need to find out. We have to find out Who We Are and Where We Come From.
Bonnie Greer (A Parallel Life)
Like she had broken her own heart. Kestrel felt the pieces of her heart suddenly, as if love had been an object, something as frail as a bird’s egg, its shell an impossible cloudy pink. She saw the shock of its bloody yolk. She felt the shards of shell pricking her throat and lungs.
Marie Rutkoski (The Winner's Crime (The Winner's Trilogy, #2))
Humans need to share their darkest parts. Unburdening makes you closer to everyone. There’s that thing that all addicts have, that you’re a piece of shit in the center of the universe. That everybody’s obsessed with the ways you fall short. But the truth is, we all have the same, boring problems. Sometimes the best thing you can do is talk about it. It makes no sense, but glory if it doesn’t work like a charm.
Mary H.K. Choi (Yolk)
Apply the cook’s brain and visualize that fried egg on the plate. Do you want it to be burned around the edges? Do you want to see craters on the egg white? Should the yolk look as if you’d need a hammer to break into it? The answer to all three questions should be no. Yet the majority of people still crack an egg and drop it into searingly hot oil or fat and continue to cook it on high heat. You need to insert earplugs to reduce the horrific volume of the sizzle. And the result, once served up in a pool of oil, is an inedible destruction of that great ingredient—the egg. Maybe that’s how you like it, in which case carry on serving your disgusting food.
Marco Pierre White (The Devil in the Kitchen: Sex, Pain, Madness and the Making of a Great Chef)
Because those are all things we’re not supposed to do, and yet inside of me was a kernel of the inexplicable from which dark things bloom, something I couldn’t understand or justify. I knew better than to romanticize my captor, but there it was—sick and twisted and disgusting as it was. And it scared me. It scared me because I saw a glimmer of all the terrifying things we’re capable of, because the human psyche is such a fragile thing, a yolk contained within a brittle shell—one crack and out it spills: a neighbor goes on a suicide mission, tribes massacre tribes, countries turn their faces away from injustices. And it all starts within, because within is where all things begin.
Leylah Attar (The Paper Swan)
While the egg yolks cooled, he directed the beaters at the egg whites, setting the mixer on high speed that sent small bubbles giggling to the side of the bowl, where a few became many until they were a white froth rising up and then lying down again in patters and ridges, leaving an intricate design like the ribs of a leaf in the wake of the beaters
Erica Bauermeister (The School of Essential Ingredients)
The calories in natural, unprocessed, real foods are more than just calories. They’re full of more magic than a Disney Princess convention.
Liz Wolfe (Eat the Yolks)
Когато си млад, хем умът ти сече като бръснач, хем големи глупости вършиш.
Josip Novakovich (Yolk: Short Stories)
The thought of doing all of this over makes my soul leave my body. I can't imagine how tiring it's going to be. But I also love the idea of June's name looking after both of us.
Mary H.K. Choi (Yolk)
New York is just a place. It's the people who will become a home for you.
Mary H.K. Choi (Yolk)
What's the point? The planet is on fire and everything is random.
Mary H.K. Choi (Yolk)
Don't neglect adverse situations. Sometimes, they carry the yolk of great differences. When you break them away, you waste the yolk!
Israelmore Ayivor (The Great Hand Book of Quotes)
For a light and airy cake, it’s imperative that the egg yolks and sugar are slightly thickened before incorporating the chocolate. Mom
Ellie Alexander (On Thin Icing (A Bakeshop Mystery, #3))
I arrived in New York City safely— a girl so freshly hatched that there was practically yolk in my hair.
Elizabeth Gilbert (City of Girls)
Always there was a moment—a quick slip of time—when the sun broke free of the trees and bled from its yolk, spilling in red-orange rivers over the silk.
Terry Kay (To Dance with the White Dog)
Becky tilts her chin upwards, watches the cold sun bouncing off the windows in the tops of the buildings, dripping its yolk across pale stone and glass.
Kate Tempest (The Bricks that Built the Houses)
You crack it, you owe us some yolk.
H.S. Crow
My God, Atticus, you look like you had an orgy with egg yolks and orange juice.” “We might need a loofah,” I admitted. “Dare I ask what happened?” “An Olympian exploded on us and it was yucky.
Kevin Hearne (Staked (The Iron Druid Chronicles, #8))
Little of that makes for love, but it does pump desire. The woman who churned a man's blood as she leaned all alone on a fence by a country road might not expect even to catch his eye in the City. But if she is clipping quickly down the big-city street in heels, swinging her purse, or sitting on a stoop with a cool beer in her hand, dangling her shoe from the toes of her foot, the man, reacting to her posture, to soft skin on stone, the weight of the building stressing the delicate, dangling shoe, is captured. And he'd think it was the woman he wanted, and not some combination of curved stone, and a swinging, high-heeled shoe moving in and out of sunlight. He would know right away the deception, the trick of shapes and light and movement, but it wouldn't matter at all because the deception was part of it too. Anyway, he could feel his lungs going in and out. There is no air in the City but there is breath, and every morning it races through him like laughing gas brightening his eyes, his talk, and his expectations. In no time at all he forgets little pebbly creeks and apple trees so old they lay their branches along the ground and you have to reach down or stoop to pick the fruit. He forgets a sun that used to slide up like the yolk of a good country egg, thick and red-orange at the bottom of the sky, and he doesn't miss it, doesn't look up to see what happened to it or to stars made irrelevant by the light of thrilling, wasteful street lamps. That kind of fascination, permanent and out of control, seizes children, young girls, men of every description, mothers, brides, and barfly women, and if they have their way and get to the City, they feel more like themselves, more like the people they always believed they were.
Toni Morrison (Jazz (Beloved Trilogy, #2))
We often confuse “thin” with “healthy” and “healthy diet” with “intervention diet,” but losing weight on any given diet doesn’t make that diet—or the person losing weight—healthier in the long term.
Liz Wolfe (Eat the Yolks)
A really great omelette has two whole eggs and one extra yolk, and by the way, the same thing goes for scrambled eggs. As for egg salad, here’s our recipe: boil eighteen eggs, peel them, and send six of the egg whites to friends in California who persist in thinking that egg whites matter in any way. Chop the remaining twelve eggs and six yolks coarsely with a knife, and add Hellmann’s mayonnaise and salt and pepper to taste.
Nora Ephron (I Remember Nothing: and Other Reflections)
derelict. my voice cracked and yolk poured out. wind chimes rigid, no breeze, no song. my wings found hidden in your suitcase. pleas for help mistaken for a swan song. i'm stuffing pages from my journal down my throat as kindling. hoping the smoke will get the taste of you out of my mouth. he looks at me from across the room and all i want is to push him against the wall. ravage. ravage. carnage has never been more vogue. is it still art if it doesn't bring you to your knees? lover, let me prey at your altar. let me bare my fangs in praise. don't i look so pretty in a funeral shroud? i keep time with the click of my creaking bones. dance with me under the milky translucence of a world suffocating. how did you find me? i buried myself beneath the cicadas. is a girl trapped in glass still a prize? let me get under your skin. i want to know what your fears taste like. i want to consume.
Taylor Rhodes (calloused: a field journal)
The Angel of Death was nothing special to look at: it had manifested itself today as a plate of someone’s finished meal of bacon and eggs. Egg yolk was smeared across the white plate. Inside this smear were scattered bread crumbs.
Jonathan Carroll (The Ghost in Love)
All Carolina folk are crazy for mayonnaise, mayonnaise is as ambrosia to them, the food of their tarheeled gods. Mayonnaise comforts them, causes the vowels to slide more musically along their slow tongues, appeasing their grease-conditioned taste buds while transporting those buds to a place higher than lard could ever hope to fly. Yellow as summer sunlight, soft as young thighs, smooth as a Baptist preacher's rant, falsely innocent as a magician's handkerchief, mayonnaise will cloak a lettuce leaf, some shreds of cabbage, a few hunks of cold potato in the simplest splendor, restyling their dull character, making them lively and attractive again, granting them the capacity to delight the gullet if not the heart. Fried oysters, leftover roast, peanut butter: rare are the rations that fail to become instantly more scintillating from contact with this inanimate seductress, this goopy glory-monger, this alchemist in a jar. The mystery of mayonnaise-and others besides Dickie Goldwire have surely puzzled over this_is how egg yolks, vegetable oil, vinegar (wine's angry brother), salt, sugar (earth's primal grain-energy), lemon juice, water, and, naturally, a pinch of the ol' calcium disodium EDTA could be combined in such a way as to produce a condiment so versatile, satisfying, and outright majestic that mustard, ketchup, and their ilk must bow down before it (though, a at two bucks a jar, mayonnaise certainly doesn't put on airs)or else slink away in disgrace. Who but the French could have wrought this gastronomic miracle? Mayonnaise is France's gift to the New World's muddled palate, a boon that combines humanity's ancient instinctive craving for the cellular warmth of pure fat with the modern, romantic fondness for complex flavors: mayo (as the lazy call it) may appear mild and prosaic, but behind its creamy veil it fairly seethes with tangy disposition. Cholesterol aside, it projects the luster that we astro-orphans have identified with well-being ever since we fell from the stars.
Tom Robbins (Villa Incognito)
It is likely that your own eyes were closed when you were born, so that you left the safe place of your mother's womb - or, if you are a seahorse, your father's yolk sac - and joined the treachery of the world without seeing exactly where you were going.
Lemony Snicket (The End (A Series of Unfortunate Events, #13))
Without another word, we began to eat. I was hungry, but no appetite would excuse the way we set upon those dishes. We shoveled food into our mouths in a manner ill befitting our fine attire. Bears would have blushed to see us bent over our plates. The pheasant, still steaming from the oven, its dark flesh redolent with the mushroom musk of the forest floor, was gnawed quickly to the bone. It was a touch gamy - no milk-fed goose, this - but it was tender, and the piquant hominy balanced that wild taste as I had hoped it would. The eggs, laced pink at the edges and floating delicately in a carnal sauce, were gulped down in two bites. The yolks were cooked to that rare liminal degree, no longer liquid but not yet solid, like the formative moment of a sun-colored gem.
Eli Brown (Cinnamon and Gunpowder)
But you can draw people’s faces, can’t you? I’m sure lots of women here in Etten would like to have their portraits painted. There’s a living in that.” “Yes, I suppose so. But I’ll have to wait until my drawing is right.” His mother was breaking eggs into a pan of sour cheese she had strained the day before. She paused with half the shell of an egg in each hand and turned from the stove. “You mean you have to make your drawing right so the portraits will be good enough to sell?” “No,” replied Vincent, sketching rapidly with his pencil, “I have to make my drawing right so that my drawing will be right.” Anna Cornelia stirred the yolks into the white cheese thoughtfully and then said, “I’m afraid I don’t understand that, son.” “Neither do I,” said Vincent, “but anyway it’s so.
Irving Stone (Lust For Life)
A dead man passed us in a hearse heaped with blooms, followed by two carriages with drawn blinds and by more cheerful carriages for friends. The friends looked out at us with the tragic eyes and short upper lips of south-eastern Europe, and I was glad that the sight of Gatsby’s splendid car was included in their somber holiday. As we crossed Blackwell’s Island a limousine passed us, driven by a white chauffeur, in which sat three modish Negroes, two bucks and a girl. I laughed aloud as the yolks of their eyeballs rolled toward us in haughty rivalry.
F. Scott Fitzgerald (The Great Gatsby)
Within five minutes of leaving the reunion, I'd undone the double wrapping and eaten all six rugelach, each a snail of sugar-dusted pastry dough, the cinnamon-lined chambers microscopically studded with midget raisins and chopped walnuts. By rapidly devouring mouthful after mouthful of these crumbs whose floury richness - blended of butter and sour cream and vanilla and cream cheese and egg yolk and sugar - I'd loved since childhood, perhaps I'd find vanishing from Nathan what, according to Proust, vanished from Marcel the instant he recognized "the savour of the little madeleine": the apprehensiveness of death. "A mere taste," Proust writes, and "the word 'death' ... [has] ... no meaning for him." So, greedily I ate, gluttonously, refusing to curtail for a moment this wolfish intake of saturated fat, but, in the end, having nothing like Marcel's luck.
Philip Roth (American Pastoral (The American Trilogy, #1))
Voting doesn’t seem like a waste of time to me.” She’s still fooling with her egg yolk, swirling it into gummy circles. Agnes’s stomach heaves. “Look, all that ‘votes for women’ stuff sounds real noble and all, but they don’t mean women like you and me. They mean nice uptown ladies with big hats and too much time on their hands.
Alix E. Harrow (The Once and Future Witches)
Still, we permit the appearance of our meats, sauces, fruits, and vdgetables to dominate our tongues until it is difficult to divide a twist of lemon or squeeze of lime from the colors of their rinds or separate yellow from its yolk or chocolate from the quenchless brown which seems to be the root, shoot, stalk, and bloom of it. Yet I hardly think the eggplant's taste is as purple as its skin. In fact, there are few flavors at the violet end, odors either, for the acrid smell of blue smoke is deceiving, as is the tooth of the plum, though there may be just a hint of blue in the higher sauces. Perceptions are always profound, associations deceiving. No watermelon tastes red. Apropos: while waiting for a bus once, I saw open down the arm of a midfat, midlife, freckled woman, suitcase tugging at her hand like a small boy needing to pee, a deep blue crack as wide as any in a Roquefort. Split like paper tearing. She said nothing. Stood. Blue bubbled up in the opening like tar. One thing is certain: a cool flute blue tastes like deep well water drunk from a cup.
William H. Gass (On Being Blue)
Backyard chickens mean eggs, meat, broth, and compost, all for the small price of keeping these birds safe and well fed with nutrition as simple as the bugs from your yard.
Liz Wolfe (Eat the Yolks)
We’re an instant-gratification society, and if something doesn’t immediately decimate us like a wooden stake in a vampire’s cold, dead heart, we generally assume we’re okay.
Liz Wolfe (Eat the Yolks)
Cholesterol in food, as we’ll discuss, has very little bearing on blood cholesterol. The two are entirely different things.
Liz Wolfe (Eat the Yolks)
The negatives he did manage were made in the hour or two when the sun seemed to rally with a yellowy light reminiscent of an egg yolk; usually, it looked pale as a pearl on the steely blue or leaden sky above the snow-scrubbed lake. That's a purple passage fit for a novel but hardly descriptive of the actuality of that winter, which was almost past enduring.
Norman Lock (American Meteor)
Here’s the truth: Everything we’ve been told about carbs—where they come from and which ones are healthy—is wrong. Wrong like a denim tuxedo.
Liz Wolfe (Eat the Yolks)
that no one’s ever looking at me. Really looking.
Mary H.K. Choi (Yolk)
Everything about my existence feels like a costume.
Mary H.K. Choi (Yolk)
People like capable, positive people. It has nothing to do with reality.
Mary H.K. Choi (Yolk)
It’s not at all what I thought it would be. Nothing is. No matter how much I love it, it doesn’t love me back. If I weren’t so broken, it would fit. I feel like I don’t have a home.
Mary H.K. Choi, Yolk
Just normal,' Mum says, 'I'm just normal.' No, I think to myself, my mum's anything but normal. Even the omelette she's making right now is anything but normal. There are bits of eggshell in it and it's stuck to the bottom of the frying pan, and both the white and the yolk have dried out. She's stopped using butter and she's forgotten the salt and pepper again.
Marieke Lucas Rijneveld (De avond is ongemak)
BOWLS OF FOOD Moon and evening star do their slow tambourine dance to praise this universe. The purpose of every gathering is discovered: to recognize beauty and love what’s beautiful. “Once it was like that, now it’s like this,” the saying goes around town, and serious consequences too. Men and women turn their faces to the wall in grief. They lose appetite. Then they start eating the fire of pleasure, as camels chew pungent grass for the sake of their souls. Winter blocks the road. Flowers are taken prisoner underground. Then green justice tenders a spear. Go outside to the orchard. These visitors came a long way, past all the houses of the zodiac, learning Something new at each stop. And they’re here for such a short time, sitting at these tables set on the prow of the wind. Bowls of food are brought out as answers, but still no one knows the answer. Food for the soul stays secret. Body food gets put out in the open like us. Those who work at a bakery don’t know the taste of bread like the hungry beggars do. Because the beloved wants to know, unseen things become manifest. Hiding is the hidden purpose of creation: bury your seed and wait. After you die, All the thoughts you had will throng around like children. The heart is the secret inside the secret. Call the secret language, and never be sure what you conceal. It’s unsure people who get the blessing. Climbing cypress, opening rose, Nightingale song, fruit, these are inside the chill November wind. They are its secret. We climb and fall so often. Plants have an inner Being, and separate ways of talking and feeling. An ear of corn bends in thought. Tulip, so embarrassed. Pink rose deciding to open a competing store. A bunch of grapes sits with its feet stuck out. Narcissus gossiping about iris. Willow, what do you learn from running water? Humility. Red apple, what has the Friend taught you? To be sour. Peach tree, why so low? To let you reach. Look at the poplar, tall but without fruit or flower. Yes, if I had those, I’d be self-absorbed like you. I gave up self to watch the enlightened ones. Pomegranate questions quince, Why so pale? For the pearl you hid inside me. How did you discover my secret? Your laugh. The core of the seen and unseen universes smiles, but remember, smiles come best from those who weep. Lightning, then the rain-laughter. Dark earth receives that clear and grows a trunk. Melon and cucumber come dragging along on pilgrimage. You have to be to be blessed! Pumpkin begins climbing a rope! Where did he learn that? Grass, thorns, a hundred thousand ants and snakes, everything is looking for food. Don’t you hear the noise? Every herb cures some illness. Camels delight to eat thorns. We prefer the inside of a walnut, not the shell. The inside of an egg, the outside of a date. What about your inside and outside? The same way a branch draws water up many feet, God is pulling your soul along. Wind carries pollen from blossom to ground. Wings and Arabian stallions gallop toward the warmth of spring. They visit; they sing and tell what they think they know: so-and-so will travel to such-and-such. The hoopoe carries a letter to Solomon. The wise stork says lek-lek. Please translate. It’s time to go to the high plain, to leave the winter house. Be your own watchman as birds are. Let the remembering beads encircle you. I make promises to myself and break them. Words are coins: the vein of ore and the mine shaft, what they speak of. Now consider the sun. It’s neither oriental nor occidental. Only the soul knows what love is. This moment in time and space is an eggshell with an embryo crumpled inside, soaked in belief-yolk, under the wing of grace, until it breaks free of mind to become the song of an actual bird, and God.
Rumi (The Soul of Rumi: A New Collection of Ecstatic Poems)
Since leptin is what gives us a feeling of satiety when we’re full, our hunger can become excessive and relentless, just as it can when we restrict food. Fatigue can become debilitating. Weight loss becomes impossible and weight gain inevitable. It’s all about the hormones. Hormones, not lack of willpower, drive hunger and overeating in response to dieting and food restriction.
Liz Wolfe (Eat the Yolks)
Paleo is not a diet. It’s not a fad. It’s not a rigid set of rules to follow. It’s not a sound bite. It’s an exploration of history, nutrition, the human diet, and, most important, our health.
Liz Wolfe (Eat the Yolks)
There's a moment everyone knows, when you look down at your fresh white shirt and realize you've spilled Coke or egg yolk or spaghetti sauce down the front. There's that flash of denial, followed by the realization that the shirt is probably ruined; it'll certainly never be the same. Then, for some people, it's "Well, that's life.Move on." I still haven't reached that point with the scar.
Melissa Jensen (The Fine Art of Truth or Dare)
I swat his arm. I want to tell him that the greaseball fat kid he knew back then is dead. That I’m exciting now. Desirable. That admirable people have made all sorts of terrible decisions with me.
Mary H.K. Choi (Yolk)
I have now traveled so far south that I find myself come to a place where our common expression “white as snow” has no useful meaning. Here, one who wishes his words to make plain sense had better say “white as cotton.” I will not say that I find the landscape lovely. We go on through Nature to God, and my Northern eye misses the grandeur that eases that ascent. I yearn for mountains, or at least for the gentle ridges of Massachusetts; the sweet folds and furrows that offer the refreshment of a new vista as each gap or summit is obtained. Here all is obvious, a song upon a single note. One wakes and falls asleep to a green sameness, the sun like a pale egg yolk, peering down from a white sky. And the river! Water as unlike our clear fast-flowing freshets as a fat broody hen to a hummingbird. Brown as treacle, wider than a harbor, this is water sans sparkle or shimmer. In places, it roils as if heated below by a hidden furnace. In others, it sucks the light down and gives back naught but an inscrutable sheen that conceals both depth and shallows. It is a mountebank, this river. It feigns a gentle lassitude, yet coiled beneath are currents that have crushed the trunks of mighty trees, and swept men to swift drownings…
Geraldine Brooks (March)
For my part, I’d come for the textbook and was glad to have it. Betta’s tortellini are now in my head and my hands. I follow her formula for the dough—an egg for every etto of flour, sneaking in an extra yolk if the mix doesn’t look wet enough. I’ve learned to roll out a sheet until I see the grain of the wood underneath. I let it dry if I’m making tagliatelle; I keep it damp if I’m making tortellini. I make a small batch, roll out a sheet, then another, the rhythm of pasta, each movement like the last one. My mind empties. I think only of the task. Is the dough too sticky? Will it tear? Does the sheet, held between my fingers, feel right? But often I wonder what Betta would think, and, like that, I’m back in that valley with its broken-combed mountain tops and the wolves at night and the ever-present feeling that the world is so much bigger than you, and my mind becomes a jumble of associations, of aunts and a round table and laughter you can’t hear anymore, and I am overcome by a feeling of loss. It is, I concluded, a side effect of this kind of food, one that’s handed down from one generation to another, often in conditions of adversity, that you end up thinking of the dead, that the very stuff that sustains you tastes somehow of mortality.
Bill Buford
Despite what the commercial of a happy, skinny woman walking through a field with a bowl of whole-grain cereal at sunrise would like you to believe, industrial crops aren’t good for you, for animals, or for the Earth.
Liz Wolfe (Eat the Yolks)
Human breast milk is high in cholesterol because babies need plenty of it to develop healthy brains and sharp eyesight. In fact, breast milk even contains a special enzyme ensuring that babies absorb as much cholesterol as possible.
Liz Wolfe (Eat the Yolks)
Proteins *Egg whites with 1–2 whole eggs for flavor (or, if organic, 2–5 whole eggs, including yolks) *Chicken breast or thigh *Beef (preferably grass-fed) *Fish Pork Legumes *Lentils (also called “dal” or “daal”) *Black beans Pinto beans Red beans Soybeans Vegetables *Spinach *Mixed vegetables (including broccoli, cauliflower, or any other cruciferous vegetables) *Sauerkraut, kimchee (full explanation of these later in “Damage Control”) Asparagus Peas Broccoli Green beans
Timothy Ferriss (The 4-Hour Body: An Uncommon Guide to Rapid Fat-Loss, Incredible Sex, and Becoming Superhuman)
You know, the trick to taking care of your sister is letting her think she’s taking care of you.” She scoops my hand in hers. “I suspect you can ask your father the best way to do that since he does it so well with me.” This makes me laugh.
Mary H.K. Choi (Yolk)
Pedro, the Guardia, asked him if he could inspect the inside of his van because hundreds of very expensive ham legs had been stolen recently and the robbery perpetrated by a gang of men dressed as priests ‒ how do you say, monks. Danny felt the beads of sweat trickle down his back as he slid open the door. Along the side was a clothes rack with different costumes hung on hangers. He couldn't actually remember when he'd last cleaned the van out, hadn't the front to admit to such slovenliness. Pedro the cop lifted off a cassock. "I use that for my work." Pedro put his hand on the van and poked his nose in, sniffed and backed his face away and looked at his hand covered in sticky egg yolk and shell. "It's for the wash," continued Danny, fighting a smirk. Pedro pointed at his eyes with his fingers and then at Danny's to indicate, I'm watching you. Danny reluctantly handed the cash over to the cop. They ambled off as he watched his money scrunch into his pocket. Danny slumped at the bar, deflated.
Mark Shearman (Zorro's Last Stand by Mark Shearman)
but here is the best peach pie we made: Put 1 ¼ cups flour, ½ teaspoon salt, ½ cup butter and 2 tablespoons sour cream into a Cuisinart and blend until they form a ball. Pat out into a buttered pie tin, and bake 10 minutes at 425°. Beat 3 egg yolks slightly and combine with 1 cup sugar, 2 tablespoons flour and ⅓ cup sour cream. Pour over 3 peeled, sliced peaches arranged in the crust. Cover with foil. Reduce the oven to 350° and bake 35 minutes. Remove the foil and bake 10 minutes more, or until the filling is set.
Nora Ephron (Heartburn)
Quite as agreeable was the arrival of a fresh supply of red-currant fool, and as this had been heralded a few minutes before by a loud pop from the butler's pantry, which looked on to the lawn, Miss Mapp began to waver in her belief that there was no champagne in it, particularly as it would not have suited the theory by which she accounted for the Major's unwonted good humour, and her suggestion that the pop they had all heard so clearly was the opening of a bottle of stone ginger-beer was not delivered with conviction. To make sure, however, she took one more sip of the new supply, and, irradiated with smiles, made a great concession. "I believe I was wrong," she said. "There is something in it beyond yolk of egg and cream. Oh, there's Boon; he will tell us." She made a seductive face at Boon, and beckoned to him. "Boon, will you think it very inquisitive of me," she asked archly, "if I ask you whether you have put a teeny drop of champagne into this delicious red-currant fool?" "A bottle and a half, Miss," said Boon morosely, "and half a pint of old brandy. Will you have some more, Miss?" Miss Mapp curbed her indignation at this vulgar squandering of precious liquids, so characteristic of Poppits. She gave a shrill little laugh. "Oh, no, thank you, Boon!" she said. "I mustn't have any more. Delicious, though." Major Flint let Boon fill up his cup while he was not looking. "And we owe this to your grandmother, Miss Mapp?" he asked gallantly. "That's a second debt." Miss Mapp acknowledged this polite subtlety with a reservation. "But not the champagne in it, Major...
E.F. Benson (Miss Mapp (Lucia, #2))
We’ve lost sight of what we really need to be healthy and happy: real, nutrient-dense food. The kind of food that balances the body and the mind. The kind of food that has been nourishing humans for thousands of years. We don’t need more dogma or another diet plan. We need nutrition.
Liz Wolfe (Eat the Yolks)
The culturalists tried to make the idea more appealing by pointing out that even in modern languages we use idioms that are rather imprecise about color. Don’t we speak of “white wine,” for instance, even if we can see perfectly well that it is really yellowish green? Don’t we have “black cherries” that are dark red and “white cherries” that are yellowish red? Aren’t red squirrels really brown? Don’t the Italians call the yolk of an egg “red” (il rosso)? Don’t we call the color of orange juice “orange,” although it is in fact perfectly yellow? (Check it next time.)
Guy Deutscher (Through the Language Glass: Why the World Looks Different in Other Languages)
I reline my eyes, fix my lipstick, and put away my reflection. I allow a smile to tease at my lips, summoning someone beguiling. I imagine myself in a movie. It usually helps. I glance around for any attractive people. Male, female, old, it doesn’t matter. Someone to see myself through.
Mary H.K. Choi (Yolk)
But what does that mean, protect, it’s only a word. I could make you, now, a detailed list of all the coverings, large and small, that I constructed to keep myself hidden, and yet they were of no use to me. Do you remember how the night sky of Ischia horrified me? You all said how beautiful it is, but I couldn’t. I smelled an odor of rotten eggs, eggs with a greenish-yellow yolk inside the white and inside the shell, a hard-boiled egg cracked open. I had in my mouth poisoned egg stars, their light had a white, gummy consistency, it stuck to your teeth, along with the gelatinous black of the sky, I crushed it with disgust, I tasted a crackling of grit. Am I clear? Am I making myself clear? And yet on Ischia I was happy, full of love. But it was no use, my head always finds a chink to peer through, beyond—above, beneath, on the side—where the fear is. In Bruno’s factory, for example, the bones of the animals cracked in your fingers if you merely touched them, and a rancid marrow spilled out. I was so afraid that I thought I was sick. But was I sick? Did I really have a murmur in my heart? No. The only problem has always been the disquiet of my mind.
Elena Ferrante (The Story of the Lost Child)
I promise, making great choices is far simpler than you might think. In fact, it’s elegantly simple: Carbohydrates from whole fruits and vegetables (not their premade juices or syrups or crystals, which are just processed versions of the real thing) are the only carb sources we need to be healthy.
Liz Wolfe (Eat the Yolks)
We started getting hungry again, and some of the women started chanting, "MEAT, MEAT, MEAT!" We were having steak tartare. It was the only appropriate main course we could think of, for such a graceless theme, and seeing as nobody in the club was confident making it, we had to order it in. I made chips to serve with it, though. I deep-fried them in beef fat. The steak was served in little roulades, raw and minced, like horsemeat. It was topped with a raw egg yolk, chopped onions, pickled beetroot, and capers. I had wanted to use the Wisconsin version, which is served on cocktail bread and dubbed "cannibal sandwich," but Stevie insisted we go classic. Not everyone could stomach theirs with the raw egg yolk, too, and so, unusually for a Supper Club, there was quite a lot left over. We took another break to drink and move about the room. Some of us took MDMA. Emmeline had brought a box of French macarons, tiny pastel-colored things, which we threw over the table, trying to get them into one another's mouth, invariably missing. For our proper dessert, we had a crepe cake: a stack of pancakes bound together with melted chocolate. We ate it with homemade ice cream, which was becoming a real staple.
Lara Williams (Supper Club)
But for now, the aioli. Garlic, egg yolks, a wee bit of Dijon mustard. In her Cuisinart she whipped these up to a brilliant, pungent yellow; then she added olive oil in a steady stream. Here was the magic of cooking- an emulsion formed, a rich, garlicky mayonnaise. Salt, pepper, the juice of half a lemon. Marguerite scooped the aioli into a bowl and covered it with plastic. She barely made it through the marinade for the beef. Her forehead was burning; she felt hot and achy, dried up. She whisked together olive oil, red wine vinegar, sugar, horseradish, Dijon, salt, and pepper and poured it over the tenderloin in a shallow dish.
Elin Hilderbrand (The Love Season)
But,” she said sadly, “I could not become an Indian.” “Of course not,” said Dr. Mukhtar. “There is a whole world of signs, symbols and spirits which all must be absorbed from birth. You could not hope to grasp the meanings except by living the entire life.” She could not, she explained to Dr. Mukhtar, express affection except by teaching, holding out books as tokens of love. When at last light the doctor, exhausted from listening, stood to go to his room above for the night and pinched out the candle, she begged him to leave the curtains and the window open. The door closed gently and she could look at the moon, a blood-streaked egg yolk rolling in the shell of sky. •
Annie Proulx (Barkskins)
I can taste hints of coarse-ground cinnamon, cumin, cardamom and cloves!" "Not only that, he used apple wood for his smoke chips! Compared to cherry and other fruit trees, apple wood gives off a milder, sweeter smoke." "Aha! I see! So that's how he was able to smoke the ingredients without overpowering the curry spices!" "Correct! That was the perfect wood to use to highlight the coarse-ground spices he chose." "I added the spice mix to my curing compound too. You should be able to taste the curry spices in all of the smoked ingredients." "The toppings also show an excellent hand! The smoked egg was soft boiled to perfection, its umami flavors delectably concentrated. The yolk is practically jelly!
Yuto Tsukuda (食戟のソーマ 7 [Shokugeki no Souma 7] (Food Wars: Shokugeki no Soma, #7))
When our bodies don’t have the nutrients they need—the nutrients from fats—for basic tasks like cellular repair, hormonal function or even damage control, they let us know: Appetite increases, and we’re driven to eat more as our bodies seek nutrients from anything, at any cost. That’s why diets don’t work, especially low-fat diets; they often restrict nourishment along with calories.
Liz Wolfe (Eat the Yolks)
There, done! A Petite Loco Moco Bowl! *Loco Moco is traditional Hawaiian fare of hamburger and fried egg over rice.* "Wow, that looks super yummy!" "Huh. Loco Moco at a buffet? How interesting! Ooh, hot! The egg has been coddled to the perfect tenderness... ... and it melds beautifully with the powerful taste of the hamburger made from ground rib roast! Add to that the mild, fluffy rice to tie it all together and it fills the mouth with deliciousness... It's a dish that brings out the strength in you with every bite! Not only that, typical Loco Moco is covered with beef gravy... ... but you've used a vinaigrette instead! The tangy lightness of the white-wine vinegar in the vinaigrette wonderfully accentuates the richness of the egg yolk and the juiciness of the meat.
Yuto Tsukuda (食戟のソーマ 5 [Shokugeki no Souma 5] (Food Wars: Shokugeki no Soma, #5))
The scent of the spicy squid is almost too much to handle!" First we start with bite-size chunks of squid sautéed in some olive oil and squid ink... Once the flavors have fully melded together, in goes a generous splash of white wine to flambé them! Then some cabbage and onion for sweetness! Tomatoes for a little zing! And finally... the secret ingredient! "What the heck? Look at that giant needle!" "You're not going to use that on the food, are you?!" We convinced a local restaurant to let us have their huge pile of leftover shrimp heads and seafood shells. By boiling it all down, we infuse all their savory umami goodness and richness into olive oil... ... making a big batch of Hayama's special red olive oil! Using a cooking injector, we inject a dose right into the yolk of a soft-boiled egg, aaand... PLOOP
Yuto Tsukuda (食戟のソーマ 32 [Shokugeki no Souma 32] (Food Wars: Shokugeki no Soma, #32))
Molten Chocolate Cakes Makes 4 single-serve cakes Ingredients 1 stick unsalted butter 6 ounces semisweet chocolate chips 2 egg yolks 2 eggs ¼ cup sugar 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour Directions 1. Preheat the oven to 450°F. 2. Spray the insides of 4 ramekins with baking spray. Put the ramekins on a baking sheet. 3. Microwave the butter and chocolate chips in a microwave-safe bowl for 1 minute. The butter should be almost all melted. The chocolate won’t be completely melted. 4. Whisk the butter and chocolate mixture until smooth. 5. Separate two egg yolks from their whites: Crack both eggs into a bowl without breaking the yolks. Then take an empty, disposable plastic water bottle, squeeze it, hold the opening to a yolk, and then release to suck the yolk into the bottle. Repeat with the second yolk. Then deposit both yolks into a clean bowl by squeezing the bottle and pouring them out. 6. Beat the egg yolks, eggs, sugar, and vanilla extract in an electric mixer on high or with a whisk until the mixture is thick. 7. Fold the butter and chocolate mixture into the egg mixture. 8. Add the flour to the mixture gradually. Don’t overmix. 9. Divide the batter into the 4 ramekins. 10. Bake the cakes for 8 to 12 minutes or until the cakes have risen over the sides of the ramekins and the tops of the cakes no longer jiggle when the baking sheet is given a little shake. The cake centers should still be soft. 11. Remove the cakes from the oven and let them cool for 1 minute. 12. Cover the cakes with upside-down dessert plates, flip the ramekins over, and remove the ramekins from the cakes. Eat immediately!
Jessie Janowitz (The Doughnut Fix)
RECIPE FOR MAKING WONKA-VITE Take a block of finest chocolate weighing one ton (or twenty sackfuls of broken chocolate, whichever is the easier). Place chocolate in very large cauldron and melt over red-hot furnace. When melted, lower the heat slightly so as not to burn the chocolate, but keep it boiling. Now add the following, in precisely the order given, stirring well all the time and allowing each item to dissolve before adding the next: THE HOOF OF A MANTICORE THE TRUNK (AND THE SUITCASE) OF AN ELEPHANT THE YOLKS OF THREE EGGS FROM A WHIFFLE-BIRD A WART FROM A WART-HOG THE HORN OF A COW (IT MUST BE A LOUD HORN) THE FRONT TAIL OF A COCKATRICE SIX OUNCES OF SPRUNGE FROM A YOUNG SLIMESCRAPER TWO HAIRS (AND ONE RABBIT) FROM THE HEAD OF A HIPPOCAMPUS THE BEAK OF A RED-BREASTED WILBATROSS A CORN FROM THE TOE OF A UNICORN THE FOUR TENTACLES OF A QUADROPUS THE HIP (AND THE PO AND THE POT) OF A HIPPOPOTAMUS THE SNOUT OF A PROGHOPPER A MOLE FROM A MOLE THE HIDE (AND THE SEEK) OF A SPOTTED WHANGDOODLE THE WHITES OF TWELVE EGGS FROM A TREE-SQUEAK THE THREE FEET OF A SNOZZ-WANGER (IF YOU CAN’T GET THREE FEET, ONE YARD WILL DO) THE SQUARE-ROOT OF A SOUTH AMERICAN ABACUS THE FANGS OF A VIPER (IT MUST BE A VINDSCREEN VIPER) THE CHEST (AND THE DRAWERS) OF A WILD GROUT When all the above are thoroughly dissolved, boil for a further twenty-seven days but do not stir. At the end of this time, all liquid will have evaporated and there will be left in the bottom of the cauldron only a hard brown lump about the size of a football. Break this open with a hammer and in the very centre of it you will find a small round pill. This pill is WONKA-VITE.
Roald Dahl (Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator (Charlie Bucket, #2))
When we eat more cholesterol, the body produces less,” says nutritionist and physician Natasha Campbell-McBride. “When we eat less cholesterol, the body produces more.” Why eat cholesterol-rich foods, then, if the body will produce it anyway? Because it eases the body’s burden and is associated with improved cognitive function, and because, in many individuals, cholesterol synthesis is inadequate for all the body’s needs.
Liz Wolfe (Eat the Yolks)
This means that we’re exposed to damaging UVA rays without the benefit of sunburn to tell us when we’ve had enough. Whether we’re sitting indoors near a window, in a car with the sun streaming through the windshield, or on a beach slathered in SPF 35, we’re soaking up excessive amounts of UVA. So is sunscreen protecting us at all? Not really, although there’s a time and a place for certain other types of sun protection, as we’ll discuss.
Liz Wolfe (Eat the Yolks)
If I could cut out my beating heart and put it in a box and forget about it, I would. Maybe I would pad the box with our photos of you, our love letters, a lock of your hair and that heart-shaped perfume bottle, the one that I gave you for your birthday. You always said it was your favorite. Maybe if I put the box up in the attic, some place out of sight and sound, I could forget you. (sigh) I force myself to look around my yard. The sun is brilliant against the bright blue sky, birds are singing out their borders and gathering twigs and grasses for nesting, and the late-season daffodils are bursting an egg-yolk yellow. I feel myself smile. For the first time this season, I spot a Peace rose, a sunshine-swelled bloom of yellow and pink flame. I inhale the bloom's faintly sweet fragrance, which floats delicate memories of you across my mind's eye — I am happy. Without thinking, I turn to the house to call you. If only It was that easy.
Jeffrey A. White
I spent another sleepless night in my apartment and in the early hours of the morning I snuck once more into my little kitchen, to prepare a huge torta di ricotta. I needed a cheesecake: it was the only thing that could give me the peace of mind I craved. Had I been too hasty in offering to give l'Inglese lessons? I asked myself, as I ground green almonds with my pestle. The power of my wrist quickly turned the almonds to powder. If only I could grind my worries away as easily. I beat the ricotta, egg yolks, honey, sugar, lemon juice, and rind into the almonds. I beat and beat and beat the mixture until a sweat formed on my brow and my body began to glow with warmth. Even then I did not stop beating. I welcomed the exhaustion that began to creep up on me: I could feel the healing power of my cooking. Really I knew nothing about l'Inglese. Nothing at all. Except that everything about him spelled danger to an inexperienced woman like me. I was afraid of him, yet could not bear the thought of not seeing him again. I was always thinking of him, imagining our next meeting: amusing myself with every possible scenario. I whisked the egg whites into peaks in a matter of seconds. I reasoned that I had been right to speak out to him when I did. I knew how I would have hated myself if I had let the moment slip by. I knew how wretched and foolish I would have felt at my impotence, and yet this turbulence inside me was almost as bad. Acrobatic butterflies fluttered in my stomach, however much I tried to feed them into submission. When the torta had baked to a golden, angel-scented crust, and after waiting impatiently for it to cool, I helped myself to a large slice with a thick dollop of cream. Ooh, it was good. I mopped up every crumb from the plate with my finger. Then I switched out the lights and climbed back into bed. I resigned myself to the thought that what was done could not be undone and drifted into a lemon-flavored sleep.
Lily Prior (La Cucina)
To make a tarte of strawberyes," wrote Margaret Parker in 1551, "take and strayne theym with the yolkes of four eggs, and a little whyte breade grated, then season it up with suger and swete butter and so bake it." And Jess, who had spent the past year struggling with Kant's Critiques, now luxuriated in language so concrete. Tudor cookbooks did not theorize, nor did they provide separate ingredient lists, or scientific cooking times or temperatures. Recipes were called receipts, and tallied materials and techniques together. Art and alchemy were their themes, instinct and invention. The grandest performed occult transformations: flora into fauna, where, for example, cooks crushed blanched almonds and beat them with sugar, milk, and rose water into a paste to "cast Rabbets, Pigeons, or any other little bird or beast." Or flour into gold, gilding marchpane and festive tarts. Or mutton into venison, or fish to meat, or pig to fawn, one species prepared to stand in for another.
Allegra Goodman (The Cookbook Collector)
What is true of meat is true of all fat-and-protein pairs: they go together. Consider, for example, two near-perfect foods: eggs and milk. Both foods are a complete nutritional package, designed for a growing organism's exclusive nutrition, and must contain everything the body needs to assimilate the nutrients they contain. Thus the fats in the egg yolk aid digestion of the protein in the white, and lecithin in the yolk aids metabolism of its cholesterol. The butterfat in milk facilitates protein digestion, and saturated fat in particular is required to absorb the calcium. Calcium, in turn, requires vitamins A and D to be properly assimilated, and they are found only in the butterfat. Finally, vitamin A is required for production of bile salts that enable the body to digest protein. Without the butterfat, then, you don't get the best of the protein, fat-soluble vitamins, or calcium from milk. That's why I don't eat, and cannot recommend, egg white omelets and skim milk. They are low-quality, incomplete foods.
Nina Planck (Real Food: What to Eat and Why)
Prior to my second stint in Perpignan, I was a fine diner and as I saw it, food was art. At vocational school, I was being taught how to cook, but I was frustrated by how basic the dishes were. I was like a kid who had grown up listening to Chopin, then showed up at music school, never having actually played an instrument. I mean, when you listen to Chopin all the time, you want to become Chopin. And then you go to music school and all you're doing is plunking out do...re... mi for hours at a time. It's boring as hell, and not why you enrolled. I was impatient to create great meals and not so excited about starting with the basics. Why were we spending hours learning how to hold a knife or mine a shallot when we could be making nouvelle cuisine? True, I didn't know how to cut a chicken in eight pieces or make a bechamel. But in the two- and three-start restaurants I had been to, they were way over the bechamel. Still, there I was, in school, making the most basic of dishes--salade Nicoise, potato-leek soup, an omelette.
Eric Ripert (32 Yolks: From My Mother's Table to Working the Line)
EGGS BENEDICT It is made up of a poached egg, cheese, bacon and other ingredients on top of a muffin and seasoned with tangy hollandaise. It is one of the more traditional breakfast dishes served in North America. However, Eggs Benedict alone can hardly be called an original dish. Where's the surprise? Still, faced with such beauty... ... I can't help but want to take a bite. AAAH! A perfectly poached egg so soft it melts on the tongue. The refined tang of high-quality hollandaise sauce. Crispy, salty bacon and a sweet, soft muffin! All of these together wrap the tongue in an exquisite harmony of deliciousness! Wait, no. That isn't all. There is a greater depth to the flavor than that. But from what? Hm? What is that golden powder I see? AH! Karasumi! You've sprinkled karasumi on the muffin! *Karasumi: Dried mullet roe. It is considered a delicacy in Japan* I see! Karasumi is made of roe, which are fish eggs! It was the salty delicacy of the karasumi mixed with the richness of the egg yolk... ... that created such a deep and robust flavor!
Yuto Tsukuda (食戟のソーマ 4 [Shokugeki no Souma 4] (Food Wars: Shokugeki no Soma, #4))
BULLETPROOF POACHED EGGS WITH SAUTÉED GREENS Poaching is a great Bulletproof method of cooking eggs to retain their nutrients and avoid damaging the proteins. This is a great weekend lunch meal that could easily be substituted for dinner. Try buying an assortment of fresh organic greens and prewash them when you get home so they’re ready when you need them for easy cooking. 2 to 3 cups greens of your choice (kale, collards, chard, etc.) 2 tablespoons grass-fed unsalted butter or ghee Sea salt 2 tablespoons sliced raw cashews or almonds 2 poached eggs Fill a pan with an inch or two of water and add the greens to cook. Once the greens are tender, drain the water and add the butter or ghee. Toss the greens in the butter or ghee until covered. Remove the greens from the heat and sprinkle with salt and nuts. You should poach your eggs so your yolks are runny and the nutrition from the yolks is intact. The restaurant tricks to poaching eggs are to add 2 tablespoons of apple cider vinegar to the water and then swirl the water around before cracking the eggs so they stay in the center of the whirlpool.
Dave Asprey (The Bulletproof Diet: Lose up to a Pound a Day, Reclaim Energy and Focus, Upgrade Your Life)
She arranged the bacon on a platter and then debated what to do with the ten-inch biscuit that had actually been four small biscuits when she’d placed the pan in the oven. Deciding not to break it into irregular chucks, she placed the entire biscuit neatly in the center of the bacon and carried the platter over to the table, were Ian had just seated himself. Returning to the stove, she tried to dig the eggs out of the skillet, but they wouldn’t come loose, so she brought the skillet and spatula to the table. “I-I thought you might like to serve,” she offered formally, to hide her growing trepidation over the things she had prepared. “Certainly,” Ian replied, accepting the honor with the same grave formality with which she’d offered it: then he looked expectantly at the skillet. “What have we here?” he inquired sociably. Scrupulously keeping her gaze lowered, Elizabeth sat down across from him. “Eggs,” she answered, making an elaborate production of opening her napkin and placing it on her lap. “I’m afraid the yolks broke.” “It doesn’t matter.” When he picked up the spatula Elizabeth pinned a bright, optimistic smile on her face and watched as he first tried to lift, and then began trying to pry the eggs from the skillet. “They’re stuck,” she explained needlessly. “No, they’re bonded,” he corrected, but at least he didn’t sound angry. After another few moments he finally managed to pry a strip loose, and he placed it on her plate. A few moments more and he was able to gouge another piece loose, which he placed on his own plate. In keeping with the agreed-upon truce they both began observing all the polite table rituals with scrupulous care. First Ian offered the platter of bacon with the biscuit centerpiece to Elizabeth. “Thank you,” she said, choosing two black strips of bacon. Ian took three strips of bacon and studied the flat brown object reposing on the center of the platter. “I recognize the bacon,” he said with grave courtesy, “but what is that?” he asked, eyeing the brown object. “It looks quite exotic.” “It’s a biscuit,” Elizabeth informed him. “Really?” he said, straight-faced. “Without any shape?” “I call it a-a pan biscuit,” Elizabeth fabricated hastily. “Yes, I can see why you might,” he agreed. “It rather resembles the shape of a pan.
Judith McNaught (Almost Heaven (Sequels, #3))
By the way, there's one more benefit to freezing eggs... that I neglected to tell you earlier. Y'see... by freezing them, the robust flavor of the yolks gets even richer!" "The flavor of the yolk... changes?!" "When you freeze a chicken egg, its proteins condense into a jelly... which gives it a tender and creamy consistency when you cook it. The flavor of the yolk in particular becomes deep and rich! Basically, freezing the egg is the biggest reason this tempura rice bowl is as delicious as it is! Plus, I made sure to pour on plenty of Yukihira Family Restaurant's special savory and salty house sauce! It's soy sauce and mirin added to bonito stock. I made sure this batch was extra rich! There's no way it wouldn't par perfectly with the rice and egg! The thing is, luxury-brand eggs all tend to have strong flavors from the get-go. Using them would make the entire rice bowl taste heavy and cloying." "Wait. Is that why...?!" "Yep! Since the sauce I use is thick and heavy, and freezing eggs makes their flavor richer... ... a blander egg is the best choice!" "Oh! He had a legitimate reason for using those cheap eggs!" "That's Soma for you!
Yuto Tsukuda (食戟のソーマ 20 [Shokugeki no Souma 20] (Food Wars: Shokugeki no Soma, #20))
Something More Fragile Than This" Quick before our bodies turn themselves in, with a reverence reserved for the dead touch me because I want to remember how beautiful I am. While Spring snows around us, cracking her eggs on our windows, in her meager dress of yellowing-white, because I want to rise into today. So why the urge to render something more fragile than this? Why, always, the soul blowing glass? The soul, once again, filling the lungs with smoke because a memory of regret sweats in the plastic sleeve of a family album. Because there’s a snapshot caught between the pages of some thick book: my heavy 20 year old frame setting off the 60lb weight of a dying mother. Because somewhere, there’s a negative slide of my heart. Because and because and because I’m sure there’s a photo in some drawer that shows me dressed in black. But I want to devote myself to the mystery of this afternoon. I want to honor this falling night, worship the hour vanishing between six and seven. This moment where I’m standing against myself and against you with a taste in my mouth that’s yolk. With Bob Marley taking that one long drag on the refrigerator door.
Olena Kalytiak Davis (And Her Soul Out Of Nothing)
The diet industry wants us to think about counting calories rather than establishing a baseline of health by nourishing our bodies. They act as if our problems are the result of too many calories when most of us are actually suffering from a nourishment deficiency. A box of industrial crap that promises a low-calorie path to health or weight loss (and most diet systems and prepackaged meals fit that bill) provides nothing but a carnival show—all smoke and mirrors. This is the business of sales, not the business of health, and it leaves us the same or worse off than it found us.
Liz Wolfe (Eat the Yolks)
This hollandaise sauce that's been generously drizzled over the whole dish... I can taste yuzu kosho and soy sauce in it. That's a decidedly Japanese twist on a typically very European sauce! The heavy savoriness of thick sliced pork grilled to a crusty golden brown... ... balances perfectly with the briskly tart Shio Konbu seaweed and shiso leaves mixed into the rice! Then there's the centerpiece of his dish, the tempura egg! It's crispy on the outside and delectably soft and gooey on the inside! Instead of freezing it, he must have poached the egg before deep-frying it this time! The whites are unbelievably tender, and the soft-boiled yolk is so creamy you might not believed it's cooked! To batter and deep-fry a poached egg that delicate without crushing it... ... you'd need skill and a touch bordering on the superhuman! Just how much has he trained?! How hard has he practiced... ... to make this single dish?! "Sure does take you back, doesn't it? This Eggs Benedict. I switched the muffin out for some seasoned rice, a family-restaurant staple. Then there's the poached egg that I deep-fried. Pork chops for the bacon. Japanese-style hollandaise sauce.
Yuto Tsukuda (食戟のソーマ 36 [Shokugeki no Souma 36] (Food Wars: Shokugeki no Soma, #36))
As [President Thomas] Jefferson realized, with no government interference by setting the rules of the game of business and fair taxation, there could be no broad middle class—maybe a sliver of small businesses and artisans, but the vast majority of us would be the working poor under the yolk [sic] of elites. The Economic Royalists know this, which gets to the root of why they set out to destroy government's involvement in the economy. After all, in a middle-class economy, they may have to give up some of their power, and some of the higher end of their wealth may even be "redistributed"—horror of horrors—for schools, parks, libraries, and other things that support a healthy middle-class society but are not needed by the rich.... As Jefferson laid out in an 1816 letter...a totally "free" market, where corporations reign supreme just like the oppressive governments of old, could transform America 'until the bulk of the society is reduced to mere automatons of misery, to have no sensibilities left but for sinning and suffering. Then begins, indeed, the bellum omnium in omnia, which some philosophers observing to be so general in this world, have mistaken it for the natural, instead of the abusive state of man.
Thom Hartmann (The Crash of 2016: The Plot to Destroy America--and What We Can Do to Stop It)
Ah! This isn't raw egg at all! The egg white is actually a thinned seawater gelée (jelly)... ... and the yolk is salmon roe firmed in a gelatin! The salmon roe pop crisply, filling the mouth with a rich saltiness... ... that is wrapped up in the mild smoothness of the gelée!" "Oh! This looks like it's just a hard-boiled egg... but the egg white is really a white asparagus mousse! And the yolk is hollandaise sauce made from real egg yolks! The heavy richness of the hollandaise is perfectly balanced with the mild bitterness of the asparagus for an exquisite flavor!" "Then what is this? It looks like an egg in its shell...." "Oh, this?" "She punctured it!" "It's a milkshake. You drink it through the straw, like this. Once I removed the inside of the egg, I filled it with a milkshake made with milk, eggs and caramel." "Mm!It's delicious! Its mellow sweetness and clean aftertaste bring to mind the freshness of an early morning!" "And that is everything! All together, I call it... ..."The Three-Faces of-an-Egg Breakfast."" What an utterly surprising dish! Each piece has an exquisite taste completely unlike what you would expect! On this one plate... ... are miniature representations of... ... the flavors of the ocean, the forest and the earth
Yuto Tsukuda (食戟のソーマ 5 [Shokugeki no Souma 5] (Food Wars: Shokugeki no Soma, #5))
It's a parade of flawless tuna deliciousness! But by far, the most dangerous piece... is the one that looks like a bomb of pure tuna goodness, the straw-grilled, seared noten sushi! The noten- a cut of meat from the top of the tuna's head- is one of the priciest cuts. Extravagantly fatty, its richness melds with the fragrant searing into a powerful duo! Yet there isn't the first hint of fishiness! Searing it using aromatic straw burned it away, leaving only pure savory flavor behind to please both nose and palate!" "His Trace was dead-on. Looks like it really will be his arrangements on that Gunkan Maki that decide this card." "I can't even begin to guess what it tastes like." What's this on top of the minced tuna and leeks?! Is it... meringue?! "Aah! Now I see! I know what Subaru Mimasaka took out at that moment! It was the same smoked soy sauce he passed to Kuga!" The mellow, full-bodied aroma of smoked soy sauce has seeped into every crevice of the minced tuna... ... while the differing textures of the meringue and the negitoro create deeper, more complex layers to the flavor! If I were to name it, I would call it the "Ultimate Negitoro Eggs-over-Rice Gunkan Sushi"! Minced tuna rib meat mixed with leeks and smoked soy sauce, topped with quail-egg yolk
Yuto Tsukuda (食戟のソーマ 27 [Shokugeki no Souma 27] (Food Wars: Shokugeki no Soma, #27))
Human beings want to live in community, and so we want ours to be an intimate universe presided over by a Father God who cares for us and whose universe is responsive to us. At the same time, we are drawn out of community and physically experience a harsh and lonely cosmos in whose vastness stars are born and explode, and solar systems come into being and fall apart. Closer to home, continents swim around like bits of eggshell on the molten yolk of our planet, banging into one another, squashing the earth’s crust into mountains that promptly erode into the sea. It is a universe in which our soft bodies can be fried or frozen, parched or drowned or dashed against a stone. Seekers of truth, when confronted by such cosmic indifference, can find it both frightening and liberating. Like the game wardens, I understand what draws New Age hikers, enlightenment hunters, and even the deeply depressed out beyond the comfortable edge of the human-centered world, out to where moose, woodcock, grouse, and mink live without reference to the human, out to where a person does not matter at all. The air will be as warm or as cold, as dry or as damp as the indifferent physics of front meeting front demands. Pray or don’t pray. Ask and ye shall receive what you would have received without asking: succor that comes in time or doesn’t.
Kate Braestrup (Here If You Need Me)
I make a great fried egg sandwich. Want to try it?" Chloe stared at her with an encouraging smile until Josey finally laughed and nodded. "Okay." "Great!" Chloe put on a pair of disposable gloves, then she took butter and two eggs from the under-the-counter fridge. "Go ahead and take a business card. You can call me here if you want. And the bottom number is my cell." She plopped a pat of butter onto the grill. When the butter melted, she cracked the eggs into it, close enough for their whites to merge. While they sizzled, she buttered two slices of sourdough bread and put them on the grill. "I didn't know this place was called Red's," Josey said, reading the card. Chloe smiled when she thought of her great-grandfather. "Another family tradition. My great-grandfather had red hair. So did my mother." Chloe sprinkled the eggs with salt and pepper and a pinch of dill, then turned them over with her spatula. She flipped the quickly toasting bread too. She'd spent her childhood watching her great-grandfather do this, and here at the shop was the only time she felt him near anymore. "Do you want this for here or to go?" "To go." Chloe sprinkled a little more salt and pepper on the eggs, made sure the yolks had firmed ever so slightly, then topped them with cheese. She let the cheese melt before scooping the eggs up and putting them on the buttered sourdough.
Sarah Addison Allen (The Sugar Queen)
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.
Kyung-ran Jo (Tongue)
We blame the sun for skin cancer, but it’s not that simple. If it were, our years of slathering sunscreen and avoiding the sun would have resulted in a decrease in skin cancer diagnoses. But since sun protection factor (SPF) sunscreens received FDA approval in the 1970s, the incidence of melanoma in children has risen nearly 3 percent per year—throughout the 1970s and 1980s, the incidence of melanoma in the United States increased faster than that of any other cancer. Since the 1960s, rates of skin cancer in lighter-skinned populations—those at highest risk for skin cancer—have continued to increase by between 5 and 8 percent every single year. First-time melanoma diagnoses overall have tripled over the past thirty-five years, and just between 2000 and 2013 there was a nearly 2 percent increase each year.
Liz Wolfe (Eat the Yolks)
Spinach Quiche Preheat oven to 375 degrees F., rack in the middle position   This is my recipe. It can be served as an appetizer if you cut it into thin slices and arrange them on a platter. It can also be served as an entrée.   One 9-inch unbaked pastry shell 1 beaten egg yolk (reserve the white in a small dish) 10-ounce package frozen chopped spinach ½ teaspoon salt ½ teaspoon pepper (freshly ground is best) 3 Tablespoons horseradish sauce 2 ounces shredded Jarlsberg (or good Swiss cheese) 4 eggs 1½ cups Half & Half (or light cream) 1/8 teaspoon salt 1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper 1/8 teaspoon nutmeg (freshly ground is best)   Beat the egg yolk in a glass with a fork. Brush the inside of the unbaked pastry shell with the yolk. Set the shell aside to dry. Cook and drain the spinach. Squeeze out as much moisture as you can and then blot with a paper towel. In a bowl, combine the spinach with the salt, pepper, and horseradish sauce. Spread it in the bottom of the pastry shell. Sprinkle the top with the grated cheese. Beat the 4 whole eggs with the reserved egg white. Add the Half & Half, salt, and cayenne pepper. Mix well and pour on top of cheese. Sprinkle the top with nutmeg. Bake at 375 degrees F. for 40 minutes, or until a knife inserted one inch from the center comes out clean. Let cool for ten minutes and then cut into wedges and serve. This quiche can be served warm or at room temperature. I’ve even been known to eat it cold, straight out of the refrigerator. It’s perfect for a fancy brunch or a lazy, relaxed breakfast on the weekend. Yield: Serves from 12 to 18 as an appetizer. Serves six as an entrée if they only have one piece.
Joanne Fluke (Joanne Fluke Christmas Bundle: Sugar Cookie Murder, Candy Cane Murder, Plum Pudding Murder, & Gingerbread Cookie Murder (Hannah Swensen))
there was something else, something more complicated, more secret, and that is that girls in those days, even modern girls, like us, girls who went to school and then to university, were always taught that women are entitled to an education and a place outside the home—but only until the children are born. Your life is your own only for a short time: from when you leave your parents' home to your first pregnancy. From that moment, from the first pregnancy, we had to begin to live our lives only around the children. Just like our mothers. Even to sweep pavements for our children, because your child is the chick and you are—what? When it comes down to it, you are just the yolk of the egg, you are what the chick eats so as to grow big and strong. And when your child grows up—even then you can't go back to being yourself, you simply change from being a mother to being a grandmother, whose task is simply to help her children bring up their children. True, even then there were quite a few women who made careers for themselves and went out into the world. But everybody talked about them behind their backs: look at that selfish woman, she sits in meetings while her poor children grow up in the street and pay the price. Now it's a new world. Now at last women are given more opportunity to live lives of their own. Or is it just an illusion? Maybe in the younger generations too women still cry into their pillows at night, while their husbands are asleep, because they feel they have to make impossible choices? I don't want to be judgmental: it's not my world anymore. To make a comparison I'd have to go from door to door checking how many mothers' tears are wept every night into the pillow when husbands are asleep, and to compare the tears then with the tears now.
Amos Oz (A Tale of Love and Darkness)
CHOCOLATE TRUFFLES 6 tablespoons chilled butter ( ¾ stick, 3 ounces) 12-ounce package semi-sweet chocolate chips (two cups—I used Ghirardelli’s) ½ cup firmly packed powdered sugar (confectioner’s sugar) 6 egg yolks 1 Tablespoon rum, brandy, flavored brandy, or vanilla extract   Put an inch or so of water in the bottom half of a double boiler and heat it to a gentle boil. Cut the butter in chunks and place them in the top half of the double boiler. Add the chips and then the powdered sugar and set the top half over the bottom half. Put on the cover and let everything melt while you…   Beat the egg yolks in a small bowl with a whisk. Whisk until they’re thoroughly combined, but stop before they get fluffy or lighter in color.   Stir the chocolate until it’s completely melted. It will be thick, almost like fudge. Remove the top half of the double boiler and set it on a cold burner.   Stir several spoonfuls of beaten egg yolk into the chocolate mixture. When that’s incorporated, stir in several more spoonfuls. Keep adding egg yolk in small amounts, stirring constantly, until all the egg yolks have been incorporated and the chocolate mixture is smooth and glossy.   Stir in the rum, brandy, or vanilla. Put the lid back on the top of the double boiler and refrigerate the chocolate mixture for 3 hours. To Decorate Truffles: finely chopped nuts powdered (confectioner’s) sugar chocolate sprinkles shaved chocolate cocoa powder finely shredded coconut   Warning: This next step is fairly messy. If you like, wear disposable plastic food-server gloves. You can also lightly grease your hands, or spray them with Pam or other non-stick cooking spray so the chocolate won’t stick to your fingers.   Form small balls of chilled chocolate with your hands and roll them in bowls of the above ingredients.
Joanne Fluke (Cherry Cheesecake Murder (Hannah Swensen, #8))
CAKE whole black peppercorns whole cloves whole cardamom 1 cinnamon stick 2 cups flour 1 teaspoon baking powder 1 teaspoon baking soda ½ teaspoon salt 3 large eggs 1 large egg yolk 1 cup sour cream 1½ sticks (6 ounces) unsalted butter, at room temperature 1 cup sugar 2 large pieces fresh ginger root (¼ cup, tightly packed, when finely grated) zest from 2 to 3 oranges (1½ teaspoons finely grated) Preheat oven to 350°F. Butter and flour a 6-cup Bundt pan. Grind your peppercorns, cloves, and cardamom and measure out ¼ teaspoon of each. (You can use pre-ground spices, but the cake won’t taste as good.) Grind your cinnamon stick and measure out 1 teaspoon. (Again, you can use ground cinnamon if you must.) Whisk the flour with the baking powder, baking soda, spices, and salt in a small bowl. In another small bowl, whisk the eggs and egg yolk into the sour cream. Set aside. Cream the butter and sugar in a stand mixer until the mixture is light, fluffy, and almost white. This should take about 3 minutes. Grate the ginger root—this is a lot of ginger—and the orange zest. Add them to the butter/sugar mixture. Beat the flour mixture and the egg mixture, alternating between the two, into the butter until each addition is incorporated. The batter should be as luxurious as mousse. Spoon batter into the prepared pan and bake for about 40 minutes, until cake is golden and a wooden skewer comes out clean. Remove to a rack and cool in the pan for 10 minutes. SOAK ½ cup bourbon 1½ tablespoons sugar While the cake cools in its pan, simmer the bourbon and the sugar in a small pot for about 4 minutes. It should reduce to about ⅓ cup. While the cake is still in the pan, brush half the bourbon mixture onto its exposed surface (the bottom of the cake) with a pastry brush. Let the syrup soak in for a few minutes, then turn the cake out onto a rack. Gently brush the remaining mixture all over the cake.
Ruth Reichl (Delicious!)
He carefully poured the juice into a bowl and rinsed the scallops to remove any sand caught between the tender white meat and the firmer coral-colored roe, wrapped around it like a socialite's fur stole. Mayur is the kind of cook (my kind), who thinks the chef should always have a drink in hand. He was making the scallops with champagne custard, so naturally the rest of the bottle would have to disappear before dinner. He poured a cup of champagne into a small pot and set it to reduce on the stove. Then he put a sugar cube in the bottom of a wide champagne coupe (Lalique, service for sixteen, direct from the attic on my mother's last visit). After a bit of a search, he found the crème de violette in one of his shopping bags and poured in just a dash. He topped it up with champagne and gave it a swift stir. "To dinner in Paris," he said, glass aloft. 'To the chef," I answered, dodging swiftly out of the way as he poured the reduced champagne over some egg yolks and began whisking like his life depended on it. "Do you have fish stock?" "Nope." "Chicken?" "Just cubes. Are you sure that will work?" "Sure. This is the Mr. Potato Head School of Cooking," he said. "Interchangeable parts. If you don't have something, think of what that ingredient does, and attach another one." I counted, in addition to the champagne, three other bottles of alcohol open in the kitchen. The boar, rubbed lovingly with a paste of cider vinegar, garlic, thyme, and rosemary, was marinating in olive oil and red wine. It was then to be seared, deglazed with hard cider, roasted with whole apples, and finished with Calvados and a bit of cream. Mayur had his nose in a small glass of the apple liqueur, inhaling like a fugitive breathing the air of the open road. As soon as we were all assembled at the table, Mayur put the raw scallops back in their shells, spooned over some custard, and put them ever so briefly under the broiler- no more than a minute or two. The custard formed a very thin skin with one or two peaks of caramel. It was, quite simply, heaven. The pork was presented neatly sliced, restaurant style, surrounded with the whole apples, baked to juicy, sagging perfection.
Elizabeth Bard (Lunch in Paris: A Love Story, with Recipes)
What a wonderful crunch! And yet the char's meat was still hot and deliciously juicy! The breading perfectly contained inside its protective shell the savory flavor of the fish! The Kaki no Tane Crackers came already seasoned... ... so the breading itself had a solid, delicious taste. And the dipping sauce is perfect! The Ki no Me mixed with Tamago no Moto is wonderfully light and fluffy!" *Ki no Me: The young leaves of the Japanese pepper plant. Clapping one in your palm crushes the leaf's cells, releasing a distinctive scent.* TAMAGO NO MOTO. Mayonnaise without the vinegar, it is simply egg yolks and vegetable oil whisked into a creamy consistency. It's often used to bring ingredients together or to add flavor to a dish. Some salt and minced Ki no Me adds an overall refreshing taste to the fish... ... erasing any oiliness and giving it a refined flavor. "That wonderfully smooth creaminess hiding between the crispy crunchiness of the breading really spurs the appetite! The breaded and deep-fried mountain vegetables on the side cannot be ignored, either. They provide an eye-pleasing contrast when arranged side-by-side with the deep-fried fish. " "Soma, where on earth did you get the idea for this?" "In Japanese cooking, there's a type of tempura called Okakiage, right? When deep-frying things, use crushed-up Okaki Rice Crackers instead of panko to give the dish some uniqueness and kick. I made this at home once long ago with my dad. " "And that gave you the idea to use the Kaki no Tane Crackers in place of the Okaki Rice Crackers?" "Yep! I call it the Yukihira Style Okaki- YUKIHIRA STYLE OKAKI-NO-TANE-AGE CHAR!" "You just slapped the two names together!" On one hand, Takumi Aldini maintained a broad version that did not overlook potential ingredients, such as the duck. On the other, Soma Yukihira's rare ability to think outside the box... ... led him to create a dish that no one else even expected! Neither was intimidated by the time constraints or the limited ingredients. They instead focused on what they could do to create their dish. That is the spirit of a true professional! Hee hee! This is hardly the first time I've given this assignment. And students have made deep-fried items before... without breading. But he is the first one to find a way to present to me fish that is both breaded and deep-fried! The char, in season this spring... ... is snuggly wrapped in a protective shell of Kaki no Tane Cracker breading.
Yuto Tsukuda (Food Wars!: Shokugeki no Soma, Vol. 3)
BACON, EGG, AND CHEDDAR CHEESE TOAST CUPS Preheat oven to 400 degrees F., rack in the middle position. 6 slices bacon (regular sliced, not thick sliced) 4 Tablespoons (2 ounces, ½ stick) salted butter, softened 6 slices soft white bread ½ cup grated cheddar cheese 6 large eggs Salt and pepper to taste Cook the 6 slices of bacon in a frying pan over medium heat for 6 minutes or until the bacon is firmed up and the edges are slightly brown, but the strips are still pliable. They won’t be completely cooked, but that’s okay. They will finish cooking in the oven. Place the partially-cooked bacon on a plate lined with paper towels to drain it. Generously coat the inside of 6 muffin cups with half of the softened butter. Butter one side of the bread with the rest of the butter but stop slightly short of the crusts. Lay the bread out on a sheet of wax paper or a bread board butter side up. Hannah’s 1st Note: You will be wasting a bit of butter here, but it’s easier than cutting rounds of bread first and trying to butter them after they’re cut. Using a round cookie cutter that’s three and a half inches (3 and ½ inches) in diameter, cut circles out of each slice of bread.   Hannah’s 2nd Note: If you don’t have a 3.5 inch cookie cutter, you can use the top rim of a standard size drinking glass to do this. Place the bread rounds butter side down inside the muffin pans, pressing them down gently being careful not to tear them as they settle into the bottom of the cup. If one does tear, cut a patch from the buttered bread that is left and place it, buttered side down, over the tear. Curl a piece of bacon around the top of each piece of bread, positioning it between the bread and the muffin tin. This will help to keep the bacon in a ring shape. Sprinkle shredded cheese in the bottom of each muffin cup, dividing the cheese as equally as you can between the 6 muffin cups. Crack an egg into a small measuring cup (I use a half-cup measure) with a spout, making sure to keep the yolk intact. Hannah’s 3rd Note: If you break a yolk, don’t throw the whole egg away. Just slip it in a small covered container which you will refrigerate and use for scrambled eggs the next morning, or for that batch of cookies you’ll make in the next day or two. Pour the egg carefully into the bottom of one of the muffin cups. Repeat this procedure for all the eggs, cracking them one at a time and pouring them into the remaining muffin cups. When every muffin cup has bread, bacon, cheese and egg, season with a little salt and pepper. Bake the filled toast cups for 6 to 10 minutes, depending on how firm you want the yolks. (Naturally, a longer baking time yields a harder yolk.) Run the blade of a knife around the edge of each muffin cup, remove the Bacon, Egg, and Cheddar Cheese Toast Cups, and serve immediately. Hannah’s 4th Note: These are a bit tricky the first time you make them. That’s just “beginner nerves”. Once you’ve made them successfully, they’re really quite easy to do and extremely impressive to serve for a brunch. Yield: 6 servings (or 3 servings if you’re fixing them for Mike and Norman).
Joanne Fluke (Blackberry Pie Murder (Hannah Swensen, #17))
The Quiche Lorraine Pie Shell: You can mix up your favorite piecrust recipe and line a 10-inch pie plate. Or…you can buy frozen shells at the grocery store. (If you decide to go the grocery store frozen pie shell route, buy 9-inch deep-dish pie shells.)   Hannah’s 1stNote: There’s no need to feel guilty if you choose to use the frozen pie shells. They’re good and it’s a real time saver. I happen to know that Edna Ferguson, the head cook at Jordan High, has been known to remove frozen pie shells from their telltale disposable pans and put them in her own pie tins to bake! (Sorry Edna—I just had to tell them.) Stack your pie shells in the refrigerator, or leave them in the freezer until two hours before you’re ready to use them.   Prepare your piecrust by separating one egg. Throw away the white and whip up the yolk with a fork. Brush the bottom and inside of your piecrust. Prick it all over with a fork and bake it in a 350 F. degree oven for 5 minutes. Take it out and let it cool on a wire rack or a cold stovetop while you mix up the custard. If “bubbles” have formed in the crust, immediately prick them with a fork to let out the steam. The Quiche Lorraine Custard: 5 eggs 1½ cups heavy whipping cream *** Hannah’s 2ndNote: You can do this by hand with a whisk, or use an electric mixer, your choice.   Combine the eggs with the cream and whisk them (or beat them with an electric mixer) until they’re a uniform color. When they’re thoroughly mixed, pour them into a pitcher and set it in the refrigerator until you’re ready to assemble the rest of your quiche. You may notice that you’re not adding any salt, pepper, or other seasoning at this point. You’ll do that when you assemble the quiche.   Hannah’s 3rdNote: You can mix up the custard ahead of time and store it in the refrigerator for up to 24 hours. When you’re ready to assemble your quiches, all you have to do is whisk it smooth and pour it out from the pitcher. The Quiche Lorraine Filling: 2 cups grated Gruyere cheese (approximately 7 ounces)*** 1 cup diced, well-cooked and drained bacon ½ teaspoon salt ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper ¼ teaspoon ground cayenne pepper (optional—use if you like it a bit spicy) ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg (freshly grated is best, of course)   Sprinkle the grated cheese in the bottom of your cooled pie shell.   Spread the cup of diced bacon on top of the cheese.   Sprinkle on the salt, and grind the pepper over the top of the bacon.   Sprinkle on the cayenne pepper (if you decided to use it).   Grate the nutmeg over the top. Put a drip pan under your pie plate. (I line a jellyroll pan with foil and use that.) This will catch any spills that might occur when you fill your quiche with the custard mixture.   Take your custard mixture out of the refrigerator and give it a good whisk. Then pour it over the top of your Quiche Lorraine, filling it about half way.   Open your oven, pull out the rack, and set your pie plate and drip pan on it. Pour in more custard mixture, stopping a quarter-inch short of the rim. Carefully push in the rack, and shut the oven door.   Bake your Quiche Lorraine at 350 degrees F., for 60 minutes, or until the top is nicely browned and a knife inserted one-inch from the center comes out clean.   Let your quiche cool for 15 to 30 minutes on a cold stovetop or a wire rack, and then cut and serve to rave reviews.   This quiche is good warm, but it’s also good at room temperature. (I’ve even eaten it straight out of the refrigerator for breakfast!)
Joanne Fluke (Joanne Fluke Christmas Bundle: Sugar Cookie Murder, Candy Cane Murder, Plum Pudding Murder, & Gingerbread Cookie Murder (Hannah Swensen))
Eggs possess an elemental power. Their outer shell is earth. Their white is water. The membrane that lines the shell is air, and the yolk at the core is fire. The core of the egg preserves life and being, and therefore represents heaven and earth, while the white represents chaos.
Joanne Owen (The Alchemist and the Angel)
cheese danish cups Makes 8 1 tube refrigerated crescent roll dough (8 pieces) 8 ounces light cream cheese ¼ cup powdered sugar ½ teaspoon vanilla 1 egg yolk 4−6 tablespoons strawberry jam Regular 1. Preheat oven to 400°F, and prepare 8 regular muffin cups. 2. Place one crescent roll in each cup, with the thin pointy side of the triangle coming out of the cup and the opposite side in the bottom of the cup. Then wrap and tuck the long pointy end around the sides of the cup, pressing it and the bottom edge so the entire cup is lined. 3. Mix cream cheese, sugar, vanilla, and egg yolk, until completely combined. 4. Divide cream cheese mixture among cups and use your thumb or a spoon to create a big indent in the middle of each. 5. Place about ½ to ¾ tablespoon strawberry jam in each indentation. 6. Bake for 10−12 minutes, until filling is set and roll is golden brown. Who knew making Danish could be so incredibly simple? Try it with different flavors of jams. CALORIES 213 calories FAT 10.5 grams PROTEIN 4.6 grams SODIUM 358 mg
Brette Sember (The Muffin Tin Cookbook: 200 Fast, Delicious Mini-Pies, Pasta Cups, Gourmet Pockets, Veggie Cakes, and More!)
People avoid egg yolks because they’re afraid of the cholesterol, but the choline in the egg yolk actually helps prevent the accumulation of cholesterol and fat in the liver!
Jonny Bowden (The 150 Healthiest Foods on Earth: The Surprising, Unbiased Truth about What You Should Eat and Why)
There’s this strange phenomenon. An hour after you’ve put your children to sleep, the ways in which you have wronged them sprawl out on your chest, all two hundred and fifty pounds of them, and suck the breath right out of you. It works the same way with gratitude. An hour after your family has left the house, you love them with a piercing intensity that was nowhere to be found when you were scraping egg yolk off their breakfast dishes. Your hope is to one day feel this way about them when they’re in the room. This is a pretty lofty goal.
Melanie Gideon (The Slippery Year: A Meditation on Happily Ever After)
Was there supposed to be a moment of blinding clarity when the path through the thicket appeared, brightly illuminated, and Good, Bad, and Morally Neutral all sorted themselves out, slightly messy but completely unambiguous, like egg yolk and egg white and shell? If so, I missed it.
Ann Redisch Stampler
Was there supposed to be a moment of blinding clarity when the path through the thicket appeared, brightly illuminated, and Good, Bad, and Morally Neutral all sorted themselves out, slightly messy but completely unambiguous, like egg yolk and egg white and shell? If so, I missed it.
Ann Redisch Stampler (Afterparty)
9" graham cracker or cookie shell 2 14-ounce cans sweetened condensed milk 1¼ cups fresh lemon juice 2 tablespoons finely grated lemon zest 8 large egg yolks Sweetened whipped cream for topping Lemon slices for garnish In a medium bowl, whisk the condensed milk with the lemon juice. In a separate medium bowl, beat the egg yolks and lemon zest until pale. Gradually add the condensed milk mixture, beating until smooth. Pour the filling into the shell. Bake at 325º for 25 minutes, until the edges are set and the center jiggles only slightly. Chill for at least six hours, preferably overnight. Top with sweetened whipped cream and garnish with lemon slices. For easy cutting, use a hot knife.
Susan Wittig Albert (The Darling Dahlias and the Unlucky Clover)
For our first course, we have a play on biscuits and gravy, a classic Southern dish that's also popular in the Midwest." Chef Laurent picked up his fork and cutter into the biscuit. "Here, we have a miniature biscuit topped a boudin blanc sawmill gravy and a poached quail egg." Chef Martinet poked at the quail egg until the yolk burst. Probably looking for egg flaws. Rosie decided to just keep talking. If she kept talking, she wouldn't be thinking about what they were eating. "I first had biscuits and gravy at the restaurant where my mom works." "Your mother, she is a chef?" Chef Laurent asked. He was going back in for another bite. That had to be a good sign. "No. She, um, manages the store... at the restaurant... where she works." No matter how much time Chef Laurent may have spent in Ohio, Rosie was pretty sure he hadn't experienced a Cracker Barrel. But he nodded like a combined restaurant and gift store was nothing out of the ordinary. "I put my own spin on sawmill gravy by using boudin blanc instead of breakfast sausage to incorporate some of the flavors I've discovered living here, and I kept the biscuit small and used a quail egg to keep the portion appropriate for a first course." "The biscuit is excellent," Chef Laurent said. "Fluffy, light, buttery- it is everything a biscuit should be. I should tell Marcus that this exactly the kind of appetizer he should serve." He must have meant Marcus Samuelsson. Rosie felt her hopes start to rise. "For our next course, we have a burger topped with Gruyère and caramelized onions on a brioche bun.
Stephanie Kate Strohm (Love à la Mode)
The gallettes were darker, a nut-brown from the buckwheat flour, and folded from a circle into a square, with the savory toppings peeping through invitingly. Rosie saw what looked like goat cheese on Yumi's plate. And maybe ratatouille on Marquis's. And over on the plate between her and Henry- ugh, a fat yellow egg stared back at her. Rosie still hadn't forgiven eggs for the whole omelet debacle. "It's called oeuf miroir," Henry said, poking the yolk with his fork almost reverentially, as Marquis and Yumi debated whether or not they should wait for everyone to get their food before they started eating. Yumi, her cheeks full of goat cheese, was firmly on the side of not. "It means egg mirror. Or mirror egg. I think. It looks kind of like a mirror, yeah? And then there's ham and Gruyère underneath. Here, you can have the first bite." Rosie loved Gruyère. The flavors exploded in her mouth. Buckwheat flour was a revelation- nuttier than she'd expected, not like a nut, really, but she couldn't think of any other way to say it. It had a subtle flavor all its own, crisp edges from where it had been seared on the hot pan, and a perfectly soft, almost spongy texture within, where the Gruyère melted into the salty ham, and before Rosie knew it, she'd eaten three bites.
Stephanie Kate Strohm (Love à la Mode)
She closed her eyes and exhaled softly, feeling nausea rise within her stomach. She hammered the fragile shell of an egg and breathed in the scent of the runny yolk inside.
Alisa Adams (Highlander's Scandalous Lasses: A Scottish Medieval Historical Collection)
Hot Brandy Flip. (Use large bar-glass, heated.) Take 1 tea-spoonful of sugar. 1 wine-glass of brandy. Yolk of one egg. Dissolve the sugar in a little hot water, add the brandy and egg, shake up thoroughly, pour into a medium bar-glass, and fill it one-half full of boiling water. Grate a little nutmeg on top, and serve.
Ross Bolton (Jerry Thomas Bartenders Guide 1887 Reprint)
You know how you’ve been avoiding steak and cheese to try and stay thin? Not any more. Ever pass by someone’s house in the morning, smell bacon cooking and get pissed off because you’ve had Cheerios for a million days in a row? Guess what’s back on your diet? Bacon. What about those egg whites you were cooking in the Teflon pan? Are you crazy? Not only have you been giving up the yolk, the most nutritional part of the egg, you’ve been giving up the best tasting part. What a tragedy! Fish, pork, steak, Italian sausage—all sausage for that matter—eat to your heart’s content. And, from the plant world, what about all the delicious stuff you stayed away from because they were high-fat foods with lots of calories? Olives, avocados, coconuts. Enjoy! You like heavy cream in your coffee? Dump it in! And guess how much you can have of this stuff? As much as you want. When you start eating properly, when you rid yourself of those insulin swings, you’ll lose the feeling of being a bottomless pit that can never be sated. You’ll regulate the amount you eat naturally and you’ll find yourself feeling full much quicker. Don
Flour and yolk and cream are all coarse- of the earth. But sugar and air and vanilla are elements of the firmament. Avis used to tell her kids: Sweets should be an evanescence, cakes and pies represent minutes, cookies and milles-feuilles are seconds, meringues are moments.
Diana Abu-Jaber (Birds of Paradise)
Agnes added the yolks of half a dozen eggs to her stuffing, cracking each one over a small bowl so the white ran into it, then dropping each golden orb into the crumbled mixture, where it gleamed like a small sun. Taking up a long metal spoon, she began to stir the ingredients together, cutting again and again through the mix until it had transformed to a rich yellow-tinged forcemeat.
Janet Gleeson (The Thief Taker)
A simple dinner had been prepared. The first course comprised soup a la reine, chicken stew with oysters, fried tripe, and boiled cauliflower; the second course, a wholesome ragout of pig ears, macaroni pie, roast mutton, mushrooms, and cabbage in butter sauce; for dessert there would be jam tartlets and apple pie. Mrs. Tooley had enlisted the help of both Doris and Nancy and they had made a good start. The desserts were prepared, the stew set to simmer, the mutton already darkening to the spit. With an hour left to complete the rest, Agnes rose to the challenge, which she felt better equipped to handle than consorting with thief takers and street rogues. Turning first to the soup, she picked up a pot containing lean beef and a knuckle of veal, onions, carrots, celery, parsnips, leeks, and a little thyme, which had been simmering for most of the morning. She strained it through a muslin cloth, then thickened it with bread crumbs soaked in boiled cream, half a pound of ground almonds, and the yolks of six hard eggs. She licked her little finger thoughtfully and adjusted the seasoning, while issuing a barrage of further instructions to Doris. "Water on for the vegetables, then slice up the ears in strips; then baste the joint- careful, mind- so the fat don't catch on the fire." Cheeks glowing from steam and heat, Agnes wiped a damp hand across her brow, then began on the gravy, adding a pinch of mace and a glassful of claret as the French chef had taught her. She poured the gravy over the sliced ears. "Into the hot cupboard with this, Doris. And then get me the cabbage and cauliflower, please." She basted the mutton with a long-handled spoon, and fried the tripe in a deep pan of lard until it was brown and crisp. She set a pan of mushrooms alongside, and tossed the cabbage leaves in a pan of boiling water and the cauliflower in another. "More cream, Doris. Are the plates warmed?" she called, shaking the mushrooms while tasting the macaroni. "Vegetables need draining. Where are John and Philip?" Without waiting for a reply, she garnished the tripe with parsley and poured the soup into a large tureen.
Janet Gleeson (The Thief Taker)
It wasn’t her fault, but it was her fate, like so many single mothers, to be caught between a wistful child and his fantasies of the father who is perfect, in part because he is hardly ever there.
Eric Ripert (32 Yolks)
I have never before gathered eggs from under a hen. Fernando has never before seen a hen. We bend low into the shed where perch a dozen or so fat lady birds. There's no shrieking or fluttering at all. I approach one and ask if she has an egg or two. Nothing. I ask in Italian. Still nothing. I ask Fernando to pick her up but he's already outside the shed smoking and pacing, telling me he really doesn't like eggs at all and he especially doesn't like frittata. Both bold-faced lies. I start to move the hen and she plumps down from her perch quite voluntarily, uncovering the place where two lovely brown eggs sit. I take them, one at a time, bend down and nestle them in my sack. I want two more. I peruse the room. I choose the hen who sits next to the docile one. I pick her up and she pecks me so hard on my wrist that I drop her. I see there is nothing in her nest and apologise for my insensitivity, thinking her nastiness must have been caused by embarrassment. I move on to another hen and this time find a single, paler brown-shelled beauty, still warm and stuck all over with bits of straw. I take it and leave with an unfamiliar thrill. This is my first full day in Tuscany and I've robbed a henhouse before lunch. Back home in the kitchen I beat the eggs, the yolks of which are orange as pumpkin, with a few grindings of sea salt, a few more of pepper, adding a tablespoon or so of white wine and a handful of Parmigliano. I dig for my flat broad frying pan, twirl it to coat its floor with a few drops of my tourist oil, and let it warm over a quiet flame. I drop in the rinsed and dried blossoms whole, flatten them a bit so they stay put, and leave them for a minute or so while I tear a few basil leaves, give the eggs another stroke or two. I throw a few fennel seeds into the pan to scent the oil, where the blossoms are now beginning to take colour on their bottom sides. Time to liven up the flame and add the egg batter. I perform the lift-and-tilt motions necessary to cook the frittata without disturbing the blossoms, which are now ensnared in the creamy embrace of the eggs. Next, I run the lush little cake under a hot grill to form a gold blistery skin on top before sliding it onto a plate, strewing it with torn basil. The heat of the eggs warms the herbs so they give up a double-strength perfume. Now I drop a thread of find old balsamico over it. And finally, let it rest.
Marlena de Blasi
This year I am doing praline pecans, an old favorite family favorite, easy and addictive. And a festive holiday dark chocolate loaf cake, with pistachios and dried cherries and white chocolate chips. I get out my huge seven-quart KitchenAid mixer, and head to the basement, where I have ten pounds of gorgeous halved pecans in the chest freezer, and a pallet of organic eggs from Paulie's Pasture in the commercial refrigerator I use for entertaining and overflow. Upstairs, I focus on separating eggs, reserving the yolks for making pasta or custard later. Beating whites, melting butter, I can feel my shoulders unclench as the scent of toasted sugar pecans caramelizing fills the house.
Stacey Ballis (Out to Lunch)
Normality in our part of the world is a bit like a boiled egg: its humdrum surface conceals at its heart a yolk of egregious violence.
Arundhati Roy (The Ministry of Utmost Happiness)
It’s fascinating to see how quickly people rush to join sides and to separate themselves from each other. 10: Yes. As we have suggested in the past, this is happening with greater and greater speed. And that is why we are here. There is a great deal of violence in your world at this time, and throughout time, and will continue. However, when you turn away from it, it may sound selfish and cold. It is—in Truth—the opposite. Yes, of course, help those in need, but do not give those who are sinking into lower dimensions of hatred, and bitterness, and violence, and resentment—do not give them any attention. They are like “bad” toddlers. You just look the other way, and you proceed into higher levels of hopefulness. It is the beginning gateway to higher levels of good fortune, and joy, and bliss—and radiation of all the good that is in the higher dimensions. Do not make the mistake of falling into the trap of listening to your media spout off negativity and violence; and yes, it is what is happening in one part of the world, and at any given time it is happening in every corner of your world. It is where many of your lower entities are choosing to place their attention. That is all that it is. It is all a place of focus. Whatever you choose to place your focus on creates your reality, and when you traject beyond, your reality is instantaneous. And it is speeding up even as we talk right now. You just don’t—many of you—do not realize just how rapidly your manifestations are happening. And it is quite dangerous to sink to the level of the yolk, because they are choosing with greater and greater momentum to focus on the negative. That is not why we are here. We are here to lift you up.
Michelle Paisley Reed (Manifesting Miracles and Money: How to Achieve Peace, Purpose and Plenty Without Getting in Your Own Way (Law of Attraction Book 1))
the clans would always resist the yolk of an external agent.
Dante King (Immortal Swordslinger)
FRENCH GARLIC SOUP (SOUPE A L’AIL) Bring chicken stock to a boil. Sauté abundant minced garlic in duck fat (or olive oil), add to the stock along with a bouquet garni, and simmer. Remove the bouquet and add beaten egg whites to the soup, let them set, and remove from the heat. Temper egg yolks, add them to the soup, and season with salt and pepper. Put a slice of day-old country bread in a bowl, sprinkle with Parmesan, then pour soup over. Egg whites can be cut into smaller pieces.
Jason Matthews (Palace of Treason (Red Sparrow Trilogy #2))
Torta Crema (Italian Cream Cake) 1 stick unsalted butter, softened 1/ 2 cup shortening 2 cups sugar 5 eggs, separated 2 cups flour 1 teaspoon soda 1 cup buttermilk 1 teaspoon vanilla 1 cup flaked coconut 1 cup chopped pecans Cream the butter and shortening, add the sugar and beat some more. Add egg yolks and beat. Mix flour and baking soda, and add alternately with buttermilk. Stir in vanilla, coconut and pecans. Fold in stiffly beaten egg whites. Pour batter into three well-greased round cake pans or a 13 x 9 x 2-inch baking pan. Bake at 350 ° F for 40 to 45 minutes, until a stick of dry spaghetti inserted in the middle comes out clean. Cool before frosting.
Susan Wiggs (Summer by the Sea)
how about hollandaise sauce? Not for me. Bacteria love hollandaise. And hollandaise, that delicate emulsion of egg yolks and clarified butter, must be held at a temperature not too hot nor too cold, lest it break when spooned over your poached eggs. Unfortunately, this lukewarm holding temperature is also the favorite environment for bacteria to copulate and reproduce in. Nobody I know has ever made hollandaise to order.
Anthony Bourdain (Kitchen Confidential: Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly)
So brisk! I can feel the fresh Mediterranean breeze... gently rustling the leaves of the lemon trees. I've had semifreddo desserts many times in my life. But this is unlike anything I've tasted before! And I know the taste of true Italian limoncello. Where on earth did this intense lemony flavor come from?! Is it that fourth layer? What is it?!" "That layer... ... is lemon curd." "Lemon curd?" "Lemon card?" "It isn't curd like curds of milk. It's a dessert spread made with citrus fruits." LEMON CURD A fruit spread originating in Britain, it was intended as an alternative to jams. Egg yolks, sugar, fruit juice and zest are mixed together with a blender and then cooked into a paste and chilled. A centuries-old, traditional dessert, there is even a royal version called Royal Curd. "That vibrant, citrusy tang of the curd has a fresh, refined aroma. Its smoothness combined with the satiny-soft Genoese cake melts in the mouth! What a light and downy texture. It touches the tongue like a feather! The grainy Biscuit Joconde could never be this soft!" "He turned it around! The Genoese cake was supposed to be a liability... but he turned it into an advantage by making it part of an elegant, mature taste experience!" "A British fruit spread, eh? And he put that together right on the spot?" "I'm shocked he had the ingredients." "Fruit curds don't need many ingredients. They use egg yolks, sugar, lemon juice, lemon zest... and butter." "Butter? I thought you barely had a scrap of butter left." "I substituted the butter with this." "Olive oil?!" "Oho! Is that even possible?" "He must certainly know all about it, having grown up in Italy!" "I handicapped myself by choosing Genoese for the sponge cake style. It doesn't have nearly the punch the almondy Biscuit Joconde has. So I turned to the citrusy flavor instead.
Yuto Tsukuda (食戟のソーマ 10 [Shokugeki no Souma 10] (Food Wars: Shokugeki no Soma, #10))
Normality in our part of the world is a bit like a boiled egg: its humdrum surface conceals at its heart a yolk of egregious violence. It is our constant anxiety about that violence, our memory of its past labors and our dread of its future manifestations, that lays down the rules for how a people as complex and as diverse as we are continue to coexist—continue to live together, tolerate each other and, from time to time, murder one another. As long as the center holds, as long as the yolk doesn’t run, we’ll be fine. In moments of crisis it helps to take the long view.
Arundhati Roy (The Ministry of Utmost Happiness)
½ teaspoon sea salt 5 eggs, separated ¼ cup butter or coconut oil, melted 1 tablespoon buttermilk or coconut milk (canned or carton variety) Preheat the oven to 350°F. Grease an 8½" x 4½" loaf pan. In a food processor, combine the baking mix, baking powder, and salt. Pulse until well blended. Add the egg yolks, butter or coconut oil, and
William Davis (Wheat Belly 30-Minute (or Less!) Cookbook: 200 Quick and Simple Recipes to Lose the Wheat, Lose the Weight, and Find Your Path Back to Health)
grass-fed recommended ¼ cups boiling water 13.5-ounce can full-fat coconut milk 2 cups unsweetened almond milk ½ cup maple syrup, grade B recommended 4 large egg yolks 1 tablespoon pure vanilla extract 1 teaspoon hazelnut or almond extract (optional) 4-6 pieces Bacon (see here), crispy and diced into small pieces ½ cup fresh or dried Medjool dates, diced very small (optional) ½ cup dark chocolate chips (optional)
Matthew McCarry (Beyond Bacon: Paleo Recipes that Respect the Whole Hog)
CAKE whole black peppercorns whole cloves whole cardamom 1 cinnamon stick 2 cups flour 1 teaspoon baking powder 1 teaspoon baking soda ½ teaspoon salt 3 large eggs 1 large egg yolk 1 cup sour cream 1½ sticks (6 ounces) unsalted butter, at room temperature 1 cup sugar 2 large pieces fresh ginger root (¼ cup, tightly packed, when finely grated) zest from 2 to 3 oranges (1½ teaspoons finely grated) Preheat oven to 350°F. Butter and flour a 6-cup Bundt pan. Grind your peppercorns, cloves, and cardamom and measure out ¼ teaspoon of each. (You can use pre-ground spices, but the cake won’t taste as good.) Grind your cinnamon stick and measure out 1 teaspoon. (Again, you can use ground cinnamon if you must.) Whisk the flour with the baking powder, baking soda, spices, and salt in a small bowl. In another small bowl, whisk the eggs and egg yolk into the sour cream. Set aside. Cream the butter and sugar in a stand mixer until the mixture is light, fluffy, and almost white. This should take about 3 minutes. Grate the ginger root—this is a lot of ginger—and the orange zest. Add them to the butter/sugar mixture. Beat the flour mixture and the egg mixture, alternating between the two, into the butter until each addition is incorporated. The batter should be as luxurious as mousse. Spoon batter into the prepared pan and bake for about 40 minutes, until cake is golden and a wooden skewer comes out clean. Remove to a rack and cool in the pan for 10 minutes. SOAK ½ cup bourbon 1½ tablespoons sugar While the cake cools in its pan, simmer the bourbon and the sugar in a small pot for about 4 minutes. It should reduce to about ⅓ cup. While the cake is still in the pan, brush half the bourbon mixture onto its exposed surface (the bottom of the cake) with a pastry brush. Let the syrup soak in for a few minutes, then turn the cake out onto a rack. Gently brush the remaining mixture all over the cake. GLAZE ¾ cup powdered sugar, sifted or put through a strainer 5 teaspoons orange juice Once the cake is cooled, mix the sugar with the orange juice and either drizzle the glaze randomly over the cake or put it into a squeeze bottle and do a controlled drizzle. AUTHOR’S NOTE This is a work of fiction.
Ruth Reichl (Delicious!)
Primer of Love [Lesson 56] ROMEO (taking JULIET’s hand): If I profane with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. ~ Shakespeare, Romeo & Juliet, Act 1. Scene 5. Lesson 56) Gently kiss the rough spots -- don't try and hammer them out. All relationships have rough patches. These delicate times require you be at your best TLC behavior. Your relationship's future hangs precariously in the balance. You must master the art of walking on eggshells or the yolk will be all over you. Swallow your pride, listen, pretend listen. Even if you don't 'get it' say 'I understand'. This too shall pass -- if you're not an idiot.
Beryl Dov
Shakespeare Zombie Apocalypse Sonnet 18b Shall I compare thee to a rotting carcass? Thou art more tangy and more pungent. Shotgun shells pierceth thy heart vent not Thy voracity, nor impair fair purpose of thy judgment. Sometimes I taketh a ball-pein to thy head and shatter thy skull with explosive splatter. Thy complexion doth dims from ash to dust As yolk spilleth from egg of thy gray matter. In two-fortnights hence, thou art undying Thy eternal winter's promise shall not fade, Nor lose possession of thy Zombie leg-drag, Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade, So long as the dead can walk, or blind eyes can see, So long lives this gentle ode, and gives thee phantasy.
Beryl Dov
The Watsons and Jacobsons were like oil and water. Everybody knows they don’t mix. But what most people don’t know is that oil will mix with water if you add a little egg yolk. Seth and I were that egg yolk. And my family had just learned a hard lesson about grudges and about oil and water and egg yolks and the whole bit. And they were feeling pretty guilty if the looks on their faces were any indication. I
Shelly Crane (Undeniably Chosen)
On her Wayward Way to Nippon With tinctured hair she appears so fair Thirty-five thousand feet in the air. At last released from her diurnal yolk She can laugh again at an oft-heard joke. “Have you heard the one about a bonnie lass With a champagne cupped bosom and ample ass…” The sight of her band makes her swoon It’s glistening clasp a constant honeymoon Its perfect roundness mirrored on her hand Which in the tropics will soon turn tanned. She worked round the clock, sacrificed sleep, To make this moment her lifelong keep; To have and to hold her irritable mouse, To feed him love and build his house. No Ode to my bride would be complete Without due mention of her incredible feat; She took the most dare-devilish step of her life When she consented to be—my wife.
Beryl Dov
It was only outside in the sun and heat that she began to feel the weight of what she had done. Her feet were terribly hot and slipping in her shoes, and the sand worked its way in. With each step she fell more into herself, and her stomach roiled with the curdled truth of her betrayal. I can see you, she imagined God saying. The basket of eggs hit her hip and one shell cracked, freeing yolk and white into a slippery mess, which dripped through the wicker and landed in thick shiny drops on her skirt. * 
Rae Meadows (I Will Send Rain)
SWEAR If this time the eggs don't break, freckling the sidewalk with yolk splatter, coating the coffee and the paper towels, dripping all over my white shoes, I will never again swing the groceries back and forth all the way home from the store, singing and jumping the puddles, until the bag hits my thigh and I hear something inside of it crack.
Karen Finneyfrock
Cleopatra Calliope McNeil!' The shout came from the kitchen. 'What on earth have you been doing? There are egg yolks everywhere!' ... 'Calliope?' Ryan echoed. 'It means beautiful voice, if you must know.' Cleo shook her head. 'Shame I'm tone deaf. Sorry, Mum!' she called back. 'We needed the whites to... erm...' 'Bake meringues,' Ryan shouted. 'Meringues?' Cleo mouthed. 'Is that the best we can come up with?
Helen Moss (The Phoenix Code (Secrets of the Tombs, #1))
remove the yolk from one egg and just use the egg white. Mix it together with one tablespoon of honey. Ensure that the mixture is blended really well; then apply it to your face. Once it dries, rinse it off with warm water.
Amanda Frey (A Beginner's Guide To Korean Skin Care Products: A Must Read Book For Beginner To Korean Beauty Products (Skin Care tips, Skin Care products ... secrets, skin care tips, skin care recipes))
Chewy Chocolate Chip M&M Cookies.39 2 and 1/4 cups all-purpose flour 1 teaspoon baking soda 1 and 1/2 teaspoons cornstarch 3/4 teaspoon salt 3/4 cup (1.5 sticks) unsalted butter, melted 3/4 cup light brown sugar, loosely packed 1/2 cup granulated sugar40 1 large egg + 1 egg yolk (preferably at room temperature) 1 tablespoon vanilla extract 1 cup chocolate chips 1/2 cup M&Ms for tops of cookies Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line two large baking sheets with parchment paper or silicone baking mats. Set aside. Toss together flour, baking soda, cornstarch and salt in a large bowl. Set aside. In a medium size bowl, whisk the melted butter, brown sugar, and white sugar together until no brown sugar lumps remain. Whisk in the egg, then the egg yolk. Finally, whisk in the vanilla. Pour the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients and mix together with a large spoon or rubber spatula. The dough will be very soft, yet thick. Fold41 in the chocolate chips. They may not stick to the dough because of the melted butter, but do your best to have them evenly dispersed among the dough. Cover the dough and chill for 2 hours, or up to 3 days. Chilling is mandatory.42 Take the dough out of the refrigerator and allow to slightly soften at room temperature for 10 minutes. Roll the dough into balls, about 3 tablespoons of dough each and place 2 inches apart on cookie sheets, or use a cookie scooper. Bake the cookies for 11-14 minutes. They will look very soft and underbaked. They will continue to bake on the cookie sheet. Allow cooling on the cookie sheet for 10 minutes before moving to a wire rack43 to cool completely.
Amy Lyle (The Amy Binegar-Kimmes-Lyle Book of Failures: A funny memoir of missteps, inadequacies and faux pas)
Why do you think an egg yolk is full of cholesterol? Because it takes a lot of cholesterol to build a healthy chicken. It also takes a hell of a lot to build and maintain a healthy human being. “In fact, cholesterol is so vital that almost all cells can manufacture cholesterol; one of the key functions of the liver is to synthesize cholesterol. It's vital for the proper functioning of the brain and it's the building block for most sex hormones.” --
David H. Leake (A (Patented) Heart Disease Cure That Works!)
Agricultural oil production is, and always has been, about industry. It was never about health.
Liz Wolfe NTP
A whole fresh tuna, a wicker basket of San Marzano tomatoes, a crate of anchovies, great handfuls of parsley... Dozens of new potatoes, still encrusted with the black volcanic earth of Campania, their flesh golden as egg yolks... A pale wheel of parmesan, big as a truck tire... A sack full of blooded watermelons... An armful of mint, its leaves so dark green they were almost black...
Anthony Capella (The Wedding Officer: A Novel of Culinary Seduction)
Renzo from Roddino leaves us on the doorstep of Osteria da Gemma, a Langhe culinary landmark in a village scarcely large enough to fill the restaurant. Before we can shake off the wet and the cold, before we can see a menu or catch our breath, the waiter comes by and drops a cutting board full of salumi between us. Prego. Then another plate comes out- carne cruda, a soft mound of hand-chopped veal dressed with nothing but olive oil and a bit of lemon, a classic warm-up to a Piedmont meal. The plates continue, and it soon becomes very clear that we have no say in the matter. Insalata russa, a tricolore of toothsome green peas, orange carrots, and ivory potatoes, bound in a cloak of mayonnaise and crumbled egg yolk. Vitello tonnato, Piedmont's famous take on surf and turf: thin slices of roast beef with a thick emulsion of mayo and tuna. Each bite brings us slowly out of the mist of emotion and into the din of the dining room.
Matt Goulding (Pasta, Pane, Vino: Deep Travels Through Italy's Food Culture)
Can we go now, or should we load up Banjo and one of the cows?" he said. "Or the hen that lays double-yolked eggs?
Jean Thesman (Between)
Eggs, whole = 2 tablespoons liquid plus 2 tablespoons flour plus ½ tablespoon shortening plus ½ teaspoon baking powder = 2 yolks plus 1 tablespoon water = 2 yolks, in custards, sauces, or similar mixtures = 2 tablespoons oil plus 1 tablespoon water = 1 teaspoon cornstarch plus 3 tablespoons more liquid in recipe Note: If halving recipe, do not try to halve one egg; use one whole egg. If short one more egg in recipe, substitute 1 teaspoon vinegar or 1 teaspoon baking powder and 2 tablespoons more liquid.
Becky Sue Epstein (Substituting Ingredients: The A to Z Kitchen Reference)
Now rush the eggs into a large bowl of ice water; this will keep that unattractive green ring from forming around the yolk.
Ruth Reichl (My Kitchen Year: 136 Recipes That Saved My Life)
The arrival of the food snapped me out of my reverie. Like many chefs in Roma, the Farnese chef had taken much inspiration from Bartolomeo over the years. The first course included slices of Parmesan; olives from Tivoli; cherries in little gilded cups; a salad of sliced citron with sugar and rosewater; veal rolls dredged in coriander, spit-roasted, then topped with raisins soaked in wine; peas in the pod served with pepper and vinegar; salted buffalo tongue, cooked, then sliced and served cold with lemon; a delicate soup of cheese and egg yolks poured over roasted pigeon; blancmange white as snow and sprinkled with sugar; roasted artichokes and pine nut tourtes.
Crystal King (The Chef's Secret)
the yellow of fresh egg yolks, and the warm purple of a healing bruise, fire reds and candy pastels of blue and pink and white rising up only to descend into a chaotic central mass, like a hornet hive, before trailing off in dark marks at the far left of the canvas. Black lines, like primitive boats with crosshatched oars, open into a shimmering sea of white.
Joshua Rivkin (Chalk: The Art and Erasure of Cy Twombly)
After I steamed four giant clams over a skillet of sake, Stephen ripped out the meat and hacked it into chunks. With cupped hands, he scooped up the chewy bits and threw them in a bowl. Then he stirred in spicy red-and-white radish wedges and a warm dressing of wasabi, sugar, and sweet white miso that I had stirred in a small saucepan over a low flame until it became thick and shiny. Following his directions, I spooned the golden clams back into their shells. Stephen garnished them with a pink-and-white "congratulatory" flower of spongy wheat gluten. "Precious," he said, winking at me. Next, we made sea urchin- egg balls, first blending creamy lobes of sea urchin with raw egg yolk and a little dashi. Stephen cooked the mixture until it formed a stiff paste and then pressed it through a sieve. I plopped a golden dollop in a clean damp cloth and flattened it into a disc. In the center I put three crescents of lily bulb tenderized in salt water. "Try one," urged Stephen, handing me a wedge of lily bulb. It was mealy and sweet, kind of like a boiled cashew. Stephen brought together the four corners of the damp cloth and twisted it gently to create a bubble of eggy sea urchin paste stuffed with lily bulb. When unveiled, it looked like a Rainier cherry. I twisted out nineteen more balls, which we later arranged on fresh green leaves draped across black lacquer trays. Next, we impaled several fat shrimp on two metal skewers, sending one rod through the head and the other through the tail. We grilled the grayish pink bodies until they became rosy on one side and then flipped them over until they turned opaque. Stephen painted golden egg yolk for prosperity over the juicy crustaceans and returned them to the grill until they smoldered and charred.
Victoria Abbott Riccardi (Untangling My Chopsticks: A Culinary Sojourn in Kyoto)
There was some ordinary pork, a heap of pigs' livers and some caul fat. Carenza had been to the market that morning and bought fronds of bronze fennel with their pollen-heavy flowers still on them; sorrel; bitter lettuce. I chose the fennel, went out to the courtyard and picked some marjoram, thyme, parsley and mint. I decided to make some tomacelli, because I liked them and it was the kind of fiddly, absorbing dish I could lose myself in. So I put the livers on to boil, and then cut up some veal haunch. Carenza liked mortadelli and so I'd make her some with the veal. I chopped the veal up finely with a bit of its fat and some lardo, mixed in some parsley and some marjoram. The livers were done, so I drained them and put them in a bowl. Into the mortadella mixture went a handful of grated parmigiana cheese, some cloves, cinnamon and a few threads of saffron. An egg yolk went in too, and then I sank my hands into the cool, slippery mound and mixed it with my fingers. When it was smooth I shaped it into egg-sized balls, wrapped them in pieces of caul and threaded them onto a spit. While the mortadelli sizzled over the flame, I took the livers and crumbled them up, added some minced pancetta, some grated pecorino, marjoram, parsley, raisins, some ginger and nutmeg and pepper. I bound it all together with a couple of eggs and made the stuff into balls, smaller than the mortadelli, wrapped them in more caul and set to frying them in melted lardo.
Philip Kazan (Appetite)
It starts with a thwack, the sharp crack of hard plastic against a hot metal surface. When the ladle rolls over, it deposits a pale-yellow puddle of batter onto the griddle. A gentle sizzle, as the back of the ladle sparkles a mixture of eggs, flour, water, and milk across the silver surface. A crepe takes shape. Next comes cabbage, chopped thin- but not too thin- and stacked six inches high, lightly packed so hot air can flow freely and wilt the mountain down to a molehill. Crowning the cabbage comes a flurry of tastes and textures: ivory bean sprouts, golden pebbles of fried tempura batter, a few shakes of salt, and, for an extra umami punch, a drift of dried bonito powder. Finally, three strips of streaky pork belly, just enough to umbrella the cabbage in fat, plus a bit more batter to hold the whole thing together. With two metal spatulas and a gentle rocking of the wrists, the mass is inverted. The pork fat melts on contact, and the cabbage shrinks in the steam trapped under the crepe. Then things get serious. Thin wheat soba noodles, still dripping with hot water, hit the teppan, dancing like garden hoses across its hot surface, absorbing the heat of the griddle until they crisp into a bird's nest to house the cabbage and crepe. An egg with two orange yolks sizzles beside the soba, waiting for its place on top of this magnificent heap. Everything comes together: cabbage and crepe at the base, bean sprouts and pork belly in the center, soba and fried egg parked on top, a geologic construction of carbs and crunch, protein and chew, all framed with the black and white of thickened Worcestershire and a zigzag of mayonnaise. This is okonomiyaki, the second most famous thing that ever happened to Hiroshima.
Matt Goulding (Rice, Noodle, Fish: Deep Travels Through Japan's Food Culture)
I made tourtes of veal, of capons, and of artichokes and cardoon hearts. I slaved over pork belly tortellini and eggs stuffed with their own yolks and raisins, pepper, cinnamon, orange juice, and butter. I made sure the pastry chef was working hard on the pastry twists made with rosewater and currants. Soups of cauliflower, mushrooms, and leeks simmered for the better part of the day.
Crystal King (The Chef's Secret)
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.
Matt Goulding (Rice, Noodle, Fish: Deep Travels Through Japan's Food Culture)
We just watched the egg. At first, it seemed like it'd be okay. But then a crack wiggled its way from the bottom to the top, and the insides took their cue, oozing out with a definitive blurp. "My, my," Pascal said. We watched as the white spread fast and loose, while the bright orange yolk moved with purpose, like a paramecium. "Kinda sexy, no?" he remarked, more to the egg than to me, but I blushed four thousand degrees anyway. Oh. My. God.
Jessica Tom (Food Whore: A Novel of Dining and Deceit)
In the procession of pieces, which Ikegawa changes based on his read of each guest, you find crunch and chew, fat and cartilage, soft, timid tenderness and bursts of outrageous savory intensity. He starts me with the breast, barely touched by the flame, pink in the center, green on top from a smear of wasabi, a single bite buries a lifetime of salmonella hysteria. A quick-cooked skewer of liver balances the soft, melting fattiness of foie with a gentle mineral bite. The tsukune, a string of one-bite orbs made from finely chopped thigh meat, arrives blistered on the outside, studded with pieces of cartilage that give the meatballs a magnificent chew. Chochin, the grilled uterus, comes with a proto-egg attached to the skewer like a rising sun. The combination of snappy meat and molten yolk is the stuff taste memories are made of.
Matt Goulding (Rice, Noodle, Fish: Deep Travels Through Japan's Food Culture)
Tía Fermina whispers the prayers so faintly I can't understand them. After she makes dozens of crosses all over my body, she says it's time to see inside the egg, to understand what's been stewing inside of me. Tía cracks the egg into a glass of water and holds it up to the light.. The waters turns thick and cloudy, and when we looks closer, we see a dot of dark blood in the center of the yolk.
Erika L. Sánchez (I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter)