Quotes About Cooking

I have a pot of brussels sprouts boiling on the stove!

You humans, always eating. I'll make you soup. You can eat it while you keep working. Myrnin set aside his book and walked into the back of the lab. Don't use the same beaker you used for poisons! Claire yelled after him. He waved a pale hand. I mean it!

Eve was still frowning at the pasta like she suspected it was going to do something clever, like try to escape from the pot.

Want me to warm up the sauce?" "Do we do that? I mean, it's in a jar, right? Can't you just dump it over the pasta?" "Well, you can, but it tastes better if you warm it up." "Oh." Eve sighed. "This is complicated. No wonder I never cook.

bread sauce

With cooking, plants and animals became the raw materials for food, not food itself.

If our vision of the way to have better food is to have less processing, more natural food, more home cooking, and more local food, we will cut ourselves off from the most likely hope for better food in the future.

For those who could not afford to hire a cook, restaurants that sold restaurants—"restoring broths

A caprice is handled like a stew, and the pepper is added at the last minute.

There's something mystical about perfect hash browns, something that stirs the soul

He had the raw, rough voice of one who had marinated his larynx in whiskey and slow-cooked it in years of cigarette smoke.

As if this was more than she could imagine, Amiee asked, "What about a stove with more than two burners and an oven that actually works?" "All yours," Steve assured her.

A kitchen that's too clean has no soul. No flavor.

Nobody's going to cook me and eat me, I hope. People don't quite understand, Michael said, and he may have been serious, to be eaten pays a compliment to your power.

She is stirring a pot of leben yogurt, which is heated slowly, carefully, tenderly, and hopefully, layered with butter and onions and heady and rich as a high summer night. She cannot stop stirring because it is a fragile, temperamental sauce, given to breaking and curdling if given its way. So she must wait and stand and stir and stir and stir and look and look.

She is frying onions and working on two dishes at once, chopping eggplant and stirring the leben- a delicate mellow yogurt sauce that needs constant stirring or it will break-

She looks over, still smiling, to Sirine behind the counter, and says, Roasted lamb, rice and pine nuts, tabbouleh salad, apricot juice. Then she blows a kiss. Hanif glances at Sirine. She looks down, quick, a bunch of parsley pinched in her fingertips, rocks the big cleaver through a profusion of green leaves, onions, cracked wheat. Suddenly she remembers the leben and hurries to the big potful of yogurt sauce, which is just on the verge of curdling.

She lifts the lid from the pan of smoked green wheat kernels and dips in a spoon. Here. Taste. He holds the spoon in his mouth for a moment. She knows what he is tasting, how the broth is flavored with pepper and garlic and lustrous, deep smokiness. And try this, she says. Vibrant vegetable greens, garlic, and lemon. And this. Herbal, meaty, vaguely fruity.

And as long as she could cook, she would be loved.

Meals were the daily bane of my existence; not so much the constant work of picking, cleaning, chopping, cooking—though those activities were fairly baneful in themselves—but primarily the never-ending chore of remembering what we had on hand, and balancing the effort required to make it edible against the knowledge of what might spoil if we didn't eat it right away.

by the cook, with a list of

Actually I love asparagus.

I decided to learn how to cook and cook I did. And I ate it all - and everyone else's food too.

As a child I loved to be in the kitchen with my mum and aunties, eavesdropping on the adults.