THE BOOK LOVER'S COOKBOOK
"When I get a little money I buy books; and if any is left I buy food and clothes".
—Desiderius Erasmus
“As God is my witness, I'm never going to be hungry again.”Margaret Mitchell, "Gone with the Wind"
Main and Side Dishes
'We ate roasted chicken, raised out back the previous summer, and tender potatoes brought by train from the Red River Valley, and gravy stirred up from the cracklings. I suppose it was a meal intended to impress, though you don't think of a woman like Roxanna worrying about how her hospitality comes off; she hadn't seemed at all ashamed about the goats. But she went to a lot of trouble for us, who were after all just one small family paying for a night's room and board. During that meal I saw Dad lean back in his chair and smile over and over again, an expression that aggrieved me somehow; Swede looked often at the windows, and I knew she was growing the storm in her mind, abetting it until the world should be slowed and the roads stopped and us buried at some happy length in the warmth and contentment of this house'.
LEIF ENGER, "PEACE LIKE A RIVER"
F. SCOTT FITZGERALD, "THE GREAT GATSBY"
'How careless they had been of food then, what prodigal waste! Rolls, corn muffins, biscuits and waffles, dripping butter, all at one meal. Ham at one end of the table and fried chicken at the other, collards swimming richly in pot liquor iridescent with grease, snap beans in mountains on brightly flowered porcelain, fried squash, stewed okra, carrots in cream sauce thick enough to cut. And three desserts, so everyone might have his choice, chocolate layer cake, vanilla blanc mange and pound cake topped with sweet whipped cream. The memory of those savory meals had the power to bring tears to her eyes as death and war had failed to do, had the power to turn her ever-gnawing stomach from rumbling emptiness to nausea. For the appetite Mammy had always deplored, the healthy appetite of a nineteen-year-old girl, now was increased fourfold by the hard and unremitting labor she had never known before. ow careless they had been of food then, what prodigal waste! Rolls, corn muffins, biscuits and waffles, dripping butter, all at one meal. Ham at one end of the table and fried chicken at the other, collards swimming richly in pot liquor iridescent with grease, snap beans in mountains on brightly flowered porcelain, fried squash, stewed okra, carrots in cream sauce thick enough to cut. And three desserts, so everyone might have his choice, chocolate layer cake, vanilla blanc mange and pound cake topped with sweet whipped cream. The memory of those savory meals had the power to bring tears to her eyes as death and war had failed to do, had the power to turn her ever-gnawing stomach from rumbling emptiness to nausea. For the appetite Mammy had always deplored, the healthy appetite of a nineteen-year-old girl, now was increased fourfold by the hard and unremitting labor she had never known before'.
MARGARET MITCHELL, "GONE WITH THE WIND"
Stuffed Chicken
I had been asked what I would like as my last meal if I was going to die. I had replied, “I don't like to think that far ahead, but if I were going to Mars tomorrow I would like to have hot chicken, a chilled bottle of wine, and a loaf of good bread.” When I went into the darkened house, I was greeted by the aroma of roast chicken. There was a note on the refrigerator that read, “There is hot chicken in the oven, a cold bottle of wine in the fridge and a loaf of good bread on the cutting board. Thank you for the good times.” Now that's the kind of man I wanted to marry and did marry. And if it wasn't for those two damned bad houses, I would still be married to him. had been asked what I would like as my last meal if I was going to die. I had replied, “I don't like to think that far ahead, but if I were going to Mars tomorrow I would like to have hot chicken, a chilled bottle of wine, and a loaf of good bread.” When I went into the darkened house, I was greeted by the aroma of roast chicken. There was a note on the refrigerator that read, “There is hot chicken in the oven, a cold bottle of wine in the fridge and a loaf of good bread on the cutting board. Thank you for the good times.” Now that's the kind of man I wanted to marry and did marry. And if it wasn't for those two damned bad houses, I would still be married to him.
Maya Angelou, “A House Can Hurt, a Home Can Heal,” from 'Even the Stars Look Lonesome'
Oysters
THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER
The Walrus did beseech.
“A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach;
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each.”
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head—
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for this treat;
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat—
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more—
All hopping through the frothy waves
And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
“The time has come,” the Walrus said,
“To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
Of cabbages—and kings—
And why the sea is boiling hot—
And whether pigs have wings.”
“But wait a bit,” the Oysters cried,
“Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!”
“No hurry!” said the Carpenter,
They thanked him much for that.
“A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said,
“Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed—
Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed.”
“But not on us!” the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
“After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!”
“The night is fine,” the Walrus said.
“Do you admire the view?”
“It was so kind of you to come!
And you are so very nice!”
The Carpenter said nothing but
“Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf—
I've had to ask you twice.”
“It seems a shame,” the Walrus said,
“To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!”
The Carpenter said nothing but
“The butter's spread too thick!”
“I weep for you,” the Walrus said:
“I deeply sympathize.”
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
“O, Oysters,” said the Carpenter,
“You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?”
But answer came there none—
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one.
Lewis Carroll, "Through the Looking-Glass"
Chestnuts and Stuffing
“I was looking for chestnuts,” I said. I didn't want to say I went walking just to see the woods, to be outdoors in the fall weather. That wouldn't have sounded right. was looking for chestnuts,” I said. I didn't want to say I went walking just to see the woods, to be outdoors in the fall weather. That wouldn't have sounded right.
“Did you find any?” Hank said.
“A few,” I said. I didn't want Hank to think I went gallivanting around the woods just to be footloose. After all, I was carrying a baby. I didn't want to tell him I had gone dancing around in the woods with the flying leaves, and that I laid on the mountaintop looking into the sky till it felt like I was falling out toward the stars. The best way I could show him how helpful I was was to keep my mouth shut and fix the turkey.
Robert Morgan, "Gap Creek"
Margaret Atwood, "Cat's Eye"
Charles Wallace sat there tucking away turkey and dressing as though it were the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. He was dressed like Charles Wallace; he looked like Charles Wallace; he had the same sandy brown hair, the same face that had not yet lost its baby roundness. Only the eyes were different, for the black was still swallowed up in blue. But it was far more than this that made Meg feel that Charles Wallace was gone, that the little boy in his place was only a copy of Charles Wallace, only a doll.
She fought down a sob. “Where is he?” she demanded of the man with red eyes. “What have you done with him? Where is Charles Wallace?”
“But my dear child, you are hysterical,” the man thought at her. “He is right there, before you, well and happy. Completely well and happy for the first time in his life. And he is finishing his dinner, which you also would be wise to do.”
Madeleine L'Engle, "A Wrinkle in Time"
Amish Food
In addition to the three Fishers I'd met, there was an older man, who did not bother to introduce himself but seemed to know who I was all the same. From his features, I assumed he was Aaron's father; and that he most likely lived in the small apartment attached to the rear of the farmhouse. He bent his head, which caused all the others to bend their heads, a strange kinetic reaction, and began to pray silently over the food. Unsettled—when was the last time I'd said grace?—I waited until they looked up and began to ladle food onto their plates. Katie raised the pitcher of milk and poured some into her glass; then passed it to her right, to me.
I had never been a big fan of milk, but I figured that wasn't the smartest thing to admit on a dairy farm. I poured myself some and handed the pitcher to Aaron Fisher.
The Fishers laughed and talked in their Dialect, helping themselves to food when their plates were empty. Finally, Aaron leaned back in his chair and let out a phenomenal belch. The Fishers laughed and talked in their Dialect, helping themselves to food when their plates were empty. Finally, Aaron leaned back in his chair and let out a phenomenal belch. My eyes widened at the breach of etiquette—but his wife beamed at him, as if that was the grandest compliment he could ever give.
I suddenly saw a string of meals like this one, stretching out for months, with me prominently cast as the outsider. It took me a moment to realize that Aaron was asking me something. In Pennsylvania Dutch.
“The chow chow,” I said in slow, careful English, following his gaze to the particular bowl. “Is that what you want?”
His chin went up a notch. “Ja,” he answered.
I flattened my hands on the table. “In the future, I'd prefer it if you asked me questions in my own language, Mr. Fisher.”
“We don't speak English at the supper table,” Katie answered.
My gaze never left Aaron Fisher's face. “You do now,” I said.
Jodi Picoult, "Plain Truth"
Dumplings
“But, with all of her spooky ways, there wasn't a better cook in the state of Alabama. Even at eleven, they say she could make the most delicious biscuits and gravy, cobbler, fried chicken, turnip greens, and black-eyed peas. And her dumplings were so light they would float in the air and you'd have to catch ‘em to eat ‘em. All the recipes that were used at the café were hers. She taught Idgie and Ruth everything they knew about cooking.”
Fannie Flagg, "Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café"
Coq au Vin
At Jen‘s insistence, Maggie had begun joining them at dinner and once Maggie had even cooked, making coq au vin. “I don‘t think anybody makes this anymore,” she admitted to all of them. “But in my day it was the classy dish, sort of like my mother‘s chicken à la king.” Everybody ate the chicken happily, simply because it was something different. “I had to cheat, of course, with the wine,” she said. “I suppose you can‘t call it coq au vin when you‘re using flat grape soda.” She lowered her voice. “But I did add a little alcohol. Bryce smuggled it in to me. He injected some vodka into oranges that he brought me.”
Olivia Goldsmith, "Pen Pals"
Jim Fergus, "One Thousand White Women"
Chicken
She had stayed for supper. Made supper, even. She had fussed a lot (“Is this what you call a chicken?” “How old is this rosemary?” “Have you no fresh garlic, for god sake?”), but he had thoroughly enjoyed it. He knew she was in a good mood when she bossed him around. (“Get me a sharp knife, no, a clean sharp knife, hand me a bunch of that flour, please, what? Is this all the flour? Don‘t tell me!”) He had loved every minute of it. Fuss, flour on the floor, the smell of oil and butter smoking on the stove. The hiss and sizzle of delicious things hitting a hot frying pan. Ellie exclaiming on the sorry state of his kitchen floor (mopped that very morning) and refusing to touch the dish towels. He had stayed in the kitchen and watched her cook, his hands behind his back, while she frowned and measured and threw things together. Then they had he had stayed for supper. Made supper, even. She had fussed a lot (“Is this what you call a chicken?” “How old is this rosemary?” “Have you no fresh garlic, for god sake?”), but he had thoroughly enjoyed it. He knew she was in a good mood when she bossed him around. (“Get me a sharp knife, no, a clean sharp knife, hand me a bunch of that flour, please, what? Is this all the flour? Don‘t tell me!”) He had loved every minute of it. Fuss, flour on the floor, the smell of oil and butter smoking on the stove. The hiss and sizzle of delicious things hitting a hot frying pan. Ellie exclaiming on the sorry state of his kitchen floor (mopped that very morning) and refusing to touch the dish towels. He had stayed in the kitchen and watched her cook, his hands behind his back, while she frowned and measured and threw things together. Then they had eaten the chicken she had invented (using honey and soy sauce and an ancient bottle of horseradish) and it had been delicious. After supper they had watched a eaten the chicken she had invented (using honey and soy sauce and an ancient bottle of horseradish) and it had been delicious. After supper they had watched a Star Trek rerun sitting on the red velvet sofa side by side (Walter holding his breath) and then she‘d asked him some questions. rerun sitting on the red velvet sofa side by side (Walter holding his breath) and then she‘d asked him some questions.
“Have you gone out at all in the last six months?”
“You mean out? As in with a woman?” He had shaken his head. “Why would I do that?” He had been genuinely bewildered.
Abigail Thomas, “Walter‘s Book” from "Herb‘s Pajamas"
In the meantime, Janey, blissfully unaware of Lupe‘s troubled heart, was reveling in her new-found treasure. She hardly knew where to start. …All she wanted was to be let alone for as long a time as possible to enjoy the feast. At last she decided on her book, and picking it up as reverently as she always did the willow plate, she backed over to a chair and began to read.
Doris Gates, "Blue Willow"
“Well, that‘s good,” Ginelli said. “You were too big, William. I gotta say that, too big. How much you lose?”
“Twenty pounds.”
“Hey! Congratulations! And your heart thanks you, too. Hard to lose weight, isn‘t it?” …
… “It actually wasn‘t hard at all.”
“Well, you come on in to Brothers, William. I‘m gonna fix you my own special. Chicken Neapolitan. It‘ll put all that weight back on in one meal.”
“I might just take you up on that,” Billy said, smiling a little. He could see himself in the mirror on his study wall, and there seemed to be too many teeth in his smile. Too many teeth, too close to the front of his mouth. He stopped smiling.
Stephen King (writing as Richard Bachman), "Thinner"
It has occurred to me that the way a writer acquaints his readers with a character in his story should be no different from the way we come to know someone in ordinary
Jamie Langston Turner, "Some Wildflower in My Heart"
For the party I was making sweet-and-sour chicken, more or less on a dare, out of one of Lou Ann‘s magazines. The folks at Burger Derby should see me now, I thought. I had originally planned to make navy-bean soup, in celebration of Turtle‘s first word, but by the end of the week she had said so many new words I couldn‘t have fit them all in Hungarian goulash. She seemed to have a one-track vocabulary, like Lou Ann‘s hypochondriac mother-in-law, though fortunately Turtle‘s ran to vegetables instead of diseases.
Barbara Kingsolver, "The Bean Trees"
Beef Stroganoff
I open the refrigerator, pull out the steak. I‘m making beef Stroganoff, David‘s favorite. God, that‘s good! he said, last time I made it. he said, last time I made it. he said, last time I made it. You can cook, honey; that you can do. I slice the meat thinly, look out the window at the tree branches swaying in the wind. It‘s supposed to storm tonight. I slice the meat thinly, look out the window at the tree branches swaying in the wind. It‘s supposed to storm tonight. I slice the meat thinly, look out the window at the tree branches swaying in the wind. It‘s supposed to storm tonight. A power outage, and David stays to take care of us, how could he leave?
Elizabeth Berg, "Open House"
But as the rest of the world grew stranger, one thing became increasingly clear. And that was the reason the two of us were here. Why others should suffer we were not shown. As for us, from morning until lights-out, whenever we were not in ranks for roll call, our Bible was the center of an ever-widening circle of help and hope. Like waifs clustered around a blazing fire, we gathered about it, holding out our hearts to its warmth and light. The blacker the night around us grew, the brighter and truer and more beautiful burned the word of God.
Corrie Ten Boom, "The Hiding Place"
Pork
Mark Twain, "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn"
“This is great,” I said about the pork chop, and I wasn‘t sucking up to her. It was the most tender, juicy, flavorful thing I could ever remember putting into my mouth.
“Thanks,” she said, smiling.
She seemed to like the compliment about her cooking more than the one about her house.
“Jody loved them too. She ate two whole chops by herself.”
The door banged open and all three kids came running in. Callie‘s kids were vanilla-skinned with big dark eyes; Esme with blue-black Snow White hair and Zack with a fawn-colored mop.
They skidded to a stop and stood beside each other. Esme leaned into Zack, and he gave They skidded to a stop and stood beside each other. Esme leaned into Zack, and he gave her a two-handed shove. A pink tongue popped out of Esme‘s angel face, and Zack grinned like a soldier who‘s seen too many battles.
“You forgot to close the door,” Callie told them.
“Can we have something to eat?” Esme asked.
“You just had dinner,” Callie said. “Go close the door.”
“We want dessert.”
“We want dessert,” Zack echoed.
“I haven‘t even cleaned up the dishes yet. Maybe later.”
“Did you eat these pork chops?” I asked Jody.
“Yeah,” she said. “I loved them.”
“You hate pork chops.”
“I hate your pork chops. They taste like napkins.”
“It‘s probably just the marinade.” Callie laughed. “It‘s a very simple one. Apple cider, lemon juice, honey, soy sauce. I could give you the recipe.”
Tawni O‘Dell, "Back Roads"
Saltimbocca
Pausing, Michael took a deep swallow of wine. “So,” he continued, “he buys into lawful enterprises, including whatever cash businesses he can get his hands on—caterers, limo services, vending machine operations, parking lots, bars, and restaurants. The illegal money gets siphoned into all these different fronts, which scrupulously report every dime, then fiddle the books to make proceeds of heroin look like they came from, say, a zillion plates of saltimbocca.”
His eyes, Stella realized, sparkled with quiet laughter. Stiffly, she put down her wine. “This place.” place.”
Richard North Patterson, "Dark Lady"
Asian Food
After dinner one stiflingly hot day, 2 July 1943, we were planning next day‘s menu with Cook. Aunt Baba suggested we have Tianjin dumplings instead of rice. Freshly made with chives, ground pork, and spring onions, these dumplings were a great favorite among us children. We were all shouting out ridiculously high numbers as to how many we could eat. Grandmother developed a headache from all the commotion. She went to her room, lit a cigarette and lay down. Aunt Baba sat by her and narrated a story from fter dinner one stiflingly hot day, 2 July 1943, we were planning next day‘s menu with Cook. Aunt Baba suggested we have Tianjin dumplings instead of rice. Freshly made with chives, ground pork, and spring onions, these dumplings were a great favorite among us children. We were all shouting out ridiculously high numbers as to how many we could eat. Grandmother developed a headache from all the commotion.
She went to her room, lit a cigarette and lay down. Aunt Baba sat by her and narrated a story from The Legend of the Monkey King. Even though Grandmother knew many tales from the well-known Chinese classic, she found it relaxing to hear them told again and again by her daughter. Even though Grandmother knew many tales from the well-known Chinese classic, she found it relaxing to hear them told again and again by her daughter.
Adeline Yen Mah, "Falling Leaves: The True Story of an Unwanted Chinese Daughter"
Lila had thought that if they had went through with it, she would feel absorbed by him, and perhaps absolved from her range of discomforts, which, as it happened, was not the case at all. Though Ben kept squeezing her shoulder, running his hand over her messy hair, she was still on her own, still her addled self, looking out the same borrowed car window, and thinking about Suzanne E. Wolfe, Suzanne Hannon, wife, art dealer, fan of orchids and lilies.
When they returned that Saturday night, Lila hadn‘t intended on staying at Ben‘s apartment, but they were both hungry and Ben had a full fridge and felt like cooking. After linguini and pesto, an enormous pot of broccoli, and a bottle of red wine, they started kissing on the couch, and by the time they acknowledged it was happening again, they were skidding, naked, from the living room to the bedroom.
Joanna Hershon, "Swimming"
Crab and Slaw
“I don‘t have much time, and need something easy and light,” I said. don‘t have much time, and need something easy and light,” I said.
A shadow passed over her face as she opened a jar of horseradish. “I‘m afraid I can imagine what you‘ve been doing,” she said. “Been hearing it on the news.” She shook her head. “You must be plumb worn out. I don‘t know how you sleep. Let me tell you what to do for yourself tonight.”
She walked over to a case of chilled blue crabs. Without asking, she selected a pound of meat in a carton.
“Fresh from Tangier Island. Hand-picked it myself, and you tell me if you find even a trace of cartilage or shell. You‘re not eating alone, are you?” she said.
“No.”
“That‘s good to hear.”
She winked at me. I had brought Wesley in here before.
She picked out six jumbo shrimp, peeled and deveined, and wrapped them. Then she set a jar of her homemade cocktail sauce on the counter by the cash register.
“I got a little carried away with the horseradish,” she said, “so it will make your eyes water, but it‘s good.” She began ringing up my purchases. “You sauté the shrimp so quick their butts barely hit the pan, got it? Chill ‘em, and have that as an appetizer. By the way, those and the sauce are on the house.”
“You don‘t need to …”
She waved me off. “As for the crab, honey, listen up. One egg slightly beaten, one-half teaspoon dry mustard, a dash or two of Worcestershire sauce, four unsalted soda crackers, crushed. Chop up an onion, a Vidalia if you‘re still hoarding any from summer. One green pepper, chop that. A teaspoon or two of parsley, salt and pepper to taste.”
“Sounds fabulous,” I gratefully said. “Bev, what would I do without you?”
“Now gently mix all that together and shape it into patties.” She made a motion with her hands. “Sauté in oil over medium heat until lightly browned. Maybe fix him a salad or get some of my slaw,” she said. “And that‘s as much as I would fuss over any man.”
Patricia Cornwell, "Unnatural Exposure"
Shrimp
Ach, but I do love my gerruls. I was thinking in a Scottish brogue, because I‘d just heard this guy interviewed on NPR, Lonnie McSomething. He wrote a profane Glaswegian coming-of-age novel, big deal, and now they‘re treating him like the Second Coming. No jealousy here, though, no siree. I flicked off the radio with the side of my wrist and started on another pile of shrimp. I was thinking in a Scottish brogue, because I‘d just heard this guy interviewed on NPR, Lonnie McSomething. He wrote a profane Glaswegian coming-of-age novel, big deal, and now they‘re treating him like the Second Coming. No jealousy here, though, no siree. I flicked off the radio with the side of my wrist and started on another pile of shrimp.
Anyway, I go to at least as much trouble when it‘s my turn for the women‘s group as I do for dinner parties with couples. And a hell of a lot more trouble than I go to for individual guys, who are lucky to get a cup of coffee in the morning before I push them out the door. Politely—I‘m always polite. And I enjoy cooking for my gerruls. Three of us are in an unspoken competition for second best chef (Isabel has a lock on first), and tonight‘s curried shrimp with snow peas and apples is a tough contender. Plus I have made a cake. Not from scratch—what am I? June Cleaver?—but I did add red food coloring to the white frosting and write in big letters, over an extremely artistic rendering of an hourglass, “Two Years & Counting—You Go Girl!” That‘s how long it‘s been, two years this month, since Isabel found the lump in her breast. They say you can‘t really start to relax until five years have passed, but this is still an anniversary, and by God, we‘re celebrating.
Patricia Gaffney, "The Saving Graces"
Crab and Onions
“I‘ve done it again,” she said, sniffing. “I can never get it right. I sat down at my drawing table for just one minute. One minute! An hour later, I looked up, and the rice had boiled over and the roast had burned, and well, there you have it.”
”Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might!” he quoted cheerfully from Ecclesiastes. “You must have been doing something you liked.”
She sighed. “I was drawing moles.”
Moles again! That explains it, thought her caller. “Look here,” he said, “if you don‘t mind, let me experiment with this.” He made a broad gesture toward the ruined dinner.
“It will take a miracle,” she said flatly.
“I‘d be very open to a good miracle. Where‘s your carving knife?”
He drew the sharp knife across the end of the roast, and a thick slice peeled away neatly. “Well now! Just the way I like it. Overdone on the outside and rare in the middle.” He carved a sliver and handed it to his hostess on the point of the blade. “See what you think.”
Cynthia eyed it suspiciously, then did as he suggested. “Delicious!” she declared with feeling. “It is a miracle!”
He lifted the lid on the pot that had boiled over on the burner, and stirred the contents with a wooden spoon. “It‘s stuck on the bottom, but I think it‘s just right. Yes, indeed. Wild rice. A favorite!”
“You really are infernally kind,” she said tartly.
“Not kind. Famished. I ran today and missed lunch entirely.”
“Well,” she said, the color coming back into her cheeks, “I did make a crab-meat casse role for the first course. That worked! And there are glazed onions with rosemary and honey that appear edible.” She took two fragrant, steaming dishes out of the oven and set them on the counter.
“I hear you like a drop of sherry now and then,” she said, and poured from a bottle with a distinguished label. She handed him a glass, and poured one for herself.
“You‘ve prepared a grand feast!” exclaimed her guest.
“Cheers!” said his relieved hostess.
Jan Karon, "At Home in Mitford"
Fish
I ran the little fish through cornmeal and flour, and heated some oil in the skillet. The heads were off, the bodies slit and cleaned out, showing how elegantly simple their design was, the body a simple bag for the innards. You don‘t think of the human body as being designed in that way, but perhaps, I realized, it is. And what I think of as Lucille, the visible person, may be only a container—only a bag—for another girl. One nobody had ever seen, who maybe had a different name. “Ellicul,” maybe. ran the little fish through cornmeal and flour, and heated some oil in the skillet. The heads were off, the bodies slit and cleaned out, showing how elegantly simple their design was, the body a simple bag for the innards. You don‘t think of the human body as being designed in that way, but perhaps, I realized, it is. And what I think of as Lucille, the visible person, may be only a container—only a bag—for another girl. One nobody had ever seen, who maybe had a different name. “Ellicul,” maybe.
Josephine Humphreys, "Rich in Love"
I was nonplused—not by the allusion, for I identified it instantly, but by the unprecedented phenomenon of Thomas‘ having made reference to a work of literature. Surely this distinctive quotation from I was nonplused—not by the allusion, for I identified it instantly, but by the unprecedented phenomenon of Thomas‘ having made reference to a work of literature. Surely this distinctive quotation from David Copperfield was not the sort of thing one could utter accidentally. was not the sort of thing one could utter accidentally.
He laughed heartily at my puzzled silence and said, “I sure hope it‘s not gonna take as long for you to answer me as it did for Peggotty to answer poor old Barkis.” He went on to explain that his great-aunt Prissy, who had lived with his family for a time when he was a boy, had been a devoted admirer of Charles Dickens and over the course of several months had read aloud all sixty-four chapters of He laughed heartily at my puzzled silence and said, “I sure hope it‘s not gonna take as long for you to answer me as it did for Peggotty to answer poor old Barkis.” He went on to explain that his great-aunt Prissy, who had lived with his family for a time when he was a boy, had been a devoted admirer of Charles Dickens and over the course of several months had read aloud all sixty-four chapters of David Copperfield at the kitchen table after supper, regardless of whether anyone stayed to listen on a given evening. I believe it to be the only novel that Thomas is familiar with.
If a person were limited to a single choice, however, he could do worse than to choose a work by Dickens, an author whom I deeply respect in spite of his penchant for sentimentality. at the kitchen table after supper, regardless of whether anyone stayed to listen on a given evening. I believe it to be the only novel that Thomas is familiar with. If a person were limited to a single choice, however, he could do worse than to choose a work by Dickens, an author whom I deeply respect in spite of his penchant for sentimentality.
Jamie Langston Turner, "Some Wildflower in My Heart"
Persian Food
The gentleman from the San Mateo County Tax Office gave me a map for finding this home to be auctioned. He informed me to arrive by nine o‘clock in the morning and be prepared to offer a ten-thousand-dollar deposit should I have a wish to purchase the property. He also to me said it was located upon a hill in Corona and if there were a widow‘s walk on the roof, you would see over the neighbor‘s homes to the Pacific Ocean below. I had not heard before this term “widow‘s walk,” and so after traveling to the bank for a certified check of ten thousand dollars, I drove home to the high-rise and eventually last evening, after a dinner with Esmail and Naderah where I revealed nothing, a dinner of obgoosht and rice and yogurt with cucumber followed by tea, I dismissed my son from the sofreh upon the floor where we eat barefoot and I searched for “widow‘s walk” in our Persian-English dictionary.
I found only “widow,” a word in Farsi I know quite well enough, and I felt a sadness come to me because this did not seem a good sign for the purchase of a home.
Andre Dubus III, "House of Sand and Fog"
Tamales
Soon she heard Pedro getting the carriage ready. Strange that he was doing that so early. But she saw from the sunlight that it was already late, that packing up some of Gertrudis‘ past along with her clothes, had taken longer than she imagined. It hadn‘t been easy to fit into the suitcase the day the three of them made their First Communion. The veil, the prayerbook, the photo taken outside the church all fit in pretty well, but not the taste of the tamales and atole Nacha had made, which they had eaten afterward with their friends and families. The little colored apricot pits had gone in, but not their laughter when they played with them in the schoolyard, nor Jovita their teacher, the swing, the smell of her bedroom or of freshly whipped chocolate. Luckily, Mama Elena‘s scoldings and spankings hadn‘t fit in either; Tita had slammed the suitcase shut before they could sneak in.
Laura Esquivel, "Like Water for Chocolate"
The return to the kitchen was not easy. I wanted my daughter to know her past, to eat what I had eaten in my childhood; however, I quickly realized that I no longer remembered my family‘s recipes …I forced myself to try and remember a recipe on my own. And that is how I discovered, as I had already known in my childhood, that it was possible to hear voices in the kitchen.
Laura Esquivel, "Between Two Fires"
Spinach
Spinach lasagna, King is making for me, a grand Sunday luncheon, and I‘m bringing the garlic bread. I spent the day attempting to make it from scratch, but now that it‘s out of the oven, I regret the time I spent doing it. It looks awful. I break a piece off the end, taste it. Well, if ever I think about baking bread for a living, I‘ll remember this. I dump the loaf into the garbage and head for Franco‘s Market, home of Pepperidge Farm.
When I arrive at King‘s, he ushers me in with a flourish, bending low at the waist and sweeping a dish towel through the air. He is wearing an apron and, when he stands up straight again, I see that he has drawn on a thin mustache. I smile, reach out to touch it, but he holds his hand up protectively. “Don‘t mess it up,” he says. “It took me a long time to get it so realistic-looking.”
His kitchen table has been covered with a red-and-white-checked tablecloth; there are bread sticks in a glass at the center of the table, an antipasto platter, a candle stuck into a Chianti bottle. “Well, this is wonderful,” I say, laughing.
“Thank you. Sit down. Would you like some wine?”
In the afternoon? Well, why not? I nod, pull my chair in close to the table, hold up my glass. He fills it halfway with red wine; then, when I don‘t put the glass down, he fills it to the top. This is my favorite restaurant.
Elizabeth Berg, "Open House"
Zucchini
The past isn‘t quaint while you‘re in it. Only at a safe distance, later, when you can see it as décor, not as the shape your life‘s been squeezed into.
They have Elvis Presley zucchini molds now: you clamp them around your zucchini while it‘s young, and as it grows it‘s deformed into the shape of Elvis Presley‘s head. Is this why he sang? To become a zucchini? Vegetarianism and reincarnation are in the air, but that‘s taking it too far. I‘d rather come back as a sow bug, myself; or a stir-fried shrimp. Though I suppose the whole idea‘s more lenient than Hell.
Margaret Atwood, "Cat‘s Eye"
I had forgotten about the warm way youngsters respond to books that touch them until I sat down and laughed and wept over every page of had forgotten about the warm way youngsters respond to books that touch them until I sat down and laughed and wept over every page of had forgotten about the warm way youngsters respond to books that touch them until I sat down and laughed and wept over every page of Dear Laura. It reminded me of the meaning books can bring to children‘s lives, how a special book may act as a rudder to steer them, fostering hope and understanding. It reminded me of the meaning books can bring to children‘s lives, how a special book may act as a rudder to steer them, fostering hope and understanding.
Mary Warren
Macaroni and Cheese
The neighborhood must have learned by now that Sarah had left him. People started telephoning on ordinary weeknights and inviting him to take “potluck” with them. Macon thought at first they meant one of those arrangements where everybody brings a different pot of something and if you‘re lucky you end up with a balanced meal. He arrived at Bob and Sue Carney‘s with a bowl of macaroni and cheese. Since Sue was serving spaghetti, he didn‘t feel he‘d been all that lucky. She set his macaroni at one end of the table and no one ate it but Delilah, the three-year-old. She had several helpings, though.
Anne Tyler, "The Accidental Tourist"
“Start in to eat, Tenente.”
“No,” I said. “Put it on the floor. We‘ll all eat.”
“There are no forks.”
“What the hell,” I said in English.
I cut the cheese into pieces and laid them on the macaroni.
“Sit down to it,” I said. They sat down and waited. I put thumb and fingers into the macaroni and lifted. A mass loosened.
“Lift it high, Tenente.”
I lifted it to arm‘s length and the strands cleared. I lowered it into the mouth, sucked and snapped in the ends, and chewed, then took a bite of cheese, chewed, and then a drink of the wine.
Ernest Hemingway, "A Farewell to Arms"
Soufflé
Tressilian went round with the soufflé. It struck him, now that his interest in the ladies‘ toilets and his misgivings over Walter‘s deficiencies were a thing of the past, that everyone was very silent to-night. At least, not exactly silent—Mr. Harry was talking enough for twenty—no, not Mr. Harry, the South African gentleman. And the others were talking too, but only, as it were, in spasms. There was something a little—queer about them.
Agatha Christie, "A Holiday for Murder"
Alice Hammond‘s Laws of the Kitchen:
Soufflés rise and cream whips only for the family and for guests you didn‘t really want to invite anyway.
The rotten egg will be the one you break into the cake batter.
Any cooking utensil placed in the dishwasher will be needed immediately thereafter forsomething else; any measuring utensil used for liquid ingredients will be needed immediately thereafter for dry ingredients.
Time spent consuming a meal is in inverse proportion to time spent preparing it.
Whatever it is, somebody will have had it for lunch.
Arthur Bloch, "The Complete Murphy‘s Law: A Definitive Collection"
Leeks
There is a white oval dish of braised leeks tossed in crème fraîche, spritzed with vodka, bubbling, golden under a crust of Emmenthaler and Parmesan. I don‘t know how to say “leek” in Italian, and so I have to get up to find my dictionary. “Ah, here is a white oval dish of braised leeks tossed in crème fraîche, spritzed with vodka, bubbling, golden under a crust of Emmenthaler and Parmesan. I don‘t know how to say “leek” in Italian, and so I have to get up to find my dictionary. “Ah, porri,” he says. “I don‘t like ,” he says. “I don‘t like porri.” I quickly rifle the pages again, pretending to have made an error.
“No, they‘re not “No, they‘re not porri; these are these are these are scalogni,” I lie to the stranger.
“I‘ve never tasted them,” he says, taking a bite. As it turns out, the stranger very much likes leeks, as long as they are called shallots.
Marlena de Blasi, "A Thousand Days in Venice"
Novalee looked around her at a room filled with books. Books stacked in corners, standing on her dresser, crammed into her headboard, pushed into a bookcase. And in the library, Forney‘s library, there were more. More books … more stories … more poems. And suddenly, Novalee knew—knew what she hadn‘t known before. She wasn‘t who she had been. She would never again be who she was before.
Billie Letts, "Where the Heart Is"
Rice
And again the harvests were good and Wang Lung gathered silver from the selling of his produce and again he hid it in the wall. But the rice he reaped from the land of the Hwangs brought him twice as much as that from his own rice land. The earth of that piece was wet and rich and the rice grew on it as weeds grow where they are not wanted. And everyone knew now that Wang Lung owned this land and in his village there was talk of making him the head.
Pearl Buck, "The Good Earth"
Squash
Lousia May Alcott (as T. Tupman of “The Pickwick Portfolio,”) "Little Women"
In Grandma‘s nest of flesh and flab and ancient sweat, I learned to read for myself, I now believe, or at least I imagine it as the locale where the black hieroglyphs on the page, meaningless scribbles until the mind‘s dimensions expand, finally opened like a flower, and the frivolous, seductive illustrations shrank into the background.
Shirley Abbott, "The Bookmaker‘s Daughter"
Potatoes
Could she actually eat the food from the plate? Only starvation made Addie brave enough to drop her hands from covering her eyes. Slowly and cautiously, she eased upward into a sitting position. She saw that the girl held a second dinner plate on her own lap and was chewing with enthusiasm. The girl swallowed as Addie watched.
“Brought you a fork,” Hillary said, moments later. She held out napkin-wrapped silverware. Addie gingerly reached out, took the fork, spoon and knife. When she saw the girl look down, she eagerly grabbed a piece of meat with her fork. Her stomach growled as she lifted the fork to her lips. But then the meat touched her tongue. So delicious. Addie closed her eyes in ecstasy. When she opened them a moment later, the girl was staring at her.
“Good, isn‘t it?” the girl said. “Mom‘s a good cook.”
Still staring into Hillary‘s brown eyes, Addie cautiously dipped her fork again. The meat was gone in three bites. The potatoes were soft, buttery and comforting. Her stomach felt Still staring into Hillary‘s brown eyes, Addie cautiously dipped her fork again. The meat was gone in three bites. The potatoes were soft, buttery and comforting. Her stomach felt gloriously full. But not too full for the carrots—sweet, buttery and delicious lumps. She fought to savor each one, but they were gone before she knew it. She was startled when the girl took her plate from her and placed it on top of her own.
Carolyn Campbell, "Reunited: True Stories of Long Lost Siblings Who Find Each Other Again"
Tomato Pie
“Tomato pie.”
Lillian had given me the recipe and I followed it to a T. Lillian had given me the recipe and I followed it to a T. Four to five tomatoes, blanched for easy removal of the skins. Three quarters of a cup a mayonnaise (feel free to use light but not fat-free). Pillsbury refrigerated pie crusts (bake the bottom crust for ten minutes in a moderate oven, otherwise you‘ll have a juicy mess). As much garlic as pleases you (Nick, as you must know by now, loves garlic). At least one and a quarter cup cheese (I use feta). Plus fresh basil. Put it all together and bake at three hundred and fifty degrees for about thirty minutes.
I served it with a green salad and sweet tea. I watched out of the corner of my eye as Nick balanced a bite-sized morsel on his fork, lifted it to his lips, and discreetly sniffed. His face betrayed neither surprise nor disgust. Having gotten this far—even if the savory smell had offended him—he had little choice but to go ahead and eat. He popped it in his mouth and chewed tentatively but within a few seconds his eyes widened gratefully and his face relaxed in that way men have—you know, when they are suddenly and unexpectedly content (I have noticed that this phenomenon almost always revolves around food).
“This is really good!” he said.
“Thank you,” I said, ignoring the note of amazement in his voice.
That night, he chewed heartily. He ate two more pieces and I wrapped up what was left and handed it to him as he walked out the door. As always, I followed him onto the porch to see him off and, also as always, he kissed me deeply. People accused us of still behaving like newlyweds. I considered that a compliment.
Connie May Fowler, "Remembering Blue"
Meat Pies
For the next few years, on balmy spring days, blistering summer noons, and cold, wet, and wintery middays, Annie never disappointed her customers, who could count on seeing the tall, brown-skin woman bent over her brazier, carefully turning the meat pies. When she felt certain that the workers had become dependent on her, she built a stall between the two hives of industry and let the men run to her for their lunchtime provisions.
She had indeed stepped from the road which seemed to have been chosen for her and cut herself a brand-new path. In years that stall became a store where customers could buy cheese, meal, syrup, cookies, candy, writing tablets, pickles, canned goods, fresh fruit, soft drinks, coal, oil, and leather soles for worn-out shoes.
Each of us has the right and the responsibility to assess the roads which lie ahead, and those over which we have traveled, and if the future road looms ominous or unpromising, and the roads back uninviting, then we need to gather our resolve and, carrying only the Each of us has the right and the responsibility to assess the roads which lie ahead, and those over which we have traveled, and if the future road looms ominous or unpromising, and the roads back uninviting, then we need to gather our resolve and, carrying only the necessary baggage, step off that road into another direction. If the new choice is also unpalatable, without embarrassment, we must be ready to change that as well.
Maya Angelou, “New Directions” from "Wouldn‘t Take Nothing for My Journey Now"
Shepherd‘s Pie
124 lbs., alcohol units 3, cigarettes 10, calories 2465 (but mainly chocolate).
Hurray. Whole new positive perspective on birthday. Have been talking to Jude about book she has been reading about festivals and rites of passage in primitive cultures and am feeling happy and serene.
Realize it is shallow and wrong to feel that flat is too small to entertain nineteen, and Realize it is shallow and wrong to feel that flat is too small to entertain nineteen, and that cannot be arsed to spend birthday cooking and would rather dress up and be taken to posh restaurant by sex-god with enormous gold credit card. Instead am going to think of my friends as a huge, warm, African, or possibly Turkish family.
Our culture is too obsessed with outward appearance, age, and status. Love is what matters. These nineteen people are my friends; they want to be welcomed into my home to celebrate with affection and simple homey fare—not to judge. Am going to cook shepherd‘s pie for them all—British Home Cooking. It will be a marvelous, warm, Third-World-style ethnic family party.
Helen Fielding, "Bridget Jone‘s Diary"
Empanadas
Eliza organized a business in empanadas, delicious meat pies, which she sold at the price of gold, first to Chileans and then to North Americans, who quickly became addicted to them. She had begun making them with beef, when she was able to buy it from the Mexican ranchers who drove cattle from Sonora, but since that meat was often scarce she experimented with venison, hare, wild geese, turtle, salmon, and even bear. Her faithful customers gratefully ate them all, because the alternatives were canned beans and salt pork, the unvarying diet of the miners.
Isabel Allende, "Daughter of Fortune"
Meatloaf
Mom‘s café at the four-way stop in Salina, Utah, is high on my list of great places to eat. Mom‘s advertises THE BEST IN HOMEMADE PIES, SCONES, SOUP, AND MUCH, MUCH MORE! Mom‘s specializes in liver and onions, chicken-fried steak, deep-fried chicken, “real” french fries, and “real” mashed potatoes. But Mom‘s doesn‘t serve meatloaf. I called them long-distance to check my facts. The lady who answered the phone was a little surprised that I asked. “Don‘t you know nothing? Meatloaf is something you eat at home.”
It‘s true. Meatloaf is mostly homemade. Mostly it‘s made by real moms, by hand. Constructed out of what‘s around. Some hamburger that may be going bad if it isn‘t used soon— sprouting potatoes, rubbery carrots, onions, salt, pepper, steak sauce, baking drippings, etcetera. I say “etcetera” because the list of what‘s possible is too long to print. Then there‘s the filler—meatloaf expander. Bread crumbs, corn flakes, Rice Krispies, oatmeal, or what-ever—even dirt would work, I guess. And some egg to hold the whole thing together. Then it has to be mushed around by hand, kneaded into a loaf, and put into that family museum piece, the meatloaf pan. Into the oven to bake. Served hot with gravy, mashed potatoes, and Wonder bread. Yes. Yes!
But don‘t eat it all. Never eat all the meatloaf when it‘s fresh. Put about a third of it away in the back of the fridge and forget about it. This is the best part. The part you are going to eat about 2:00 A.M. some dark, rainy night when you need sustaining. No health department would allow such a thing to be served in a public restaurant. But nothing‘s better for you. It‘s a matter of mental health. I‘ve never heard anybody say he was depressed by eating a cold meatloaf sandwich.
Robert Fulghum, "Uh-Oh"
Meatballs
We ate in the kitchen before we started. Aymo had a basin of spaghetti with onions and tinned meat chopped up in it. We sat around the table and drank two bottles of the wine that had been left in the cellar of the villa. It was dark outside and still raining. Piani sat at the table very sleepy.
“I like a retreat better than an advance,” Bonello said. “On a retreat we drink barbera.”
“We drink it now. To-morrow maybe we drink rainwater,” Aymo said.
“To-morrow we‘ll be in Udine. We‘ll drink champagne. That‘s where the slackers live. Wake up, Piani! We‘ll drink champagne to-morrow in Udine!”
“I‘m awake,” Piani said. He filled his plate with the spaghetti and meat. “Couldn‘t you find tomato sauce, Barto?”
“There wasn‘t any,” Aymo said.
Ernest Hemingway, "A Farewell to Arms"
Pasta
“It smells good,” he said.
“What, me or the basil?”
“Both.”
“You know, in ancient times they used basil to embalm the dead.”
“Mummies, you mean?”
“Daddies too. It prevents mortification of the flesh.”
“I thought that was about banishing lust.”
“It does that too, so don‘t eat too much.”
Nicholas Evans, "The Horse Whisperer"
Noodles with Peppery Meat Sauce
“Now that you‘re safely here,” Martin said, “let‘s all three have a beer before I take you out to dinner.”
“Not me,” Byron answered, “Chinese girls don‘t drink beer. What she needs is nice cup boiling water on cold night like this. Then big bowl noodles with lots of peppery meat sauce. I fix right this minute.”
“Hot water?” Martin exclaimed, wrinkling his nose. “She‘s not an old lady from Chinatown like my mother! What she needs is an ice-cold beer. She doesn‘t want any noodles. I just told you we‘re going out to dinner.”
Soon I had a cup of hot water and a cold beer placed in front of me, alternately sipping both.
Adeline Yen Mah, "Falling Leaves: The True Story of an Unwanted Chinese Daughter"
Baked Potatoes
He thought back on years and years of winter evenings: the kitchen windows black outside, the corners furry with gathering darkness, the four of them seated at the chipped enamel table meticulously filling scooped out potato skins with butter. You let the butter melt in the skins while you mashed and seasoned the floury insides; the skins were saved till last. It was almost a ritual. He recalled once, during one of their mother‘s longer absences, her friend Eliza had served them what she called potato boats—restuffed, not a bit like the genuine article. The children, with pinched, fastidious expressions, had emptied the stuffing and proceeded as usual with the skins, pretending to overlook her mistake. , was the way Macon put it to himself. He thought back on years and years of winter evenings: the kitchen windows black outside, the corners furry with gathering darkness, the four of them seated at the chipped enamel table meticulously filling scooped out potato skins with butter.
You let the butter melt in the skins while you mashed and seasoned the floury insides; the skins were saved till last. It was almost a ritual. He recalled once, during one of their mother‘s longer absences, her friend Eliza had served them what she called potato boats—restuffed, not a bit like the genuine article. The children, with pinched, fastidious expressions, had emptied the stuffing and proceeded as usual with the skins, pretending to overlook her mistake. The pepper should be freshly ground. Paprika was acceptable, but only if it was American. Hungarian paprika had too distinctive a taste. Personally, Macon could do without paprika altogether.
Anne Tyler, "The Accidental Tourist"
Corn
Smilow‘s next question drew Alex‘s attention back to him. Hammond exhaled without making it obvious that he‘d been holding his breath.
“What time did you arrive at Hilton Head?”
“That was the beauty of the day. I had no plans. I wasn‘t on a schedule. I wasn‘t watching the clock, and I didn‘t take a direct route, so I don‘t remember what time it was when I actually got there.”
“Approximately.”
“Approximately …nine o‘clock.”
At approximately nine o‘clock, they were eating corn on the cob that had left her lips greasy with melted butter. They laughed over how messy it was, and elected to forget their manners and shamelessly lick their fingers.
Sandra Brown, "The Alibi"
Fried Green Tomatoes
(Whistle Stop, Alabama‘s Weekly Bulletin), June 12, 1929
CAFÉ OPENS
The Whistle Stop Café opened up last week, right next door to me at the post office, and owners Idgie Threadgoode and Ruth Jamison said business has been good ever since. Idgie says that for people who know her not to worry about being poisoned, she is not cooking. All the cooking is being done by two colored women, Sipsey and Onzell, and the barbecue is being cooked by Big George, who is Onzell‘s husband.
If there is anybody that has not been there yet, Idgie says that the breakfast hours are from 5:30–7:30, and you can get eggs, grits, biscuits, bacon, sausage, ham and red-eye gravy, and coffee for 25¢.
For lunch and supper you can have: fried chicken; pork chops and gravy; catfish; chicken and dumplings; or a barbecue plate; and your choice of three vegetables, biscuits or corn bread, and your drink and dessert—for 35¢.
She said the vegetables are: creamed corn; fried green tomatoes; fried okra; collard or turnip greens; black-eyed peas; candied yams; butter beans or lima beans.
And pie for dessert.
My other half, Wilbur, and I ate there the other night, and it was so good he says he might never eat at home again. Ha. Ha. I wish this were true. I spend all my time cooking for the big lug, and still can‘t keep him filled up. By the way, Idgie says that one of her hens laid an egg with a ten-dollar bill in it.
…Dot Weems …
Fannie Flagg, "Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café"
Grilled Cheese Sandwiches
I stood at the long tiled kitchen counter, brushing olive oil on thick oatmeal bread; I spread the other side with honey mustard, layered on cheddar cheese, tomato slices, and sautéed Canadian bacon, placed a slice of oatmeal bread on top, put the two sandwiches in a cast-iron skillet sizzling with butter. Mrs. Gladstone leaned against the opposite wall, watching me. Never miss a good opportunity to shut up, Harry Bender had said. I kept quiet, flipped the sandwiches when they got perfectly browned on one side as Mrs. Gladstone cleared her old voice. We were standing there, as different as two human beings on this earth could be, and yet we were connected. stood at the long tiled kitchen counter, brushing olive oil on thick oatmeal bread; I spread the other side with honey mustard, layered on cheddar cheese, tomato slices, and sautéed Canadian bacon, placed a slice of oatmeal bread on top, put the two sandwiches in a cast-iron skillet sizzling with butter.
Mrs. Gladstone leaned against the opposite wall, watching me. Never miss a good opportunity to shut up, Harry Bender had said. I kept quiet, flipped the sandwiches when they got perfectly browned on one side as Mrs. Gladstone cleared her old voice. We were standing there, as different as two human beings on this earth could be, and yet we were connected.
I put the sandwiches on two plates, cut them at an angle to show off, put them on the round glass kitchen table by the window that overlooked the rock garden. Our kitchen table at home overlooked the fire escape.
Mrs. Gladstone came to the table slowly. She‘d been moving slower since Harry Bender died. We all had. Grieving sucks energy from a person‘s core. She took a bite of the sandwich; her face lit up.
“Superb.”
I tried mine. It was, too.
Joan Bauer, "Rules of the Road"
Corncakes
The dawn came quickly now, a wash, a glow, a lightness, and then an explosion of fire as the sun arose out of the Gulf. Kino looked down to cover his eyes from the glare. He could hear the pat of the corncakes in the house and the rich smell of them on the cooking plate.…
Kino squatted by the fire pit and rolled a hot corncake and dipped it in sauce and ate it. And he drank a little pulque and that was breakfast. That was the only breakfast he had ever known outside of feast days and one incredible fiesta on cookies that had nearly killed him. When Kino had finished, Juana came back to the fire and ate her breakfast. They had spoken once, but there is not need for speech if it is only a habit anyway. Kino sighed with sat-isfaction—and that was conversation.
John Steinbeck, "The Pearl"
Mackerel
“I am sixty-four years old, Madeline. I sleep badly. I drink rather too well. The machine begins to run down. I ask myself whether it was worthwhile, whether the making of money has made me happy. I ask myself these things more and more often.” He glanced at the oven. The timer was on zero. “Madeline, I think your fish are cooked.” am sixty-four years old, Madeline. I sleep badly. I drink rather too well. The machine begins to run down. I ask myself whether it was worthwhile, whether the making of money has made me happy. I ask myself these things more and more often.” He glanced at the oven. The timer was on zero. “Madeline, I think your fish are cooked.”
Using the gloves, he brought the mackerel out of the oven. He unwrapped them from the foil and poured the rest of the marinade over them. It smelled as I had imagined, sweet and hot and delicious. “I‘ll leave you to enjoy your dinner in peace, heh.” He sighed the atrically. “I usually eat at my hotel, you know. I can choose any table I like, any dish from the menu. But my appetite—” He patted his stomach ruefully. “My appetite isn‘t what it once was. Perhaps the sight of all those empty tables—”
I still don‘t know why I asked him. Perhaps because no Devinnois ever refuses to offer hospitality. Perhaps because his words had struck a chord. “Why not eat with us?” I suggested impulsively. “There‘s enough to go around.”
But Brismand laughed suddenly and hugely, his belly shaking with his giant mirth. I felt my cheeks redden, knowing I had been manipulated into showing sympathy where none was needed, and that my gesture had amused him.
“Thank you, Mado,” he said at last, wiping tears from his eyes with the corner of his handkerchief. “What a kind invitation. But I must be on my way, heh? Today I have other fish to fry.”
Joanne Harris, "Coastliners"
Chili
One afternoon Eli came back from the lab for a few hours to eat—he had to return later to watch some experimental results. It was my night off, so I was in the kitchen, cooking. Eli helped me chop green peppers and celery and onions for chili. After only a few minutes, we were weeping from the pungent fumes. We began to invent reasons we would offer if someone came in and asked us what was wrong: we had discovered we were the wrong zodiacal signs for each other; we had discovered that worker bees could not have sex.
Sue Miller, "While I Was Gone"
Borscht
I could imagine her licking her index finger and paging through some magazine article called “Toasty Winter Family Pleasers,” trying to find something to do with all that cabbage I kept bringing home from Mattie‘s. I fished out a pink potato and mushed it up in Turtle‘s bowl.
Barbara Kingsolver, "The Bean Trees"
Gazpacho
They were having dinner with Rosemary. Tonight it was not a party, there were just the three of them. Ria knew what would be served: a chilled soup, grilled fish, and salad. Fruit and cheese afterward, served by the big picture window that looked out onto the large, well-lit garden.
Maeve Binchy, "Tara Road"
Beef Stew
The beef stew was excellent, as Johanna‘s cooking always was, but Mr. McCauley found he could not swallow it. He disregarded the instruction about the lid and left the pot sitting open on the stove and did not even turn off the burner until the water in the bottom pot boiled away and he was alerted by a smell of smoking metal.
This was the smell of treachery.
Alice Munro, “Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage”
” She smiled up at the children. “Look,” she said, “you little fellas go an‘ get you each a flat stick an‘ I‘ll put what‘s lef‘ for you. But they ain‘t to be no fightin‘.” The group broke up with a deadly, silent swiftness. Children ran to find sticks, they ran to their own tents and brought spoons. Before Ma had finished with the plates they were back, silent and wolfish. Ma shook her head. “I dunno what to do. I can‘t rob the fambly. I got to feed the fambly. Ruthie, Winfiel‘, Al,” she cried fiercely. “Take your plates. Hurry up. Git in the tent quick.” She looked apologetically at the waiting children. “There ain‘t enough,” she said humbly. “I‘m a-gonna set this here kettle out, an‘ you‘ll all get a little tas‘, but it ain‘t gonna do you no good.” She faltered, “I can‘t he‘p it. Can‘t keep it from you.” She lifted the pot and set it down on the ground. “Now wait. It‘s too hot,” she said, and she went into the tent quickly so she would not see.
John Steinbeck, "The Grapes of Wrath"
Gruel
The master was a fat, healthy man; but he turned very pale. He gazed in stupefied astonishment on the small rebel for some seconds, and then clung for support to the copper. The assistants were paralysed with wonder; the boys with fear.
“What!” said the master at length, in a faint voice.
“Please, sir,” replied Oliver, “I want some more.”
The master aimed a blow at Oliver‘s head with the ladle; pinioned him in his arms; and shrieked aloud for the beadle.
The board were sitting in solemn conclave, when Mr. Bumble rushed into the room in great excitement, and addressing the gentleman in the high chair, said, “Mr. Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir! Oliver Twist has asked for more!”
There was a general start. Horror was depicted on every countenance.
“For “For more!” said Mr. Limbkins. “Compose yourself, Bumble, and answer me distinctly.
Do I understand that he asked for more, after he had eaten the supper allowed by the dietary?”
“He did, sir,” replied Bumble.
“That boy will be hung,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. “I know that boy will be hung.”
Charles Dickens, "Oliver Twist"
Kartoffel Suppe
She led me to a table near the side door and motioned for me to sit. She did not introduce me to anyone, and no one approached me. But I knew they were watching. I could feel their eyes. Their eyes were bullets.
In a few moments Nora Dowling returned with a bowl of soup. “Kartoffel suppe,” she said.
“Thank you.”
She nodded once and left. Her voice boomed instructions across the kitchen. People ducked to their work.
I sipped the soup. It was delicious. I did not know what I sipped the soup. It was delicious. I did not know what kartoffel suppe was and I wondered if my mother, who was a renowned cook in our community, would like it. I thought she would. I was hungry and I finished it quickly. was and I wondered if my mother, who was a renowned cook in our community, would like it. I thought she would. I was hungry and I finished it quickly.
“So, was it good?” Nora Dowling demanded.
“Yes, ma‘am,” I answered politely. “What was it?”
She looked at me in amazement. “Kartoffel suppe? It‘s potato soup. That‘s what it means.” It‘s potato soup. That‘s what it means.”
“Oh,” I said. I did not know that people made soup from potatoes. In my family, we did not. We ate potatoes. “It‘s one of the best meals I‘ve had in a long time.”
Nora Dowling‘s sullen face flashed with amusement. A laugh bubbled from her abundant bosom. “Ach du lieber Gott,” she exclaimed. “Meal? That‘s not a meal. That‘s soup.”
Terry Kay, "Shadow Song"
Split Pea
The youth, awakened by the soldier‘s tone, looked quickly up. He saw that he was swinging uncertainly on his legs and that his face had turned to a shade of blue.
“Good Lord!” he cried, “you ain‘t goin‘ t‘—not you, too.”
The tattered man waved his hand. “Nary die,” he said. “All I want is some pea soup an‘ a good bed. Some pea soup,” he repeated dreamfully.
Stephen Crane, "The Red Badge of Courage"
Mixed Lentil
What‘s bowls, Mrs. Leibowitz?
Oh, Frankie. You don‘t know bowl? For the soup, darlink. You don‘ have a bowl? So get cups for the soup. I mix pea soup and lentil soup. No ham. Irish like the ham. No ham, Frankie. Drink, missus. Drink you soup.
She spoons the soup into my mother‘s mouth, wipes the dribble from her chin. Malachy and I sit on the floor drinking from mugs. We spoon the soup into the twins‘ mouths. It is lovely and hot and tasty. My mother never makes soup like this and I wonder if there‘s any chance Mrs. Leibowitz could ever be my mother. Freddie could be me and have my mother and father, too, and he could have Malachy and the twins for brothers.
Frank McCourt, "Angela‘s Ashes"
The idea of French luxury and elegance next had alarmed the Dean‘s daughters. The first day after Babette had entered their service they took her before them and explained to her that they were poor and that to them luxurious fare was sinful. Their own food must be as plain as possible; it was the soup-pails and baskets for their poor that signified. Babette nodded her head; as a girl, she informed her ladies, she had been cook to an old priest who was a saint. Upon this the sisters resolved to surpass the French priest in asceticism. And they soon found that from the day when Babette took over the housekeeping its cost was miraculously reduced, and the soup-pails and baskets acquired a new, mysterious power to stimulate and strengthen their poor and sick.
Isak Dinesen, "Babette‘s Feast"
Tomato
A wave of gentle memories flowed through me as I leaned wearily against the door post and closed my eyes. When I opened them I saw Brandy coming round the corner of the street with Mrs. Westby. His nose was entirely obscured by a large red tomato soup can and he strained madly at the leash and whipped his tail when he saw me.… wave of gentle memories flowed through me as I leaned wearily against the door post and closed my eyes. When I opened them I saw Brandy coming round the corner of the street with Mrs. Westby. His nose was entirely obscured by a large red tomato soup can and he strained madly at the leash and whipped his tail when he saw me.…
…Tomato soup must have been one of his favorites because he was really deeply embedded and it took some time before I was able to slide the can from his face.
I fought off his slobbering attack. “He‘s back in the dustbins, I see.”
James Herriot, “Brandy the Dustbin Dog” from "James Herriot‘s Favorite Dog Stories"
“I wonder if you have seen Bilks‘ if you have seen Bilks‘ if you have seen Bilks‘ new poem called poem called poem called Table d‘Hote,” said Eddie softly. “It‘s ,” said Eddie softly. “It‘s so wonderful. In the last Anthology. Have you got a copy? I‘d wonderful. In the last Anthology. Have you got a copy? I‘d wonderful. In the last Anthology. Have you got a copy? I‘d so like to like to like to show it to you. It begins with an it to you. It begins with an it to you. It begins with an incredibly beautiful line: ‘Why Must it Always be Tomato Soup?’ ” beautiful line: ‘Why Must it Always be Tomato Soup?’ ”
“Yes,” said Bertha. And she moved noiselessly to a table opposite the drawing-room door and Eddie glided noiselessly after her. She picked up the little book and gave it to him; they had not made a sound.
While he looked it up she turned her head towards the hall. And she saw … Harry with Miss Fulton‘s coat in his arms and Miss Fulton with her back turned to him and her head bent. He tossed the coat away, put his hands on her shoulders and turned her violently to him. His lips said, “I adore you,” and Miss Fulton laid her moonbeam fingers on his cheeks and smiled her sleepy smile. Harry‘s nostrils quivered; his lips curled back in a hideous grin while he whispered: “Tomorrow,” and with her eyelids Miss Fulton said: “Yes.”
“Here it is,” said Eddie. “ ‘Why Must it Always be Tomato Soup?‘ It‘s so “Here it is,” said Eddie. “ ‘Why Must it Always be Tomato Soup?‘ It‘s so deeply true, don‘t you feel? Tomato soup is so true, don‘t you feel? Tomato soup is so true, don‘t you feel? Tomato soup is so dreadfully eternal.” eternal.”
Katherine Mansfield, “Bliss” from The Short Stories of Katherine Mansfield
Onion
Victor Hugo, "Les Misérables"
White Bean
Feeding herself was Ruby‘s to do as soon as she was old enough to be held accountable for it, which in Stobrod‘s opinion fell close after learning to walk. As an infant, Ruby foraged for food in the woods up and down the river at charitable farms. Her brightest childhood memory was of walking up the river trail for some of Sally Swanger‘s white bean soup and on the way home having her nightgown—for several years her usual attire, even in the daytime—get caught on a trailside blackthorn briar.
Charles Frazier, "Cold Mountain"
Bisque
Novalee could hear kitchen sounds—a spoon scraping metal, the clink of glass against glass, but she could not imagine Forney managing ovens and burners or skillets and lids. She could see him dipping and swaying between a stove and a kitchen sink.
When he came back in, carrying a tray, he said, “Dinner is served,” trying to speak with a French accent, the way he had practiced.
He set the tray on a cart beside the table, then placed a bowl in front of Novalee and one at his place. “Your soup, madam.”
“I‘ve never seen orange soup before.”
“It‘s orange almond bisque,” he said as he sat down.
Novalee took a taste, a wonderful nutty taste … tangy, velvety smooth—but cold. “Forney, it‘s just great.”
She knew when he tasted it he would be embarrassed that it had gotten cold, but she couldn‘t imagine it would taste any better hot.
Billie Letts, "Where the Heart Is"
Chicken
If I hadn‘t been making the soup for cardiac patient Marla, of course, I would have used unsalted butter instead of oil. Small sacrifice.
I removed the chicken breasts when they were tender and milky white, then whisked in flour, white wine, and lowfat chicken broth. The homey scent of cooked vegetables wafted upward. My mind churned. As I sliced the chicken, I wondered how much of Tony‘s character Marla really knew. Or wanted to know. But then, as a former girlfriend, especially one I removed the chicken breasts when they were tender and milky white, then whisked in flour, white wine, and lowfat chicken broth. The homey scent of cooked vegetables wafted upward. My mind churned. As I sliced the chicken, I wondered how much of Tony‘s character Marla really knew. Or wanted to know. But then, as a former girlfriend, especially one who‘d been jilted, Eileen Tobey was who‘d been jilted, Eileen Tobey was not the most reliable of sources. And besides, my own Tom had remembered the most reliable of sources. And besides, my own Tom had remembered the most reliable of sources.
And besides, my own Tom had remembered Albert in connection with the goats and goat cheese, not Tony and Albert together. Maybe Eileen was indulging in some reputation-destroying back-stabbing, by exchanging the names and the players. in connection with the goats and goat cheese, not Tony and Albert together. Maybe Eileen was indulging in some reputation-destroying back-stabbing, by exchanging the names and the players.
Diane Mott Davidson, "The Main Corpse"
“Is any one else coming to dine besides Mr. Casaubon?”
“Not that I know of.”
“I hope there is some one else. Then I shall not hear him eat his soup so.”
“What is there remarkable about his soup-eating?”
“Really, Dodo, can‘t you hear how he scrapes his spoon? And he always blinks before he speaks. I don‘t know whether Locke blinked, but I‘m sure I am sorry for those who sat opposite to him if he did.”
“Celia,” said Dorothea, with emphatic gravity, “pray don‘t make any more observations of that kind.”
“Why not? They are quite true,” returned Celia, who had her reasons for persevering, though she was beginning to be a little afraid.
“Many things are true which only the commonest minds observe.”
“Then I think the commonest minds must be rather useful. I think it is a pity Mr. Casaubon‘s mother had not a commoner mind: she might have taught him better.” Celia was inwardly frightened, and ready to run away, now she had hurled this light javelin.
Dorothea‘s feelings had gathered to an avalanche, and there could be no further preparation.
“It is right to tell you, Celia, that I am engaged to marry Mr. Casaubon.”
Perhaps Celia had never turned so pale before. The paper man she was making would have had his leg injured, but for her habitual care of whatever she held in her hands. She laid the fragile figure down at once, and sat perfectly still for a few moments.
When she spoke there was a tear gathering.
“Oh, Dodo, I hope you will be happy.” Her sisterly tenderness could not but surmount other feelings at this moment, and her fears were the fears of affection.
George Eliot, "Middlemarch"
See Also: Selected Food Quotes
By Shaunda Kennedy Wenger & Janet Kay Jensen in the book 'The Book Lover's Cook Book', The Random House Publishing Group, 2003. Adapted (all recipes were omitted) and illustrated to be posted by Leopoldo Costa.
0 Response to "THE BOOK LOVER'S COOKBOOK"
Post a Comment