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The wrestler emerged from the kitchen, the weight of a coal-burning grill in both hands, and I felt like clapping. The “barbecue” was more Korean yakiniku than tabletop Coleman, and it had landed in the middle of our table. With a fork, he speared a hefty cube of pig fat and rubbed it back and forth across the burner, until it sizzled and oozed and I possibly audibly ahh’d. His assistant poured, from a burnished kettle, an herb-fragrant broth into the moat that surrounded the smoking coals. The wrestler slowly lifted an egg above his head and brought it down with a crack! on the metal tureen. Strands of gold and milky white raced into the broth, swirling and solidifying in the steaming brew.
Germans have the same complaint about American baked goods and Hollywood happy endings: too sweet. Since moving to Berlin six years ago, I have received ample criticism for my cobbler, a simple recipe I received from my late grandmother in Mississippi: one stick of butter, one cup of sugar, one cup of flour, one cup […]
There is an undeniable connection between food and memory. One taste of a familiar, yet long forgotten food can transport you back in time to places that no longer exist. In Swann’s Way, a simple madeleine serves as a bridge to the past. As the narrator struggles to catch hold of the memory that begins […]
Last week I attended a poetry reading at the last minute, because it seemed like a pleasant way to spend a cold winter afternoon and also because my week had been a little heavier on weird old sexist children’s books than usual and I needed an antidote. It turned out to be a food-themed reading, […]
It looks wonderfully cool to be holding one, but also requires some attention to prevent a bloody mishap.
Aimee in fact tells me she is a messy cook, she needs slack from the ingredients, and likes to give them slack too.
There is something almost too sybaritic about pairing an airy confection of a book with its pastry-based equivalent..
As one might expect of such a man and such a meal, Bond’s inner tough guy soon rebels, but only after he has thoroughly enjoyed himself.
Whenever I write about myself as a child, I wonder why my mother even talks to me.
A sorrowful food moment is hard to shake off.
“That turned out to be a bad example, since puttanesca means “whore-style.”
In her best work the food is paired with a dark little twist, be it wartime privation, loss, death, loneliness, or some unmet sexual craving.
“That’s not to say that I believe devising a pillow that releases the scent of late-summer grass clippings to complement a tomato dish is any sillier than being devoted to inventing stories that never happened about people who do not exist.”
“There is some very deep draw to all of these images, not only for the voyeuristic pleasures of seeing behind closed doors and getting the intimate glimpses of how people satisfy their appetites, but because the subjects feel so unguarded.”
“How, I keep wondering, do we go from these early passages to silence?”
“It was nice to imagine that maybe in a different, less rigorously ten-fingered world, I might have been successful as a cook.”