Best 1420 quotes in «cooking quotes» category

Her cuisine is limited but she has as good an idea of breakfast as a Scotchwoman." [Sherlock Holmes, on Mrs. Hudson's cooking.]

Hiroshi è stato parecchi anni in Cina. Parliamo della cucina dei due paesi. Sarebbe difficile immaginare arti più diverse: Cina, una ricerca fantasiosa e barocca di sapori, una ricchezza grassa e palatina di carni, di verdure prelibate, di salse, una cura sapiente nel trasformare, nascondere, sublimar gli ingredienti,. Con quella francese è la cucina materialmente più raffinata del mondo, una cucina da buongustai, da voluttuosi della vita. Alcuni piatti che sembrano peregrini a nominarsi, pinne di pescecane, nidi di rondine, pesce o oca laccati, uova “di cento anni”, cotolette di cagnolino, cervello crudo di scimmia, sono invece deliziosi, che direste, venendo dalla Luna, se vi offrissero formaggio con vermi (Gorgonzola), intestino di vitello (pagliata), omento di bue (trippa), chiocciole (escargots du Chanoine, à la Bourgogne), rane (grenoulles finesherbes oppure dorées à la forézienne) per citare alcuni ordinari piatti d'Occidente? Se vogliamo trovare un parallelo alla crudeltà inaudita che si compie giornalmente per ottenere il paté de foie gras bisogna ricorrere a certe stranezze cinesi, quali il cervello crudo di scimmia appena uccisa… Accanto ed in contrasto a tutto ciò, sta la cucina giapponese: la cucina spiritualmente più raffinata del mondo. Niente grassi, niente salse; i cibi per lo più appena bolliti o scottati o rostiti, debbono mantenere non solo la purezza del loro sapore originario, ma l'aspetto naturale, come fossero calati direttamente dall'albero, dalla foglia, dall'onda, sul piatto o nella coppa. Non si faccia subito l'infausto paragone: è come la cucina inglese! La cucina inglese è ascetica per Puritanesimo e povera per mancanza d'immaginazione. La cucina giapponese è invece semplice per raffinatezza estrema, ed i sapori vi sono armonizzati con la discriminazione d'una musica, seguendo istintivamente il grande principio di Van der Rohe: less is more, meno è più.

His fantasies were nurturing, not predatory. If he could have Jess, he would feed her. Laughable, antique, confusingly paternal, he longed to nourish her with clementines, and pears in season, fresh whole-wheat bread and butter, wild strawberries, comte cheese, fresh figs and oily Marcona almond, tender yellow beets. He would sear red meat, if she would let him, and grill spring lamb. Cut the thorns off artichokes and dip the leaves in fresh aioli, poach her fish- thick Dover sole in wine and shallots- julienne potatoes, and roast a whole chicken with lemon slices under the skin. He would serve a salad of heirloom tomatoes and fresh mozzarella and just-picked basil. Serve her and watch her savor dinner, pour for her, and watch her drink. That would be enough for him. To find her plums in season, and perfect nectarines, velvet apricots, dark succulent duck. To bring her all these things and watch her eat.

Home cooking is always concerned with quality, because people you care about will eat the meal.

How an Englishman came to be ‘Cooking up a Country’ in Italy It was a book that got me into this mess. Almost twenty years ago after reading Annie Hawes excellent, Extra Virgin, I jumped on a flight intent on experiencing Liguria for myself. What I discovered here has had me coming back for holidays ever since. Until two years ago, that is, when I bowed to the inevitable British compulsion to own property.

How old does a recipe have to be in order to be traditional? What should we think when an old industrial food like salted (corned) beef or pickled herring becomes a part of “traditional” ethnic cuisine?

I believe that one of the most dignified ways we are capable of, to assert the reassert our dignity in the face of poverty and war's fears and pains, is to nourish ourselves with all possible skill, delicacy, and ever increasing enjoyment. And with our gastronomical growth will come, inevitably, knowledge and perception of a hundred other things, but mainly of ourselves. Then Fate, even tangled as it is with cold wars as well as hot, cannot harm us.

Hunger gives flavour to the food.

I always wondered why the makers leave housekeeping and cooking out of their tales. Isn't it what all the great wars and battles are fought for -- so that at day's end a family may eat together in a peaceful house? The tale tells how the Lords of Manva hunted & gathered roots & cooked their suppers while they were camped in exile in the foothills of Sul, but it doesn't say what their wives & children were living on in their city left ruined & desolate by the enemy. They were finding food too, somehow, cleaning house & honoring the gods, the way we did in the siege & under the tyranny of the Alds. When the heroes came back from the mountain, they were welcomed with a feast. I'd like to know what the food was and how the women managed it.

I believe that the secret to becoming successful in life is taking it one step at a time, do not look at the challenge just concentrate on getting through each step at a time, learning from your mistakes as you go forward. By doing this, you will reach your goal. Remember, quitters never win and winners never quit. Also, I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.

Bought marmalade? Oh dear, I call that very feeble.

I am a miserable cook but an extremely talented eater.

I cook to inspire my husband to pay attention to me.

I could, like some of the meat we were cooking, relax into it, clear my mind of competing desires & give myself over to the work... This time became a kind of luxury. And that is precisely when I began to truly enjoy the work of cooking.

Cooking for Life shuns all things caloric and fatty, so this version of boeuf bourguignon will not include bacon or pancetta as it should, nor will I use even half as much olive oil as I'd like to. I will increase the wine, and it'll be pretty good beef stew without the potatoes, essentially, which will delight Uncle Benny when I take him his casserole dish tonight. It certainly won't hurt me to eat gourmet lite for dinner, I think, then shake my head to clear it. It's amazing how one five-minute conversation with my mother can undo every affirmation I've ever taped to my bathroom mirror. After giving the beef another poke or two, I scrub the cutting board in the dish-crowded sink, then chop and stir in carrots, celery, and onions. I mince fresh thyme and Italian parsley for flavor and color, pour in defatted beef stock, then leave it to simmer for a while, the individual aromas already commingling and filling the apartment.

I could smell the food fill up my hunger before the order was even placed.

I cut our paper dinner with a pair of scissors borrowed from the front desk of the hotel. I cooked with a spice rack box of crayons – sixteen colors. I seasoned the pumpkin pie with orange crayon, and basted the turkey's crisp skin in brown. I was remorseless with my sketchbook abattoir, playing the part of carnivore just as surely as I was play-acting the role of wife. I may as well have been a wax figure in a dollhouse eating the wax-scented food.

I could smell garlic, butter, and wine - the world's most delicious flavor combination. It made me feel warm, like the first few sips of wine always do.

if god had intended us to follow recipes, He wouldn't have given us grandmothers.

If God had created celery, it would only have two stalks, because that's the most that almost any recipe ever calls for.

if I put something in the oven before it had come to temperature, or if I got the steam going before I had everything chopped, that sort of triviality (or so I thought) was precisely reflected in the color and shape of the final product.

If I had thought the beef marrow might be a hell of a lot of work for not much difference, I needn’t have worried. The taste of the marrow is rich, meaty, intense in a nearly-too-much way. In my increasingly depraved state, I could think of nothing at first but that it tasted like really good sex. But there was something more than that, even. What it really tastes like is life, well lived. Of course the cow I got marrow from had a fairly crappy life – lots of crowds and overmedication and bland food that might or might not have been a relative. But deep in his or her bones, there was a capacity for feral joy. I could taste it.

I fired up the brick oven, reminding myself that garlic has no place in a confection and butter becomes a layer of oil floating atop the cheese. I felt confident and excited; this time I would get it right. I helped myself to the triple-cream cheese (still convinced it it would make a delicious base) and then added a dollop of honey to sweeten it and heavy cream to thin it enough for my whisk. Since my last endeavor, I'd noticed that wine was primarily used in sauces and stews, and so, in a moment of blind inspiration, I added, instead, a splash of almond liqueur, which I hoped would add subtle flavor without changing the creamy color of the cheese. Instead of the roach-like raisins, I threw in a handful of chopped almonds that I imagined would provide a satisfying crunch and harmonize with the liqueur. I beat it all to a smooth batter and poured it into a square pan, intending to cut rectangular slices after it cooled. I slid the pan, hopefully, into the oven. Once again, I watched the edges bubble and noticed, with satisfaction, that instead of an overpowering smell of garlic there was a warm seductive hint of almond in the air. The bubbles turned to a froth that danced over the entire surface, and I assumed this was a sign of cohesion. My creation would come out of the oven like firm custard with undertones of almond and an unexpected crunch. The rectangular servings would make an unusual presentation- neither cheese nor pudding nor custard, but something completely new and unique. The bubbling froth subsided to a gently bumpy surface, and to my horror those damnable pockmarks began to appear with oil percolating in the tiny craters. The nuts completed the disruption of the creamy texture and gave the whole thing a crude curdled look. If only this cross-breed concoction would cohere, it might yet be cut up into squares and served on a plate with some appealing garnish, perhaps strawberries and mint leaves for color. I took the pan out and stared at it as it cooled, willing it to stand up, pull itself together, be firm. When the pan was cool enough to touch, I dipped my spoon into the mixture and it came out dripping and coated in something with the consistency of buttermilk. It didn't taste bad at all, in fact I licked the spoon clean, enjoying the balance of sweetness and almond, but it wasn't anything I could present to the chef. It was like a sweet, cheesy soup into which someone had accidentally dropped nuts. Why was the cheese breaking down? Why wasn't it holding together like cake or custard?

If the environmental crisis is ultimately a crisis of character, as Wendell Berry told us way back in the 1970's, then sooner or later it will have to be addressed at that level- at home, as it were. In our yards and kitchens and minds.

If you stand in a wheat field at this time of year, a few weeks from harvest, it's not hard to imagine you're looking at something out of mythology: all this golden sunlight brought down to earth, captured in kernels of gold, and rendered fit for mortals to eat. But of course this is no myth at all, just the plain miraculous fact.

...if you can't find any grappa, half a cup of cough medicine should achieve similar results." [Audrey's advice]

I guess everyone likes praise for what they do, but that night I enjoyed cooking for the Olekseis more than I ever had before. Everything about the ingredients, the smells, the textures, everything delighted me. Maybe I should specialize in Russian food. I sliced the garlic and dropped it into the pan. It started to sizzle, and I turned the heat down and began slicing the onion. It was very fresh, very pungent. My eyes watered, and I got sniffly. Then I smelled a hint of burn on the garlic and hurried back to the stove and shook the pan. Just in time. The slices were brown but not too brown. I was getting good at this. I could detect the smell of burning just before it happened. That had to be some sort of superpower. As I put the rest of the dish together- dicing deep, ruby beets; slicing carrots and Yukon gold potatoes, sizzling spicy sausage in the pan; spicing and tasting, and mixing, and finally pureeing the whole thing into a savory maroon liquid- I continued to marvel at the perfect ripeness and freshness of every ingredient I'd picked out.

I got the groceries and lugged them all the way to Akinli’s dorm, running slightly behind because I couldn’t get into the building on my own. The university required ID cards to get into the dorms after six, and since I wasn’t an actual student, I had to wait for someone else to come along and scan his so I could piggyback in. “You need some help?” the boy asked, his eyes lingering on my mouth. I shook my head no. “Aww, come on. That’s way too heavy for you.” He came closer, and again I cursed our natural appeal. I wasn’t in danger exactly, and I knew that, but it didn’t make these encounters any less uncomfortable. I shook my head again. “No, really, which floor are you on? I can—” “Hey, Kahlen!” I looked up to see Akinli walking down the hall. His button-up was open over the gray shirt beneath it, but I was thrilled to see that he’d at least put one on. “I was starting to worry. Hey, Sam.” “Hey.” The boy gave Akinli a look and headed toward the stairwell, his displeasure at Akinli’s arrival clear. In the meantime, I felt my mood lift significantly. I was now officially on my first date.

I had a dream about you last night. You were at my door. We had forgotten what we used to fight about. So, I let you in and we made coconut pancakes like it was the very first time.

I have a lot of time for vegetarians (though apparently not all of them have a lot of time for me), and that's because I respect anyone with principles about food.

If the queen catches you in here again, Princess, she'll sentence you to do the dishes right alongside me! she heard another voice ring out. No one was there, but Snow knew the voice. It was Mrs. Kindred, the cook who had survived her aunt's dismissals over the years. When Snow's mother was alive, she'd encouraged her daughter to be friendly with those who helped them in the castle, and Mrs. Kindred had always been Snow's favorite person to chat with. She could see herself sitting on a chair, no more than six or seven, watching Mrs. Kindred chop onions, carrots, and leeks and throw them all into a giant pot of broth. She and Mrs. Kindred only stole a few moments together most days now- she suspected her aunt must have forbidden the cook from talking to her, what with how Mrs. Kindred always quickly sent Snow on her way- but back then she had always peppered the cook with questions. ("How do you cut the carrots so small? Why do leeks have sand in them? What spices are you going to add? How do you know how much to put in?") On one such occasion, she'd been such a distraction that Mrs. Kindred had finally picked her up, holding her high on her broad chest, and let her stir the pot herself. Eventually, she taught her how to dice and chop, too, since Snow wouldn't stop talking. By suppertime, young Snow had convinced herself she'd made the whole meal. She had been proud, too, carrying the dishes out to the dining table that night.

I have come to the conclusion that just as the Japanese live to work, Asians live to eat.

I invested in a fifteen-dollar handheld mandoline, knowing that my knife skills would never be good enough to get the potatoes thin and uniform. I shockingly manage to slice them all without opening an artery, and briefly cook them in a mix of cream and half-and-half, with a pinch of nutmeg, a sprig of thyme. I've got a buttered dish at the ready, which I've dutifully rubbed with the cut side of a half clove of garlic, but I'm suspicious of this maneuver; I can't imagine it will really impart much flavor. When the potato slices are pliable but still not cooked, I transfer them to the dish, discarding the sprig of thyme, and add enough of the cooking liquid to barely cover them. I pop it in the preheated oven, wondering how that soupy mess of potato and cream will come together into a sliceable dish.

I look over the recipe again. It sounds very simple. You boil some rice in water like pasta, I can do that. You cook some onion in butter, stir in the rice, pop it in the oven. Add some cream and grated cheese and mix it up. And voila! A real dinner. I pull out a couple of the pots Caroline gave me, and began to get everything laid out. Grant always yammered on about mise en place, that habit of getting all your stuff together before you start cooking so you can be organized. It seems to make sense, and appeals to the part of me that likes to make lists and check things off of them. I manage to chop a pile of onions without cutting myself, but with a lot of tears. At one point I walk over to the huge freezer and stick my head in it for some relief, while Schatzi looks at me like I'm an idiot. Which isn't unusual. Or even come to think of it, wrong. But I get them sliced and chopped, albeit unevenly, and put them in the large pot with some butter. I get some water boiling in the other pot and put in some rice. I cook it for a few minutes, drain it, and add it to the onions, stirring them all together. Then I put the lid on the pot and put it in the oven, and set my phone with an alarm for thirty-five minutes. The kitchen smells amazing. Nothing quite like onions cooked in butter to make the heart happy. While it cooks, I grab a beer, and grate some Swiss cheese into a pile. When my phone buzzes, I pull the pot out of the oven and put it back on the stovetop, stirring in the cream and cheese, and sprinkling in some salt and pepper. I grab a bowl and fill it with the richly scented mixture. I stand right there at the counter, and gingerly take a spoonful. It's amazing. Rich and creamy and oniony. The rice is nicely cooked, not mushy. And even though some of my badly cut onions make for some awkward eating moments, as the strings slide out of the spoon and attach themselves to my chin, the flavor is spectacular. Simple and comforting, and utterly delicious.

I'll go further and say she was one of the best cooks in the world! The compimentary expression, "This food will make you slap yo' Aint Emma" was apt in her case.

I love food, I love everything about food – the growing, the purchasing, the cooking, the eating, the nourishment, the connection, the celebration. To me, food is so central to everything important in life – how we eat and how we feed others is such a strong reflection on who we are, our values, and how we live. And we get to express and enjoy this three times every single day!

I let myself relax into the pattern of the recipe.

I'll be right here. Until they drag me off the line. I'm not going anywhere. I hope. It's been an adventure. We took some casualties over the years. Things got broken. Things got lost. But I wouldn't miss it for the world.

I looked down at the loaves on the baking stone, which, just as before, carried in their crusts the overwhelming illusion of dark eyes, upturned noses, fissured mouths. Upon closer inspection, these faces were different from the last loaf's. They were disturbing. Their eyes squinted merrily and their mouths curled into ragged, jack-o'-lantern grins. The bread knife was the solution to all my problems. I sawed and sawed and sawed until the faces were no more.

I love Italy. For hundreds of years, if not centuries, the people of italy (Italians) have been living here." [Audrey's insight]

I’m a big believer in cooking your own meals. It makes it much easier not only to ensure that you eat fresh foods but also to follow the second rule of eating (see previous chapter), which advises incorporating as many colors, tastes, textures, and aromas as possible into one’s meal. Beyond those benefits, I feel that cooking celebrates self-respect, and it’s especially important on the Warrior Diet. Through cooking, you can control exactly what you put inside your body. It’s a creative process, where you use trial and error to determine what you like.You can use different herbs and spices to increase or balance flavors, aromas, and textures.You’re not a scavenger on the Warrior Diet.

I make 'Buela's recipe for sofrito that I'll use to season the ground beef. Softening the garlic and onions, adding tomato paste. This is the first step for most traditional dishes, the flavoring that gives a rich taste for everything from beans to stew. Then I brown meat and make a homemade sauce from fresh tomatoes. I grate fine shreds of mozzarella cheese and boil sheets of pasta. While the oven is preheating, I slowly layer my guilt, my hope, and a hundred dreams. I don't know if it means anything at all, but 'Buela has always said my hands are magical, and I use them now to put all my feelings into the pan.

In a frenetic whirlwind we chop and dice and mince, turning anything we can think of into a possible pizza topping, and packing them all in small hotel pans in the rolling coolers we use for field shoots. When the dough has risen, I roll out fifty twelve-inch rounds, separating each with sheets of parchment, and stacking them in sheet pans, a rotini with a creamy sauce with ham and peas, and a simple rigatoni with vegetables in a light tomato sauce. Patrick discovers a big bowl of leftover risotto from Friday's testing, and heats up the deep fryer, yelling at me to set up a breeding station so he can do some arancini. While he is frying the little rice balls, I grab a huge prep bowl and fill it with romaine, shaved Parmesan, croutons and crispy capers, and I mix together a quick peppery pseudo-Caesar-style dressing.

I'm making lunch. Who wants pasta?" "We have leftover caramelized cauliflower and some cannellini beans soaking," Lois says. "There's a chunk of pancetta in there," Benji pipes in. "I roasted a mess of garlic yesterday," Andrea offers. "Perfect," I say, smiling, the dish coming together in my head.

In ancient Greece, the word for "cook," "butcher," and "priest" was the same -- mageiros -- and the word shares an etymological root with "magic.

In its essence, a meal is a creative act that has its genesis in the mind of someone who cares enough to plan it, gather ingredients and labor over its creation.

In fact, people who posses not magic at all can instill their home-cooked meals with love and security and health, transforming ingredients and bringing disparate people together as family and friends. There's a reason that when opening one's home to guests, the first thing you do is offer food and drink. Cooking is a kind of everyday magic.

I nearly killed a rabbit" is not an ingredient for preparing broth or pepper soup. "I lost it" may seem bitter; but "I nearly won it" is bitterest! Remember, if it must be done, then it must be done well!

I needed a more interesting life. I could start by learning something. I could start with the starter.

In France, Paul explained, good cooking was regarded as a combination of national sport and high art, and wine was always served with lunch and dinner. "The trick is moderation," he said.