I'm a mum. Cooking is something I have to do. It's something I like to do.
Beasts feed. Man eats. Only the man of intellect knows how to eat.
Romanian-Yiddish cooking has killed more Jews than Hitler
The best way to learn is live, in person, cooking, feeling, smelling and tasting, but TV is the second-best thing to that; it's a halfway facsimile.
Not on morality, but on cookery, let us build our stronghold: there brandishing our frying-pan, as censer, let us offer sweet incense to the Devil, and live at ease on the fat things he has provided for his elect!
A measuring jug is also vital when cooking rice, as this is always measured by volume rather than by weight
I still feel that French cooking is the most important in the world, one of the few that has rules. If you follow the rules, you can do pretty well.
Cooking is a life skill. We need to eat every day so why not find out about what you're putting into your body?
I have a Kenwood charcoal grill. In our house, if anybody is cooking, it's me. I love making burgers. I love making pork tenderloin. Lamb chops I do on the grill a lot. But you just can't beat brats.
A man takes a drink, the drink takes another, and the drink takes the man.
Work is the best of all psychotherapy, in my opinion. . . . As well might we expect a patient to recover without food as to recover without work.
Recipe? Recipe? We don' need no stinkin' recipe.
It's quite weird knocking that out of them and telling them to forget cooking for chefs; forget what chefs say about your food.
I love hospitality, and I love cooking. The kitchen is where I feel most at ease and where I feel most like myself.
It is possible to offer fervent prayer even while walking in public or strolling alone or seated in your shop. . . while buying or selling. . . or even while cooking.
The so-called nouvelle cuisine usually means not enough on your plate and too much on your bill.
The swift December dusk had come tumbling clownishly after its dull day and, as he stared through the dull square of the window of the schoolroom, he felt his belly crave for its food. He hoped there would be stew for dinner, turnips and carrots and bruised potatoes and fat mutton pieces to be ladled out in thick peppered flourfattened sauce. Stuff it into you, his belly counselled him.
Perhaps the comparison is closer to the Chinese cook who leaves hardly any part of a duck unserved.
Having been in a relationship since I was 18, I'm very domestic, but I don't enjoy cooking for myself. I don't mind cooking for other people. But I don't like cleaning or washing dishes, although I don't mind doing laundry.
. . . cassoulet, like life itself, is not so simple as it seems.