Cinnamon and Gunpowder

Some foods are so comforting, so nourishing of body and soul, that to eat them is to be home again after a long journey. To eat such a meal is to remember that, though the world is full of knives and storms, the body is built for kindness. The angels, who know no hunger, have never been as satisfied.

I've had this pain. To tell you it will go away would be a lie. It will never go away. But, if you live long enough, it will cease to torture and will instead flavor you. As we rely on the bitterness of strong tea to wake us, this too will become something you can use.

A knight can fight. As you well know, I fight about as well as a pillow." "That's an insult to pillows. At least they can take a beating.

I now have some intimacy with death, and like the hops in a beer, it has both embittered and fortified me.

We are surrounded by monsters," she said. "We can cower before them or we can pick one and sink our teeth in with the aim to give it hell.

Dear Mr. Wedgewood, Welcome to the Flying Rose. I hope you have settled to sea comfortably. Your lot may improve in direct proportion to your willingness. I do look forward to more of your fare. Let me lay out my proposal: You will, of a Sunday, cook for me, and me alone, the finest supper. You will neither repeat a dish nor serve foods that are in the slightest degree mundane. In return I will continue to keep you alive and well, and we may discuss an improvement of your quarters after a time. Should you balk in any fashion you will find yourself swimming home, whole or in pieces, depending upon the severity of my disappointment. How does this strike you? In anticipation, Capt. Hannah Mabbot

The proper way is lost to me; my compass spins. I therefore give my entire attention to those works that seem to me most incorruptible: the application of heat, the proportion of seasoning, the arrangement of a plate. When robbed of all pretensions and aspirations, with no proper home nor any knowledge of what discord tomorrow brings, I still may have a pocketful of dignity. The Roman pomp and raiment have fallen away, and I see at last the glory of washed feet and shared bread.

As it ferments, kraut whispers alchemical secrets. In two days, it will smell as agreeable as an old pillow still warm from night’s use. In five days it will smell like a horse run to foam. The odor will then lessen as the vegetable begins its tart transformation. It will be good to eat in two weeks, but at five weeks it will reach the zenith of its power, its taste a violin bow drawn across the tongue. After six weeks it will err slowly toward slime. Like hams and men, it gets better with age only to a point.

Inside, the box was divided into tiered chambers, each with a lacquered lid, and these held a selection of ground and whole spices: sage, turmeric, cumin, ginger, mustard, cinnamon, asafetida, mace, cayenne, and cloves. I felt like an emperor receiving the treasures of a new country. The odor rising from the box was like a clambering vine wrapping itself thickly around my head, musky with the deep minerals of the earth and dusting my shoulders with a rainbow of pollen.

Is this spirited man the cook?" she shouted. "Are you responsible for this delightful feast? What a piece of luck! … What is it you say, Mr. Apples?" "Like shittin' with the pope." "No, the other thing, less vulgar." "Whistlin' donkey." "Quite! A surprise and a delight like a whistling … How is it that these phrases make sense when you say them? Anyway, bring him along.

After dessert we sipped on strong cups of tea, one of the luxuries we can afford to take for granted here in the trade routes. "Delightful," she said. "If only for a little cream." "Don't speak to me of cream, Captain. I dream about milk at least twice a week. I run naked with milk running in rivulets from the corners of my mouth. I even miss humble parsley--zounds, how I've taken that weed for granted! And butter, I'll not describe my butter dreams, they're too depraved." Mabbot chuckled. "We must leave something for dreams.

It is no great secret that cooking is, in essence, seduction.

I made an attempt to reach him in his grief. I said, "I've had this pain. To tell you it will go away would be a lie. It will never go away. But, if you live long enough, it will cease to torture and will instead favor you. As we rely on the bitterness of strong tea to wake us, this too will become something you can use.

I may not be skilled at eloquent oratory , but for muttering angrily under one's breath, I have never met a more capable man.

It matters not what language a man speaks; he holds a pen, he holds a plow, he holds a gun in exactly the same manner. We are all children of our tools.

Men who long for the past are already dead. Look to the future, Owen.

Without another word, we began to eat. I was hungry, but no appetite would excuse the way we set upon those dishes. We shoveled food into our mouths in a manner ill befitting our fine attire. Bears would have blushed to see us bent over our plates. The pheasant, still steaming from the oven, its dark flesh redolent with the mushroom musk of the forest floor, was gnawed quickly to the bone. It was a touch gamy - no milk-fed goose, this - but it was tender, and the piquant hominy balanced that wild taste as I had hoped it would. The eggs, laced pink at the edges and floating delicately in a carnal sauce, were gulped down in two bites. The yolks were cooked to that rare liminal degree, no longer liquid but not yet solid, like the formative moment of a sun-colored gem.

I saw a man whose suffering had become a kind of skeleton holding him upright.

It is, admittedly, a base foodstuff, but lobster, well prepared, can nevertheless be made to satisfy the distinguished gourmand.

Lively conversation and stimulating company can make a meal,” she said. “Without it, the rarest delicacy has no savor. Don’t you agree?

Such is the indomitable spirit of saffron that even after years stale on my chest, it brought the rice to life with flavor and the color of a sunset. Or perhaps my wife leaned down and touched my efforts with a kettle-blessing to keep me safe.

Never have I seen such a motley assemblage of characters. Except that we are at sea, I would believe that I had been abducted by a traveling circus. There are men here of every hue and size, also men whose race cannot be determined due to the indigo tattoos that cover their faces and arms. There are men with bullrings through their noses, with turbans large enough to hide a samovar, with gold thread braided into their hair, with scimitars lashed to their hips; some with teeth sharpened to points, some with no teeth at all. Many of the men have lost fingers, one has no ears, and not a few of them sport blistered patches upon their faces, necks, and forearms.

The ocean, whose essence is fluid and unresisting, is more prison than the staunchest bricks or iron bars.

Completely unnerved by this scenario, I resorted to a tactic most common in prey animals: I froze and hoped to be forgotten.

I have found that hunger improves my sense of smell and gives inspiration a clean passage. In any case my nerves would not allow me to eat.

Here, at last, was a true appetite, who had seen the caverns of death and yet clung hard to life, who chose daily where to be in the world.

The Roman pomp and raiment have fallen away, and I swear last the glory of washed feet and shared bread.

I write here all I can, yet cannot express the fatigue I collapse under each night, worn to the bone with worry. I feel Hope and Fear beside me all the time, two woodsmen with a saw across my middle. They pull the saw in turns. It is everything I can do not to fall in two.

He who writes our every story needs no annotation from me.