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Quote by Allegra Goodman

“To make a tarte of strawberyes," wrote Margaret Parker in 1551, "take and strayne theym with the yolkes of four eggs, and a little whyte breade grated, then season it up with suger and swete butter and so bake it." And Jess, who had spent the past year struggling with Kant's Critiques, now luxuriated in language so concrete. Tudor cookbooks did not theorize, nor did they provide separate ingredient lists, or scientific cooking times or temperatures. Recipes were called receipts, and tallied materials and techniques together. Art and alchemy were their themes, instinct and invention. The grandest performed occult transformations: flora into fauna, where, for example, cooks crushed blanched almonds and beat them with sugar, milk, and rose water into a paste to "cast Rabbets, Pigeons, or any other little bird or beast." Or flour into gold, gilding marchpane and festive tarts. Or mutton into venison, or fish to meat, or pig to fawn, one species prepared to stand in for another.”

Quote by Allegra Goodman

Work

The Cookbook Collector

This book explores the life of an individual deeply fascinated by the culinary history encapsulated in vintage cookbooks. The story delves into the collector's personal journey, intertwining his obsession with the art of cooking and the stories behind each book he acquires. more

Author

Allegra Goodman
Allegra Goodman

Allegra Goodman is an American author born in 1967. Her works span various literary genres, including novels, short story collections, and children's literature. Goodman's writing often explores moral dilemmas, social justice, and the complexities of human behavior. more

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“Shelby looked over to see Andrew silently mouthing syllables to himself, as if he were part of an ecstatic rite. He grinned as he bit fricatives and tongued plosives. He was tasting English origins, mulling over words ripped from bronze-smelling hoards. Words that had slept beneath centuries of dust and small rain, sharp and bright as scale mail. Poetry had never moved her quite so much as drama. She loved the shock of colloquy, the beat and treble of words doing what they had to on stage. Andrew preferred the echo of poems buried alive.”

“Now! Forgive me not for what I say Much less what I feel... My lady, You the one who stole my soul and hid it thou heart My lady! Gave my this curse of love!... Love, love gave it life But at what cost? Now... Now I know not what is to belong to my self I have lost my will to live if not by your side. But how tis' came to be? I know little of what came to pass but one thing I know My love for you is true I belong to you”