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Quote by Sarah Strohmeyer

“We go on and on about wild berries versus cultivated ones, about what constitutes good white chocolate and if it matters what kind of butter you use. According to Dolores, butter with low moisture and high butterfat makes all the difference. She suggests Amish block butter or something called Plugrá, a bastardization of the French phrase plus gras, meaning "more fat." Only the French, I think, would add fat to their butter. I can't believe I care about butter. Before cooking class I wouldn't have given a tinker's dam, yet here I am wondering whether I can sneak over to Whole Foods to buy some for tonight. Dolores says it's fantastic on French bread, with a good Pinot Noir. "Ooh," I hiss, licking my lip. Then the awful truth hits me. I have become a foodie!”

Quote by Sarah Strohmeyer

Book:Sweet Love
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Sweet Love

Sweet Love is a captivating romantic novel that delves into the intricate details of love and human connections. The story follows the journey of its characters as they navigate the joys and challenges of romantic relationships, offering a poignant and relatable exploration of the complexities of love. more

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Sarah Strohmeyer
Sarah Strohmeyer

Sarah Strohmeyer is a renowned author known for her unique writing style and popular works among readers. More detailed information about her life and achievements is needed. more

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“She was clad in a tea-colored dress and white apron, and on her head was an enormous buttercup worn like a kerchief, two of the petals pinned together beneath her hair. Her face was very red, very shiny and very plump. She looked, I thought, a little like a lost doll, though not one mortal children would enjoy playing with; her eyes were the usual all black, and she appeared to be a type of faun, with large and intimidatingly sharp black horns that curved backwards out of her head, and legs that ended in hairy hooves. "A butter faerie," Niamh said. "The queen had several in her service--- this one, I am told, had the queen's particular affections due to the quality of her product." "Fascinating," I said, wishing I had time to make a sketch. My encyclopaedia's entry on butter faeries had been sorely lacking in detail. "I have never encountered one before." "They're quite rare," Niamh said. "A good thing, I've always thought. They are peevish, half-mad little things, particularly if you remove them from their creameries." "I did not know they were found in Ireland," I said. "Most of the tales of butter faeries are from Somerset, are they not?" "Ah!" Niamh said, her face alight with scholarly enthusiasm. "Indeed they are. But once upon a time, as you know, Where the Trees Have Eyes had several doors leading to British faerie realms. One of these, I'm told, led to a pretty corner of Somerset. I theorize that the creatures used to go to and fro before the door collapsed, trapping several of them in this realm.”

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Book:Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales
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“The faerie's creamery was not too deep, happily, or at least it did not feel so; a chimneylike skylight cut into the stone roof admitted the warm gold-green light of the forest. Given the faerie's size, the workspace was expansive--- even Wendell, the tallest among us, did not need to duck--- with a hard-packed earthen floor and an array of shelves, some of which held blocks of butter wrapped in paper and twine. In the middle of the workshop was the butter churn, beside which was a tin bucket of milk with condensation forming on the side--- which I think is what the faerie had been worrying about, for she immediately rushed over to it and carried it into her cellar. The air was cool, on the edge of cold, and the smell of the place made my mouth water. Not only of butter, but thyme and lavender, strawberries and honey, which the faerie used to flavor some of the blocks. Those on the nearest shelf had leaves tucked beneath the twine--- basil, I think.”

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Book:Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales
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“When you split and toast a hot cross bun, the warmth releases the smell of cinnamon and the citrus oils in the candied peel. The bun should be torn apart, never cut. Teasing one half from the other with your fingers provides a craggy surface whose furrows will hold the melted butter in tiny puddles like rain on a hoggin path. But (and it is a big but) the rough, toasted surface is never quite hot enough to melt the butter. Once the buttering is done, something that is to be set about with extreme generosity, the bun must be placed back under the grill in order for the butter to melt. Perfection is when you manage to catch the bun just as the butter has formed a golden pool yet retains a patch of glistening, soft-but-not-yet-liquid butter at its centre. A shining, golden coin in the middle of your bun.”

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Book:A Thousand Feasts: Small Moments of Joy… A Memoir of Sorts
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“Cassie speared one of the fried balls and placed it on her plate, along with a scoop of the dark brown paste. They looked simple enough, like any bar food. When she cut it open, though, it erupted with steam, gooey Gruyère cheese, and shredded duck meat. She cut it into quarters, rationed out the fig butter for each piece, and took a bite. Salty and crunchy, the meat sweet and savory--- and Ben was right. That fig butter--- the creative addition of fat and sweet jammy fruit, punctuated with large crystals of crunchy sea salt--- made the dish sing. "It's the holy trinity of sugar, fat, and salt," Ben said, and took a drink of champagne. The pizza arrived just as the group polished off the last croquette, filling the air with wafts of nutty truffles. "Some say that truffles taste like the forest floor, but some say they taste like the human body," said Kelly, as she stabbed an egg yolk, releasing a thick yellow goo all over the pizza. She pulled a piece onto her plate. "Oh yeah, I wrote a story on this," said Ben. "Feet, body odor... sex. Truffles have a particular form of stink that attracts people in an animalistic way--- it's what explains why people will pay so much money for even the slightest hint of truffle." Cassie pulled a slice of truffle from the pie and put it on her tongue. Certainly nutty, cool, crunchy... but sex? She didn't get it. She shrugged and took another bite.”

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Book:Eat Post Like
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“Hey, what's that?" Jae reached past me and pulled a tub of honey butter out of the fridge. "When Adeena was coming up with your drink, I was also playing around with how I could incorporate it into one of my bakes," I said. "It's great on the scones and with the corn and cheese muffins, but I haven't been successful with any of my experiments yet." Jae glanced around the kitchen before grabbing a box of puffed rice cereal, several bags of marshmallows, and a container of mini mochi that I'd ordered but not used yet. I planned on incorporating them in a new dessert for Yuki's restaurant but hadn't had time to play around with them. "What about honey butter mochi Rice Krispies Treats? My mom likes to dip fresh ddeok in honey, so I know it'll go well with the mini mochi since they're basically the same thing. But do you think it'll be too sweet with the marshmallows?" "If I brown the butter and add a good pinch of salt, that should balance everything out," I said, picturing the flavor combinations in my head. "Or maybe some shiro miso for extra umami?”

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Book:Death and Dinuguan
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“I ignored their banter because my mind was still stuck on what Jae said about creating something crunchy but not too sweet with the honey butter. We didn't do deep-frying at the Brew-ha Cafe, so that was out. I could maybe incorporate our honey butter into a biscotti, but that didn't really excite me. Unless... "Biscocho!" "Is that like a Filipino version of eureka? You look like you've had some kind of revelation," Adeena said. "I mean, I did have a lightbulb moment, but biscocho isn't some exclamation. It's like a budget Filipino version of biscotti, using day-old pandesal. Jae gave me the idea of trying to make a honey butter version." Jae's eyes were practically sparkling. "Crunchy honey butter snacks?" I laughed. "If it turns out well, then yes, we'll be able to serve crunchy honey butter snacks.”

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Book:Death and Dinuguan
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“Do you apologize ever?” Claire asked with a pointed look that Alan completely missed. He seemed to consider that. “If it’s deserving.” “Crepes alive,” Claire mumbled, sniffing dismissively. “Like making full puff pastry with completely frozen butter.” Jonny smirked at her back. “I’ll take your word for it.” “It just has to thaw, Claire!” Alan protested as though she’d insulted him. “Come on, that’s not a great analogy.” “You need to thaw, is what you’re really saying,” Claire retorted over her shoulder. “And I agree, so no fridge time for you.”

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Book:Mayhem on the Marzipan Express
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“The next morning we experienced our very first “full English breakfast,” which consisted of tea, orange juice, cookies, oatmeal, granola, berries, bananas, croissants, grapes, pineapples, prunes, yogurt, five kinds of cold cereal, eggs, hash browns, back bacon, sausage, smoked salmon, tomatoes, mushrooms, beans, toast, butter, jam, jelly, and honey. I don’t know how the British do it.”

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Book:A Year of Living Prayerfully
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