more amazing news

sábado, 20 de dezembro de 2014

Asian Salmon in Foil

Asian Salmon in Foil - The best and easiest way to make salmon in foil - and you won't believe how much flavor is packed right in!
Continue Reading...

Homemade Cream of Mu

Homemade Cream of Mushroom Soup - The creamiest mushroom soup that tastes like the canned stuff but it's healthier, creamier and tastier!
Continue Reading...

Blueberry Granola Banana Split Sundae: Blueberry Ice Cream...





Blueberry Granola Banana Split Sundae:


Blueberry Ice Cream topped with a Blueberry Sauce, Honey Granola and all on top of a Split Banana.


Continue Reading...

sexta-feira, 19 de dezembro de 2014

O destino alheio

por Dr. phil. Sônia T. Felipe




Caminhões param à porta do galpão. Há centenas de indivíduos à espera. Esperam há dois ou três dias. Não lhes dão mais água, que antes corria pelos caninhos e era despejada sem interrupções nos bebedouros. Também já não lhes deram mais comida, que antes jorrava do teto dia e noite pelas guias canalizadoras do alimento.



Eles agora receberam, em vez da comida e da água, uma senha. Cada um tem a sua, para uma fila que ainda nem se formou, porque antes é preciso passar pelo procedimento do embarque. São milhares de indivíduos acotovelando-se, penando-se e pelando-se uns contra os outros, alguns esfolando-se literalmente na compressão dos corpos marcados para morrer. Mas ainda falta transportá-los até o abatedouro.




E é lá que agora se encontram, sem água e sem comida há quase dois dias. A razão para mais essa tortura é pouca, mas impera: no transporte não pode haver vômitos nem defecações, isso daria muito trabalho para os operadores do transporte e das instalações de extermínio. Esses indivíduos são conscientes de si e sentem as mesmas emoções que os outros animais sencientes sentem quando encurralados e esfomeados: medo, fome, fraqueza e terror diante de cada movimento ou som inesperado.



Numa praça de alimentação, bem próximo dali, centenas de indivíduos acotovelam-se também, armados de faca e garfos, numa fila mal formada na qual cada um quer ser atendido antes do outro, não importando se chegou antes ou depois desse. Querem ser atendidos, já! E estão armados de metal cortante, para enfrentar outros indivíduos que chegarão a eles na mais absoluta condição de reféns derrotados: mortos. Mas, para enfrentar esses mortos, os vivos dessa fila da praça de alimentação continuam a portar armas, brancas, mas brancas apenas de nome, porque assim que forem passadas atravessando a matéria morta, já não serão mais armas tão brancas, ficando mesmo é sanguinolentas, sujas, de cor marrom, nada iluminada.



Essa segunda cena é montada com indivíduos que não precisam comer mortos para terem saúde, mas foram formatados para crer nisso, como dogma religioso. Estão profundamente ligados no seu prato de comida e no conteúdo que costuma enchê-lo todos os dias. O conteúdo de seu prato é composto de nacos dos corpos dos indivíduos que estavam com a senha na mão à espera do caminhão que os coletou para conduzi-los à estação final de sua miserável vida de confinamento e privações: uma câmara de sangria, um tanque escaldante, uma esteira rolante onde em menos de um minuto seus corpos serão dilacerados em carnes, cuidadosamente distinguidas umas das outras, dependendo da parte do corpo na qual estavam posicionadas em vida. Já não estando mais vivas, essas distinções só importam àqueles que não se importaram em apagar nessas carnes a vida.



Se houvesse apenas essas duas filas, a dos indivíduos sequestrados e reféns das armas e a dos indivíduos que não participam ativamente do sequestro nem do abate, mas os financiam e se armam, não para enfrentar os animais em desesperada tentativa de fugir do antro no qual estão confinados, mas para lutar no espaço do prato, permanecendo fora dele, mas dilacerando em nacos ainda menores os pedações daqueles corpos daqueles indivíduos que foram forçados ao jejum dois ou três dias antes da degola, para não sujar demais o abatedouro com excrementos projetados das vísceras em movimentos forjados pelo terror sentido na hora final. Ah, se apenas houvesse essas duas filas, quanta paz poderia haver na mente dos que ocupam a segunda fila, a dos armados nas praças de alimentação. Se só houvesse as vítimas e seus comedores, não haveria peso nas consciências. Mas, estragando a paz tão almejada pelos comedores armados, há uma terceira fila.



Os indivíduos dessa terceira fila estão mostrando seus dentes, mas naquela configuração encorajadora que chamamos sorriso. Eles sorriem docemente para os armados das praças de alimentação. Creem que seu sorriso será a melhor arma para fazer os devoradores de pedaços dos mortos desistirem de seus hábitos carnistas e galactômanos. Esses da fila três pensam seriamente que a maldade dos outros pode ser diluída, bastando para isso uma atitude alheia, não uma vontade própria daqueles cérebros compulsivos. Há mais de dois mil anos os doces sorrisos são apresentados aos comedores, aos matadores, aos exterminadores, sorrisos que levam a mensagem de paz aos corações daqueles que não estão nem aí para a paz daqueles a quem devoram agora. E a história da indiferença continua, porque os de armas brancas nas mãos não estão nem aí para sorrisos, pelo menos não até que encham seus estômagos com carnes bem passadas, mal passadas, temperadas e bem cortadas com suas lâminas. Depois de fartarem-se, podem até dar atenção ao sorriso que receberam sem mérito algum. Isso mesmo! Há quem faça coisas tão hediondas que não mereça um sorriso como gratificação.



Os sorridentes se queixam de que seu esforço de demover os comedores dos restos dos corpos dilacerados pelos matadores não resulta na abolição desejada. Mas, ao fazerem suas queixas, jamais investigam a natureza e o alvo de seu sorriso. Jamais computam o resultado obtido com seu sorriso. Sorriem e sorriem para outros que já não sorriem, porque temem que seus dentes cheios de fragmentos de carnes sangrando sejam observados por alguém, o que os envergonharia, não por terem comido alguém que queria mesmo era viver e fruir, mas porque pedaços e restos de comida entre os dentes não são socialmente aceitáveis. Por isso, ao receberem sorrisos dos que creem sinceramente que os converterão para uma dieta sem animais e seus derivados, eles não sorriem de volta.



Na mesma praça (em grego seria ágora), há um quarto grupo. Sem sorriso algum nos lábios, sem qualquer arma branca, negra ou vermelha nas mãos, esses indivíduos colocam no telão as imagens dos momentos finais pelos quais os indivíduos da primeira fila passaram , antes de virarem só mais um naco de carne no prato dos indivíduos da segunda fila, aquela dos armados de armas brancas. Ao fazerem isso, convocam todos a darem um basta nessa dieta sangrenta. Não há armas, não há sorrisos. Somente as imagens que traduzem numa linguagem que ninguém quer aprender, o horror dos centros de confinamento dos indivíduos da primeira fila, o horror dos centros de extermínio deles, o horror das praças de alimentação inundadas dessa comida cadavérica. Essas imagens se juntam, formando uma teia da qual ninguém escapa naquela praça de alimentação. Quem ali estiver comendo, estará comendo esse horror.



Para espanto dos que compõem o quarto grupo, agressões e acusações partem dos indivíduos do grupo três, que não querem que os do grupo dois se vejam no espelho, querem que eles vejam apenas rostos sorridentes diante da cara deles, enquanto na ponta de seus garfos está espetado um naco da carne que era de outro, um outro com tanta sensibilidade e consciência quanto a deles, ou mais.



Em que fila cada um gostaria de estar diante do juízo final? (Essa do juízo final não tem muito apelo para muitos, não é mesmo?)



Então, vamos esquecer a Bíblia. Respondamos a uma só pergunta: caso houvesse um poder soberano decidindo por você a posição na qual será alocado, e lhe fosse dada a chance de escolher apenas uma das filas nas quais não gostaria de estar, qual das quatro filas, definitivamente, você não gostaria de compor? Se sua resposta for a fila dos que estão com a senha na mão para receber o golpe final, você entendeu a tragédia da condição animal. Não mande os animais para uma fila na qual você jamais seria visto, se dependesse de sua vontade. Você é um animal com tanto horror da morte quanto todos os que foram mortos para virar nacos de carne em nossos pratos, incluindo os natalinos.



Fonte: ANDA - 25.12.2014


Continue Reading...

Perfect Eggnog Recipes



The holidays wouldn't be complete without a little homemade eggnog. From chef Hugh Acheson's bourbon and rum-based recipe to Puerto Rican coquito made with coconut milk, these 9 variations will add a festive touch to any celebration.




























Continue Reading...

Chocolate smoothie: 1 cup unsweetened almond milk, 3 soft pitted...





Chocolate smoothie: 1 cup unsweetened almond milk, 3 soft pitted dates, 2 bananas, 1 tbsp almond butter,1.5 tbsp cocoa powder, 2 tbsp hemp hearts, 1 tsp maca powder.




via @notiun
Continue Reading...

Vegan and sugar free hot chocolate made with raw cacao and rice...





Vegan and sugar free hot chocolate made with raw cacao and rice milk from a local cafe, delicious and warming up my tum. ��




via @notiun
Continue Reading...

Vegan and sugar free hot chocolate made with raw cacao and rice...





Vegan and sugar free hot chocolate made with raw cacao and rice milk from a local cafe, delicious and warming up my tum. ��




via @notiun
Continue Reading...

Cauliflower





Cauliflower




via @notiun
Continue Reading...

Boston Uncommon



Parkers Restaurant Enlarge Credit: Landon Nordeman Snow is falling. Communal tables are being set. A Pixies song plays as a rush of seafood purveyors carry in the day's delivery of bluefish, swordfish, and clams. Dinner at Will Gilson's two-year-old restaurant, Puritan & Company, in Cambridge, Massachusetts, won't start for a few more hours, but already the barnlike dining room, strung with Mason-jar chandeliers, feels busy and inviting.



At 32 years old, Gilson is a youthful, the-world-is-my-oyster kind of guy who is always smiling, and with good reason. He's running one of the Boston area's hottest restaurants. He's getting a lot of love from the local press. And if that weren't enough, he's being credited with reviving, if not saving, some of New England's most beloved dishes.



Boston can lay claim to a particular cuisine: salt-pork clam chowders, hearty molasses-laced beans, and that perplexing cut of fish called scrod. Gilson, a 13th-generation descendent of a Mayflower passenger, is making sure regional specialties like these stay relevant in the brave new world of farm-to-table everything. Take, for example, his "boiled dinner." Rather than letting a mess of corned beef and root vegetables simmer for hours into typical Yankee-Doodle dreariness, Gilson gives it a fresh treatment. Using produce from New England farms, including his parents'—and tweezer-wielding precision—he composes a visually alluring salad of Brussels sprout leaves, hay-roasted carrots, pickled cauliflower, and thinly sliced house-corned Wagyu beef. The crisp, savory, artfully assembled dish would make a convert of even the most pious of Puritans.



"When you talk about the regional foods of New England, it's all about nostalgia and comfort," Gilson says. "But that doesn't mean these dishes can't be elevated. What we set out to do is find the things that are visceral to people from this region, and take them to the next level."



At a time when everything old is new again, Boston is home to some of the most bona fide dining rooms in the country

That level is well-represented by a smoked bluefish pâté seasoned with fresh parsley and tarragon and served with New England hardtack crackers. Hardtacks, a bland staple of 19th-century fishing vessels, were notorious as much for their bricklike texture as for their ability to endure long voyages without spoilage. In Gilson's hands, however, they are crisp, buttery, and highly addictive. Equally compelling is his finnan haddie chowder, made with cold-smoked, salted haddock and potatoes.



Puritan & Company is part of a resurgence in Boston dining, one that's been amply celebrated in the past decade. But Boston isn't just a culinary boomtown. What sets it apart is that so many of its old-guard restaurants—the kinds of places that inspired chefs like Gilson—are still around. It's why I love this town. At a time when everything old is new again, Boston is home to some of the most bona fide dining rooms, taverns, and seafood shacks in the country.



It's not just New England food they're serving, either. Centuries of immigration—from Italy, Ireland, Germany, and beyond—have left an indelible and delicious mark. On a cold Tuesday evening, I find myself in Jacob Wirth restaurant, sitting in a swarming barroom drinking pints of Guinness among ball-capped college students and happy-hour businessmen loosening their ties while a Bruins game plays on the flat-screens. Jacob Wirth was established in 1868 by its namesake, who grew up in the same German village as the Anheuser family and became the first New England distributor of their St. Louis-based Anheuser-Busch beers.





Enlarge Back then, the restaurant was in a German Catholic neighborhood, a gathering place for Teutonic immigrants who landed here in the 19th century. Today, that same area is Chinatown. The building alone is a sight to behold—two adjoined tatty Greek-Revival row houses with dilapidated dormers and a massive old clock that looks like it was rescued from a Hollywood prop yard. Inside, tin ceilings, schoolhouse lights, and a battered piano make Jacob Wirth seem almost artificial—like a modern-day replica of itself. While the menu is filled with such crowd-pleasers as hamburgers and chipotle turkey sandwiches, I decide on the jaeger schnitzel, a breaded veal cutlet served with meaty wild mushrooms, sweet pea spätzle, and a thick sauce enriched with the spicy digestif Jägermeister, delectable proof that Jacob Wirth retains its Old World chops.



My mother, who was born in Massachusetts, was a teenager back in the 1960s when she ate at Durgin-Park restaurant, in the Faneuil Hall Marketplace. She was treating her older brother, George, to lunch here, celebrating his graduation from law school. That's one of the great things about Boston: You can revisit the same places your parents—heck, even your great-grandparents—once did, and eat pretty much the same food.



I'm guessing that successive generations have been served by the same staff at Durgin-Park, too. Standing in one of the restaurant's second-floor rooms, I read the framed obituary of Nancy Greenfield, a retired employee of the Post Office who went on to become one of the restaurant's "surly, celebrated waitresses" from 1976 until 1991. According to the article, Mrs. Greenfield held court at station 12, a table for 25 where single male customers were seated communally. Glancing toward that station, I notice an older man with a shock of gray hair enjoying a bowl of clam chowder. I figure he might've known Nancy. I'd bet he misses her.



You can revisit the same places your parents once did, and eat pretty much the same food

Durgin-Park was born as a nameless dining hall that catered to Faneuil Hall vendors and fishermen, who would dock their boats in what was once—before numerous engineering projects—the nearby harbor. In 1827, a regular customer named John Durgin teamed up with merchants Eldridge Park and John Chandler to buy the place. Since both Durgin and Park died soon afterward, Chandler named the restaurant in their memory. Over the years, it became known as the spot to get your New England fix, with such dishes as Boston baked beans, cornmeal-based Indian pudding, caramelly apple pandowdy, and an intimidating 32-ounce prime rib that makes my mouth water as a waitress named Regina delivers it to another table.



When my equally formidable portion of Yankee pot roast arrives, I shred the tender, flaky meat into the accompanying mashed potatoes. It's the kind of dish I remember eating countless times as a kid, usually halfheartedly. But there's something about having it here, in this history-laden dining room, that makes it almost transcendent. I finish off the meal with the most curious item on the menu, coffee gelatin, which arrives in a ceramic mug topped with whipped cream. The caffeinated dessert, made with the leftovers from yesterday's pot, has been served here for ages, and as I swallow my last quivering bite, I can't help thinking of the incongruity of a bunch of salty sailors spooning up these cute little cubes before heading out to sea.



"Let's get us some oy-stas," one of a group of five men says, affecting a Boston accent, as I make my way into the Union Oyster House. These are young guys, suited, draped in overcoats, and wrapped in expensive scarves. My guess is that they're in town for a convention. My guess is that they're a little drunk. One of them, a dead ringer for a Citizen Kane-era Orson Welles, looks up to the restaurant's wood sign and scoffs, "This whole city feels like Disney World."



Puritan and Company Enlarge Credit: Landon Nordeman



His words get to me, but I understand where he's coming from. There are parts of Boston that do feel like historic re-creation. You can't walk a few footsteps without happening upon a plaque signifying some legendary event or celebrated birthplace. One morning I casually strolled by the Old State House, where, in 1770, the Boston Massacre gave way to the American Revolution. Walking down the street from my hotel to buy dental floss, I passed the tombstones of Paul Revere, Samuel Adams, and Benjamin Franklin's parents.



But despite young Orson's skepticism, Union Oyster House really did open in 1826, making it among the country's oldest restaurants. While it has expanded threefold into neighboring buildings over the years, its main room looks almost exactly as it did in the 19th century, when a blowhard senator named Daniel Webster riled his fellow patrons after too much brandy. Upstairs is the wooden booth where, back in the 1950s, another Massachusetts senator—John F. Kennedy—spent his Sundays reading the newspapers and mulling his political future over bowls of lobster stew.



While I long to sit in that booth, it is already taken up by a group of Harvard undergrads, so I settle for the one directly across from them instead. I order a cup of clam chowder and take in the restaurant's wood-beamed ceilings, nautical light fixtures, and a Victorian Christmas tree that looks as if it had been decorated by Dickens himself.



The chowder arrives smelling of briny shellfish and smoky salt pork

The chowder arrives smelling of briny shellfish and smoky salt pork. I tear open a bag of oyster crackers, mixing them in with the tender meat and potatoes. Taking my waitress's recommendation, I follow it up with a classic seafood Newburg with succulent scallops, lobster tail, and shrimp, all of them sautéed in butter and doused in a spicy Worcestershire-and-sherry-spiked cream sauce with a flaky vol-au-vent. By the time I'm finished, the Harvard students have gone back to Cambridge, so I sneak into Kennedy's booth and order a Jameson on the rocks.



After settling my tab, I make my way up the block to the Omni Parker House hotel, where I'm staying. But before heading to my room, I make a split-second decision to duck into Parker's Restaurant, just off the main lobby. While some may call it stodgy and outdated, this circa 1920s dining room is one of my favorite places on earth. With its opulent chandeliers, handsome hardwood paneling, and heavily draped floor-to-ceiling windows, it harkens back to a time when black-tied men and white-gloved women maintained an almost absurd amount of decorum, at least until the third martini kicked in.



Following in the footsteps of illustrious Parker's chefs Jasper White and Emeril Lagasse, the current executive chef, Gerry Tice, serves New England mainstays: chowder, lobster, the fluffy namesake Parker House rolls, and, of course, scrod, which he sautés in white wine and coats in bread crumbs. It's a quintessentially New England food whose name, my tuxedo-clad waiter tells me, was an acronym for the phrase "Special Catch Requested of the Day."



Jacob Wirth restaurant Enlarge Credit: Landon Nordeman



While this seems an apocryphal tale for a term that, according to most dictionaries, is derived from the British term "scrawed," which refers to a split and salted young fish, I order it anyway. As I slide my fork into the moist white fillet, I'm reminded that it's far better tasting than it sounds. I settle into my plush leather chair and surrender myself to the Parker's experience. A World War II-period soundtrack plays in the background. I gaze toward a corner table where, more than half a century ago, it is said that a young man named John proposed to a beauty named Jacqueline. The hushed, largely empty dining room springs to life, at least in my imagination.



In 1875, inside a small brick building on Bosworth Street, a dream came true. Here, a young French immigrant to Boston named Henry Marliave opened what would become one of the city's most revered restaurants—The Marliave. For more than a century, it would be celebrated for its menu of French, Italian, and New England dishes. But starting in the 1990s, the food began to suffer; the crowds began to thin. In 2003, Henry Marliave's dream ended when the restaurant was shuttered, many believed for good. Its unlikely resurrection came less than two years later, thanks to chef Scott Herritt, who grew up not in New England, but in Oklahoma. Much like Gilson's approach at Puritan & Company, part of Herritt's plan for The Marliave was to make it a showcase for refined New England classics. And if the tender pan-roasted local swordfish served with Swiss chard, red bell peppers, and potatoes is any indication, The Marliave might still be here a hundred years from now.



After finishing my meal, I take a seat at the restaurant's reassuringly crowded bar, the old mosaic tile floors and pressed tin ceilings still intact, and watch as good-humored patrons imbibe Prohibition era cocktails. I order a boozy Boston Tea Party made with tequila, ginger, lemon, and Earl Grey. A couple sitting next to me asks if the Bruins won tonight. I say I'm from New York, and they tell me that's okay. "Blue Christmas" starts playing in the background. And while this timeless Boston restaurant is nearly a century and a half old, right now, it feels to me like opening night.



See our guide to where to eat in Boston »















Continue Reading...

Nutella Hot Chocolate with Hazelnut Liqueur



Enlarge Credit: Maxime Iattoni MAKES 1 DRINK



INGREDIENTS


1 cup milk

2 tbsp. Nutella

1 tbsp. hazelnut liqueur, such as Frangelico (optional)

Whipped cream, for serving



INSTRUCTIONS


Heat milk in a 1-qt. saucepan over medium heat until just beginning to bubble at edges, about 3 minutes. Remove from heat and whisk in remaining ingredients until smooth. Top with whipped cream to serve.















Continue Reading...
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...

Followers

Follow us on Facebook

Todas as receitas estão no Petitchef