chicken beef turkey ham chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken roast beef yummy chicken is delish nellie look I’m typing about roasted food. roasted weenies! like the hot dog don’t think wrong lol roast food i love food.
Puffed up with air, crispy caramel brown outside. Spongy soft in. Here comes the gravy, smothering the Yorkshire, patiently waiting for a slice of the red-centered juicy Sunday roast,
The fire was flickering fluorescent oranges and yellows across the dark shadows. My hands were numb when I came in from the bitter wind that was lashing outside, now they were flush with heat. I felt like a roast that had been left in the oven to warm over the course of the night.
The laughter was deafening. But that was the point. Dan chuckled along as if he were amused, but inside a quiet rage blossomed. Yes, it had been his idea to invite them all here to make fun of him to raise for his favorite charity. But each joke crafted at his expense felt like a bullet piercing his armor of dignity.
I have always enjoyred a Comedy Central Roast. I hear that Justin Beiber is getting roasted next at his request. God knows that he certainly have given Jeff Ross plenty of materail to do said Roast.
The roast was in the oven and the smells were permeating through the house making things warm and cozy as she waited for the love of her life to arrive.
“Oh we’re gonna roast today!”, I shouted to my neighbor as I opened the car door. I could feel a blast of hot air on my face as I began rolling down the window.
Sheila put the roast in the oven. It never failed that she was the one who had to host these family gatherings. She resented it and yet put up with it, a form of passive aggression that her brother would comment on after his second glass of wine. She began chopping the ends off the green beans, the knife pounding the board harder than need be for the slim stems.
Of course, he would comment on that and her controlling ways, saying that she held things at her house so that she could control the movements and interactions of the family.
over the spit, she turned the meat of me. charring my outsides, but keeping the insides soft and red. my vision turned toward my own roasting, and I began to taste the barbecue of my soul.
a toast reminds me of camping. having a hog roast with my family, eating around a campfire with my friends. It makes me think of the books I read when they are set in the past. a communal fire, singing and laughing.
The roast was happening far away, on the other side of the street and I was here. Attempting. Trying to make dues end. The air was silent and pallid, my fingers harsh and without the caress of the sun. I smell the roast on, even from back here. Silent, basking in my misery as somewhat of a temptation to diverge me from my stability. Thrust me into social environment that I longed for, needed. But the world keeps you working and slashes you with criticism on being an introvert locked and wishing you were in the roast. The radio was at low buzz and I was drained. I wish I was in the roast.
I love roast lamb. One of the biggest problems with this most succulent of meals is that it makes the roof of my mouth itch. Like, incessantly. It’s horrible to love something so much only to have it punish you for doing so. Perhaps one day I’ll find a way to cook it that doesn’t torture my palate, until then I suppose I’ll have to settle for chops. Or maybe bacon. Yes, bacon is always a good thing too.
Kitt poked the air with the leg of roast chicken he was eating, and spewed abuse at the two men in front of him. Their attempt to muscle in on his turf had failed, and now they would pay the price, but not before he had vented his anger. It would mean nothing to them, because they would be dead in minutes, but he wanted his own men to see that he was not a man to be crossed. A drop of barbeque sauce flew off the chicken leg, landing on one man’s chin. Kitt stopped for an instant. The man didn’t flinch, but merely smiled and licked it off. Kitt exploded in rage, jumped up from his seat, and in an instant had the man pinned to the floor, pushing the chicken leg down his throat. He reached up to the table, grabbed a handful of stuffing, and pounded that into the man’s mouth and nose. The man writhed, coughed, spluttered, and tried to scream, but passed out after a few seconds. Kitt wiped his hands on the man’s jacket, then opened it, took out his wallet, and removed a ten dollar bill. “Dutch Treat!”, he joked, and slapped the wallet down on the man’s face. As he stood up, he turned to his lieutenant and said; “Give the leftovers to the dogs!”.
I was ready to roast marshmallows and make myself some s’mores that night, and as I went to the kitchen to fetch the supplies, I caught Marcus sitting at the dining room table, taking a large bite out of a chocolate bar. One look at the wrappers scattered in front of him, and my jaw dropped.
“Um, Marcus,” I whispered, “those were for us. Y’know, the ones camping out tonight.”
“Oh.” Marcus burped. “Don’t worry. I didn’t eat all of ’em.”
Like roasting a chicken? This also makes me think of roast as in roasting in the sun. Which makes me think of summer. I miss summer. Michigan is not the place to be if you don’t like the cold. And I hate the cold. Sometimes I question why I chose to stay here for college. I just want the sun, sand, warmth, beach days. It’s too cold and I have to walk to class. I’m moving south.
we decided to have a roast for dinner; come to think of it, we haven’t had roast in a while. We used to always have roast, but not now. I wonder why. I shall start having roast again
Thanksgiving is the largest holiday in the united states! Following is the Super Bowl. I don’t see how Christmas isn’t in first or second place, because nothing beats a roasted turkey dinner.
“Did you get the roast from outside?” I called to my husband as we dashed around the house, a meticulous dance in getting ready for the dinner. The one day a year when we both had to work our hardest to make sure every detail was as perfect as it could be. I had been preparing the inside of the house, and I told him that he needed to keep an eye on the roast outside, but knowing him, it was probably burnt to a crisp already.
Roast chicken is pretty good to be honest. i’m picturing a roast chicken like the kind you can get at costco or sam’s club or Albertsons’. The kind that just sits under a really hot lamp, waiting for someone to come by and take it home to eat it. I think my favorite part is probably the thigh or leg.
Growing up my mom always made roast in the crockpot on cold days. She would put in the roast and potatoes with onions and carrots in the morning before school and by the time we got home it would be cooked and ready. The house would smell so yummy. She would make some garlic bread and we would enjoy a yummy dinner. :)
I love when my mom makes roast. The house smells so yummy. Potatoes, onions, carrots, pepper. It is the best dinner on a cold wintery night. The rolls my mom makes that go with the roast make for a perfect comfort meai that is satisfying and yummy.
The sun was hot against her face. She wanted desperately to back inside, out of the heat. Her skin felt like it was roasting. But there were too many memories in that house. Too many missed chances, too many broken promises, and too many things she could never forget.
Mom grabbed hot pads and opened the smoking oven.
“Oh, no!” She fanned the forgotten roast in a fruitless effort to save it.
“Can we have pizza?” I asked.
It was years since Nanny Wilkins had eaten a roast of any kind. Duke Balsa had closed the dungeon doors for good after that last escapade, and told the children about how “Nanny Wilkins was most certainly a Communist.”
Papa’s roast was always the best part of the Honker’s Fourth of July celebration. The recipe that everyone knew was top-secret and guarded by secret F.B.I. agents (according to Papa himself) had been passed down in my family for about five generations . . . or at least that was how the story went.
The Fourth of July celebration at my parent’s house was probably my own kid’s favorite time of the year, because little Joey loved to run around with all his cousins that he only got to see once a year. It was so hard to come to New Mexico, especially with mine and my husband’s money as it was, that that was the only time Joey got to see them.
Roast. Either a meat like the kind my mother makes that simmers all day long. A meat of warmth, or, more recently, a turn of phrase used when we are being the opposite of warm. You go about roasting others on they dress style or any other number of things. How can a word mean both something warm, and something so frigid?
The tantalizing aroma filled the air with its savory goodness. I inhale deeply, mouth watering in anticipation. It’s been years since I last had a divine roast. And if anyone can make a roast worth eating, Mary can. I frown. That’s still another reason that I should probably ask her to marry me.
Roast.
It can be something tasty that you eat on Thanksgiving day, or a set of comedians taking jabs at each other.
Either way, it seems to bring people together.
Yum.
I tilt my marshmallow-roasting stick in the fire. I’ve found a special pocket of coals, the type that are almost blue and just quivering with heat and the joy of being alive. The marshmallow has begun to smoke, but it’s not on fire yet, not quite ready to burst into flames.
It begins to smoke more urgently. I yank it out of the fire pit and gaze at it. It oozes sugar like a wound oozes pus and is blackened, though not quite burned. Perfect.
They all wanted to be back. Life had turned them in so many directions and it made finding time to all get together difficult. One was abroad completing research, another across the country. They had all changed and time had grabbed ahold. They secretly all wanted to be back around the campfire to roast marshmallows and laugh…they all simply wanted to be together.
The leg gradually rotated on the spit, roasting slowly, its skin darkened to a charred black. The man by the fire grinned. “She sure did scream,” he chuckled. “Feisty youngsters. Oh, they have such juicy meat. And the tongues are the best part.”
As I trudged through the desert, hot and tired. I was roasting in the black turtle neck I wore.
i like to roast little children.
chicken beef turkey ham chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken chicken roast beef yummy chicken is delish nellie look I’m typing about roasted food. roasted weenies! like the hot dog don’t think wrong lol roast food i love food.
Puffed up with air, crispy caramel brown outside. Spongy soft in. Here comes the gravy, smothering the Yorkshire, patiently waiting for a slice of the red-centered juicy Sunday roast,
The fire was flickering fluorescent oranges and yellows across the dark shadows. My hands were numb when I came in from the bitter wind that was lashing outside, now they were flush with heat. I felt like a roast that had been left in the oven to warm over the course of the night.
The laughter was deafening. But that was the point. Dan chuckled along as if he were amused, but inside a quiet rage blossomed. Yes, it had been his idea to invite them all here to make fun of him to raise for his favorite charity. But each joke crafted at his expense felt like a bullet piercing his armor of dignity.
I have always enjoyred a Comedy Central Roast. I hear that Justin Beiber is getting roasted next at his request. God knows that he certainly have given Jeff Ross plenty of materail to do said Roast.
The roast was in the oven and the smells were permeating through the house making things warm and cozy as she waited for the love of her life to arrive.
“Oh we’re gonna roast today!”, I shouted to my neighbor as I opened the car door. I could feel a blast of hot air on my face as I began rolling down the window.
Sheila put the roast in the oven. It never failed that she was the one who had to host these family gatherings. She resented it and yet put up with it, a form of passive aggression that her brother would comment on after his second glass of wine. She began chopping the ends off the green beans, the knife pounding the board harder than need be for the slim stems.
Of course, he would comment on that and her controlling ways, saying that she held things at her house so that she could control the movements and interactions of the family.
over the spit, she turned the meat of me. charring my outsides, but keeping the insides soft and red. my vision turned toward my own roasting, and I began to taste the barbecue of my soul.
test
a toast reminds me of camping. having a hog roast with my family, eating around a campfire with my friends. It makes me think of the books I read when they are set in the past. a communal fire, singing and laughing.
The roast was happening far away, on the other side of the street and I was here. Attempting. Trying to make dues end. The air was silent and pallid, my fingers harsh and without the caress of the sun. I smell the roast on, even from back here. Silent, basking in my misery as somewhat of a temptation to diverge me from my stability. Thrust me into social environment that I longed for, needed. But the world keeps you working and slashes you with criticism on being an introvert locked and wishing you were in the roast. The radio was at low buzz and I was drained. I wish I was in the roast.
I love roast lamb. One of the biggest problems with this most succulent of meals is that it makes the roof of my mouth itch. Like, incessantly. It’s horrible to love something so much only to have it punish you for doing so. Perhaps one day I’ll find a way to cook it that doesn’t torture my palate, until then I suppose I’ll have to settle for chops. Or maybe bacon. Yes, bacon is always a good thing too.
Kitt poked the air with the leg of roast chicken he was eating, and spewed abuse at the two men in front of him. Their attempt to muscle in on his turf had failed, and now they would pay the price, but not before he had vented his anger. It would mean nothing to them, because they would be dead in minutes, but he wanted his own men to see that he was not a man to be crossed. A drop of barbeque sauce flew off the chicken leg, landing on one man’s chin. Kitt stopped for an instant. The man didn’t flinch, but merely smiled and licked it off. Kitt exploded in rage, jumped up from his seat, and in an instant had the man pinned to the floor, pushing the chicken leg down his throat. He reached up to the table, grabbed a handful of stuffing, and pounded that into the man’s mouth and nose. The man writhed, coughed, spluttered, and tried to scream, but passed out after a few seconds. Kitt wiped his hands on the man’s jacket, then opened it, took out his wallet, and removed a ten dollar bill. “Dutch Treat!”, he joked, and slapped the wallet down on the man’s face. As he stood up, he turned to his lieutenant and said; “Give the leftovers to the dogs!”.
I was ready to roast marshmallows and make myself some s’mores that night, and as I went to the kitchen to fetch the supplies, I caught Marcus sitting at the dining room table, taking a large bite out of a chocolate bar. One look at the wrappers scattered in front of him, and my jaw dropped.
“Um, Marcus,” I whispered, “those were for us. Y’know, the ones camping out tonight.”
“Oh.” Marcus burped. “Don’t worry. I didn’t eat all of ’em.”
Like roasting a chicken? This also makes me think of roast as in roasting in the sun. Which makes me think of summer. I miss summer. Michigan is not the place to be if you don’t like the cold. And I hate the cold. Sometimes I question why I chose to stay here for college. I just want the sun, sand, warmth, beach days. It’s too cold and I have to walk to class. I’m moving south.
we decided to have a roast for dinner; come to think of it, we haven’t had roast in a while. We used to always have roast, but not now. I wonder why. I shall start having roast again
Thanksgiving is the largest holiday in the united states! Following is the Super Bowl. I don’t see how Christmas isn’t in first or second place, because nothing beats a roasted turkey dinner.
“Did you get the roast from outside?” I called to my husband as we dashed around the house, a meticulous dance in getting ready for the dinner. The one day a year when we both had to work our hardest to make sure every detail was as perfect as it could be. I had been preparing the inside of the house, and I told him that he needed to keep an eye on the roast outside, but knowing him, it was probably burnt to a crisp already.
Roast chicken is pretty good to be honest. i’m picturing a roast chicken like the kind you can get at costco or sam’s club or Albertsons’. The kind that just sits under a really hot lamp, waiting for someone to come by and take it home to eat it. I think my favorite part is probably the thigh or leg.
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Growing up my mom always made roast in the crockpot on cold days. She would put in the roast and potatoes with onions and carrots in the morning before school and by the time we got home it would be cooked and ready. The house would smell so yummy. She would make some garlic bread and we would enjoy a yummy dinner. :)
I love when my mom makes roast. The house smells so yummy. Potatoes, onions, carrots, pepper. It is the best dinner on a cold wintery night. The rolls my mom makes that go with the roast make for a perfect comfort meai that is satisfying and yummy.
The sun was hot against her face. She wanted desperately to back inside, out of the heat. Her skin felt like it was roasting. But there were too many memories in that house. Too many missed chances, too many broken promises, and too many things she could never forget.
Mom grabbed hot pads and opened the smoking oven.
“Oh, no!” She fanned the forgotten roast in a fruitless effort to save it.
“Can we have pizza?” I asked.
The palm of her hand roasts over the boiling coffee. In and out she stretches her fingers, exercising the blood. The cold limits mobility.
It was years since Nanny Wilkins had eaten a roast of any kind. Duke Balsa had closed the dungeon doors for good after that last escapade, and told the children about how “Nanny Wilkins was most certainly a Communist.”
Papa’s roast was always the best part of the Honker’s Fourth of July celebration. The recipe that everyone knew was top-secret and guarded by secret F.B.I. agents (according to Papa himself) had been passed down in my family for about five generations . . . or at least that was how the story went.
The Fourth of July celebration at my parent’s house was probably my own kid’s favorite time of the year, because little Joey loved to run around with all his cousins that he only got to see once a year. It was so hard to come to New Mexico, especially with mine and my husband’s money as it was, that that was the only time Joey got to see them.
Orphan roasts are my favorite dish to make.
As a fine culinary witch, I’d say I’m the Gordon Ramsay of witch cookery. Screw those gingerbread wannabees, I’m the best in the business.
Roast. Either a meat like the kind my mother makes that simmers all day long. A meat of warmth, or, more recently, a turn of phrase used when we are being the opposite of warm. You go about roasting others on they dress style or any other number of things. How can a word mean both something warm, and something so frigid?
The tantalizing aroma filled the air with its savory goodness. I inhale deeply, mouth watering in anticipation. It’s been years since I last had a divine roast. And if anyone can make a roast worth eating, Mary can. I frown. That’s still another reason that I should probably ask her to marry me.
Roast.
It can be something tasty that you eat on Thanksgiving day, or a set of comedians taking jabs at each other.
Either way, it seems to bring people together.
Yum.
I tilt my marshmallow-roasting stick in the fire. I’ve found a special pocket of coals, the type that are almost blue and just quivering with heat and the joy of being alive. The marshmallow has begun to smoke, but it’s not on fire yet, not quite ready to burst into flames.
It begins to smoke more urgently. I yank it out of the fire pit and gaze at it. It oozes sugar like a wound oozes pus and is blackened, though not quite burned. Perfect.
I love cooking a roast. I would cook it in my crockpot with potatoes and carrots. I then would add spices such as pepper and onion and garlic.
They all wanted to be back. Life had turned them in so many directions and it made finding time to all get together difficult. One was abroad completing research, another across the country. They had all changed and time had grabbed ahold. They secretly all wanted to be back around the campfire to roast marshmallows and laugh…they all simply wanted to be together.
I have roast every Sunday
Especially on Christmas
Roast are nice
Potatoes
Kumaras
Chicken
Carrots
I love a roast
The leg gradually rotated on the spit, roasting slowly, its skin darkened to a charred black. The man by the fire grinned. “She sure did scream,” he chuckled. “Feisty youngsters. Oh, they have such juicy meat. And the tongues are the best part.”