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The Roast Beef Sandwich Recipe That Makes the Best Holiday Feast

I remember feeling very confused as a child—most of the time, all of the time—but especially at the end of How the Grinch Stole Christmas!, when the Grinch turns his attitude around and serves every Who in Whoville a slice of “roast beast.” The cartoon roast looked delicious, with its browned edges and pink inside. But how would it feed all the Whos? I wondered. What is roast beast? I wondered. Then I dreamed, as little girls do, about a fat slice of roast beast being handed to me by a smug man with four furry fingers.

grinch roast beast

I assumed it was roast beef, for obvious reasons, but on closer inspection, it’s gotta be a ham or a roast goose. Food director Carla Lalli Music confirms the goose theories. Well that’s not gonna feed all the Whos in Whoville (a.k.a. the eight people I call my friends)! To recreate this scene properly, and to feed a crowd this holiday, the best meat for the job is really a huge hunk of roast beef. Specifically, this garlic-rosemary slow roast beef by Chris Morocco.

grinch roast beast 3

You start with a 4-lb. New York strip roast, which I picked up from a butcher who had the gall to charge me $130 for it. “But it’s Christmassss!” I said with a Cindy Lou pout. “No shit,” he replied with a bloody thwack to the cutting board. “Ok-ay.” I swiped that credit card.

The only thing elaborate about Chris’s recipe is the quality of that hunk of meat, the sheer size of the lad. The rest is pretty simple. A day before roasting, I seasoned it with salt and pep and rubbed it with a garlic-rosemary-oil mixture that made my kitchen smell incredible. The next day, the beast went into the oven at a mere 200° for almost three hours. Low and slow is the name of the game. During that time I made a nice salad dressing, bought some Martin’s potato buns, whipped up the horseradish sour cream, and read a novel’s worth of cheesecake recipe reviews by strangers on the internet, searching for truth. (I landed on Craig Claiborne’s, if you’re curious. It came out rich and dense; you could carve “David” from it.)

By the time the was beef was resting, my friends had arrived for cocktails and a little activity we call Lookit The Meat!, where you stand around the kitchen looking at that huge roast. Mingle mingle, kris and kringle, and then when it was about time to feast, I browned the roast in the biggest Dutch oven I own (Lodge’s 7.5 quart), a couple minutes per side.

DINNER TIME. Cue the Grinch-style slicing at the cutting board. Big knife, big grin, but thin slices, ideally. It was just like the cartoon, it has to be said: The beef was bright pink inside, and a general joy to behold, and the rosemary-garlic crust was deeply browned and crispy. Around the table, we loaded the sliced beef on soft buns with a slathering of horseradish cream, some mustard, and cornichons. Unlike Thanksgiving or other roast beast feasts, this isn’t a “pass the mashed potatoes, papa,” formal dinner. It’s a construction zone. Spoons stuck in mustard pots, rolls flying across the table. You get to be yourself. Load up the sandwich with four cornichons, sliced perfectly in half.

The luxury of the roast beef still makes it a special occasion, but a festive one. And you eat with your hands! There’s no other way. The assembly of a roast beef sandwich is like trimming your best friend’s show-offy 8-foot tree, or holding the rickety ladder as your awkward step-brother outlines the house in lights, or sloppily decorating sugar cookies with your 14 cousins. It’s about forced interaction with those you love—even if it gets a little messy sometimes.

Get the recipe:



Yesfolk Tonics Makes Kombucha Like You’ve Never Seen—Or Tasted—Before

There’s never been a better time to be a kombucha lover. The fermented tea-based drink has overtaken the grocery store, edging out coconut water and sparkling switchel to claim an entire aisle for funk. It’s a brave new world of beverages, with brands hailing from Portland, OR, Portland, ME, and everywhere in between. But in this heavily saturated, highly carbonated market, one brand has stood out to me for its nuanced flavors and conscientious sourcing: Yesfolk Tonics kombucha feels totally fresh.

Yesfolk founders Yiyi Mendoza and Adam Elabd are trained herbalists who have experimented with fermentation together since 2012. (Elbad has even authored a book on the matter, Fermenting Food Step by Step.) The couple’s process is rooted in respect for ingredients and a deep knowledge of fermented foods, often derived from their own Mexican and Egyptian heritages. Their family-run microbrewery in upstate New York is located in a converted church—a fitting location for producing such ethereal drinks.

Yesfolk Fam 4

Photo by Michael Valiquette

Frank Mendoza, Yiyi Mendoza, Adam Elabd and Javier Mendoza in the converted church where Yesfolk is brewed.

Yesfolk enlists ceremonial plants like calendula, palo santo, and yaupon to create functional tonics that go beyond your standard probiotic fizz. Their kombucha is fermented in custom-made oak barrels, fortified with wild harvested (and often ceremonial grade) single-origin teas, and packaged in sleek, marbled aluminum cans. “We both worked on organic medicinal herb farms, so we are always thinking about quality and sourcing, even with not overtly medicinal herbs,” says Elabd. ”It’s an opportunity to think about how we can pair this drink with ingredients that are going to promote wellbeing and be uplifting and nourishing in multiple ways.”

The trio of core flavors—yaupon, osmanthus oolong, and jasmine—is supplemented with a rotation of tonics like hibiscus blossom water kefir, palo santo coffee, and ginger beer. The resulting beverage is delicate and smooth, balancing aromatic teas with that telltale fermented earthiness. It’s an herbal elixir that tastes as complex as any cocktail, served up in a can that’s unlike anything else in the kombucha aisle. “We really wanted the bottles to be a continuation of the craft and process that goes into the drink,” says Mendoza, a ceramicist who works with artist Felicity Grace Jones to design the cans. “It strikes you as something that’s different because it’s in a differently shaped can.”

Still, choosing cans wasn’t just a matter of aesthetics. Aluminum cans are recyclable and lighter than the typical glass kombucha bottle, so they require less fossil fuel for transportation and are easier to carry around. (For now, Mendoza and Elabd hand-deliver their tonics to wholesalers across New York state.) While bottles can let in trace amounts of light or air, which can affect fermentation, Yesfolk’s cans are tightly sealed to preserve the drink in its peak.

Once that bottle is cracked open, the first sip is a lesson in what kombucha can be. My favorite flavor is yaupon, a plant native to North America that’s rich in caffeine and theobromine. It tastes of dried sweet desert mint and tangy guava, and the little bubbles of carbonation roll across my tongue. Osmanthus oolong kombucha is silky and peachy, and Yesfolk’s water kefir, a dairy-free ferment pairing wildflower honey with hibiscus, chamomile, and calendula flowers, is even more aromatic. These tonics can be tracked down at bagel shops, yoga studios, and cafes throughout New York state, with more locations serving soon. Those overcrowded kombucha aisles better make some room—that distinctive Yesfolk can is coming for them.

Buy Yesfolk in stores throughout New York state.


Amy Quichiz Makes Her Bedroom Into a Dance Floor Before Going to Sleep

In Going to Bed with…, we talk to the people we’re crushing on about how they wind down before going to sleep.

Now that “plant-based” is a wellness buzzword, it’s easy to forget that veganism was a perfectly conventional, even unremarkable way to eat for generations. “People think that veganism is for the rich, but our people have been eating this way forever,” says Amy Quichiz, the 23-year-old founder of Veggie Mijas, a New York–based collective of women of color dedicated to hosting vegan dinners and promoting healthy living through an intersectional lens.

“We bring awareness to how folks can eat healthier and how every member of our community can have access through SNAP (The Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, aka food stamps) and food pantries,” explains Quichiz. Quichiz’s mother is Colombian and her father is Peruvian; she grew up in Queens, eating mostly Colombian food and staples like corn and sweet potatoes. In the time since Veggie Mijas started, she’s helped the network grow to include chapters in Los Angeles, Miami, and Philadelphia.

This Thanksgiving, local organizers in Chicago are hosting a Friendsgiving potluck to celebrate indigenous resilience. Along with guided breathing exercises and plenty of food, the event is a reminder to “listen to the indigenous community, provide resources, and be gentle with our triggers and traumas. It means celebrating our resilience, our strengths and our weakness and being there for one another,” says Quichiz.

Between her Veggie Mijas duties and a day job at a sexual health center, Quichiz knows that it’s important to take care of herself before helping others. On any given day, you can find her perfecting her feel-good bedtime routine, which usually involves trap music, skincare, and comfort food. Here’s how else she calls it a night.

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Quichiz journaling before bed.


I listen to Locatora Radio, hosted by two great femmes of color, Diosa and Mala, who live in Los Angeles. It’s all about creating radical movements and documenting our legacies. I also listen to Radio Ambulante, an NPR special, where folks from all over the world tell their incredible stories of survival. Most of the time, I cry a lot hearing stories about Colombian women losing their children in environmental or borderland displacements. I love listening to both because there is a balance between reality and escapism.

Just add disco lights

When I’m in my room, I turn the lights off, put on my disco lights, and dance all my stress away. I dance for like an hour. Currently I am listening to Por Ti and No Me Encuentras, by Tatiana Hazel, a Chicana artist from Chicago. I also dance to MIA by Bad Bunny and Drake, and of course, all of the Isolation album by Kali Uchis.

Daily temperature check

I try to write in my journal. I journal every other day and have been writing diary entries since I was 6 years old. I try to write out how I feel, what’s going well, what’s not going well, just so I can have that record. I also like to read Love Poems by Pablo Neruda.

Leaning into face-masking

Before I go to bed, I wear a face mask. I really love this one called Face to the World by Loba Loca, a queer South American migrant artist. Whenever I shower, I place some herb powder on my palm and rub it lightly on my face. It’s oatmeal based, scrubbed with tonic and cleansing organic powder herbs. I also love the Milk Jelly Cleanser, Mega Greens Galaxy, and Moisturizing Moon Mask from Glossier, and the Cup o’ Coffee mask from Lush. I place my face masks in the freezer alongside my pink jade face roller and wait 20 minutes before putting it on. The coolness of the jade gets rid of that extra stress.

healthyish going to bed with amy 1

Photo by Emma Fishman

Quichiz dancing the stress away.

Self-preservation and spirituality

On difficult days, I let myself cry. I also do meditation. I lay out my yoga mat and practice a few breathing techniques and play soft music. This is a moment when I give recognition to myself and God for allowing me to have another day in this life.

Scented candles and sweatpants

Before I go to bed, I always prepare myself a Yogi Bedtime Tea. My girlfriend uses the Figuier scented Diptyque candle, which I love because it smells like a warm winter and makes me want to cuddle and go to sleep. I love coming home and wearing my “Dressed To Chill” sweatpants from Chillhouse. They are so cute and the softest, most comfortable thing to wear after a long day.


How My White Noise Machine Makes My Apartment Feel Like a Fancy Hotel

This story is part of the Healthyish Guide to Sunday, a compilation of recipes, suggestions, and obsessions to make the first day of the week your favorite.

My favorite part of every night is the moment when I turn on my white noise machine.

It’s a small, cute, round, unassuming fellow—a compact white disc in hospital off-white with an o-shaped power button— who sits on the floor near the bed, with an anthropomorphic appearance that makes it seem like it should do a lot more than it does. But I don’t need a robot assistant and what the white noise machine does do—the production of whooshing, exhaling nothingness that drowns out the noise from the street below—is more than enough. The sound pads my bedroom like a cotton ball, absorbing the chaos of the world outside ( *whispers*…was this what it was like in the womb?!).

With the white noise machine doing its thing, retreating into my room feels like going on vacation. Something about its consistent comfort makes my bed softer, my pillows poofier, my anxious thoughts duller, the lights dimmer. It makes me feel like I’ll find fancy, individually-wrapped soaps in the my bathroom and shampoo and conditioner I can’t afford in the shower. Am I wearing worn-down socks or velvet slippers? Is that a small chocolate I see on the pillow? Is sleep within my reach? This illusion is the greatest gift I could ask for from a machine so teeny!

I grew up sleeping with a white noise machine, which my parents purchased when we got a puppy who whined through the night and they didn’t want me to do the same. I abandoned the machine during my adolescence and forgot about its existence throughout high school and college, so sleep-deprived that my eyes would be shut before my head hit the pillow. But during my first autumn in New York, when I no longer powered on the window unit air conditioner at night, I realized just how quiet—but also how maddeningly loud—my bedroom (and every single thought in my head) could be. Without the whir of the A/C, there was eery silence, interspersed by shrill police sirens, cars blasting music, the occasional hubbub on the corner, and, come 3 A.M., the never-ending meows of my two cats, ready for breakfast five hours too early.

I bought the compact, one-speed Dohm Uno from Marpac to replace the A/C shhhhhh-ing, unknowingly repeating the story of the company’s beginning: Marpac originally branded their white noise machines as “sound conditioners” in 1962, when Jim Buckwalter found that his insomniac wife, Trudy, was able to fall asleep in motels thanks to the lull of the A/C. And while the classic sound of a natural white noise machine is just that—the strum of a diffuse fan—fancier electric models are programmed with ocean waves, tingling chimes, or running streams. Personally, I like the placeless-ness of the white noise: I don’t want to be somewhere; I want to be nowhere at all.

Most of the time, when the white noise machine is on, I am not. That, I think, is the whole point. But on relaxing days (or days that are supposed to be), I like to bring my book, my knitting, and some snacks onto my bed long past wake-up time and keep the machine running. A lolling Sunday morning spent in the cocoon of the white noise machine, temporarily tuned out from the chaos of my kitchen sink and world at large, makes it easier to face the loud messiness come Monday.

Buy it: Dohm Uno White Noise Machine, $31.

All products featured on Healthyish are independently selected by our editors. However, when you buy something through our retail links, we may earn an affiliate commission.

The Simplehuman Dish Rack Makes Your Life Look Less Messy Than It Really Is

It’s Get Organized week! Over the next few days, we’ll be highlighting the products and methods we use in, out, and around the kitchen to get our lives together.

The first question people ask me when they walk into my kitchen is, “Where did you get that dish rack?” It is definitely the biggest thing in my kitchen, but no matter how many dishes are piled inside of it, my simplehuman dish rack looks neatly organized like it’s part of a stock photoshoot. Plates and bowls are shingled in their designated spaces along the back, frying pans line up in the middle, glasses and mugs hang securely off the side, and sharp knives stay handle-side up in wooden slots. And even with all of that, there’s still room for items like a mandoline, clean leftover storage containers, and a cutting board without hitting capacity.

For most of my adult life, I had the standard, cheap plastic dish drying rack that I had to replace at least once a year because it got mildewy, moldy, or cracked in half. Then a few years ago, I decided to splurge on the simplehuman dish rack I eyed at Bed Bath & Beyond at least six times before committing. It was stainless steel and shining in the aisle, and since I hand wash all of my dishes (dishwashers are unicorns in budget-friendly New York City apartments) I needed space to dry them all. I bought the $80 dish rack with a 20 percent off coupon, registered it for its five-year warranty, and have zero regrets.

But even if you have a dishwasher, I highly recommend getting this larger rack (19.8″W x 17.7″L x 13.3″H), because you’ll inevitably have to hand-wash things like your Dutch oven, fragile ceramics, and wine glasses. It’s literally thought of everything: The drip tray is expandable and can slide to the left or the right of the rack. There’s a swivel spout that looks like a water slide so you can aim residual water right into the sink (you can put the rack on either side of the sink this way). The wine glass rack can hang even XXL wine glasses upside down by the base of the stem. Oh, and there’s an anti-residue coating on the plastic tray so water spreads and dries more quickly, making sure there’s no gnarly build-up or weird smells coming from your rack. To be honest, I haven’t cleaned it in the nearly two years that I’ve owned it… and it looks almost as good as new. I wipe the outside down when I clean, but it has a fingerprint-proof, rust-proof finish so I don’t have to do much.

As anyone whose come to my house and casually mentioned the piece now well knows, this is the Cadillac of dish racks. But if you think it’s too big for your kitchen, simplehuman also makes a compact version (11.9″W x 15″L x 8.9″H) that is slightly smaller and $30 cheaper, but I say go big or go home. It’s an investment in the illusion that you have your life together, and impressing people is priceless.

All products featured on Bonappetit.com are independently selected by our editors. However, when you buy something through our retail links, we may earn an affiliate commission.