roasting

I’ve stood over sheet pans on Sunday afternoons, roasting broccoli until the kitchen smelled faintly of sulfur, portioning out tidy mounds of chicken and rice into identical little plastic containers.

And so somewhere, between the hiss of butter and the smell of roasting chicken, she is still there, reminding every cook who’ll listen: “Brown food tastes good.”

On “Red Eye,” we were all basically roasting each other, and on my show, we’re all making fun of each other, some more than others.

That’s when his speech is cut off by an orange-faced Mr. Garrison stepping up and roasting the scientist, pangolin and hope with a flamethrower.

And it’s not just police violence that’s on the menu for roasting; police incompetence is fair game too.