Quotes from Linda Francis Lee

Without thinking about what she was doing, she pulled blueberries from the icebox and peaches from the fruit bin. She might have only been seven years old, but she was smart enough to know that her mother would have a fit if she pulled out knives, or did anything near the two-burner hot plate. Instead, Portia, pulled the peaches apart, catching the sticky-sweet juice on her tongue as it ran down her fingers. She found a slice of angel food cake wrapped in plastic and plopped the fruit on top.

She spread her arms wide to encompass the old pine table they had painted robin's egg blue, lightly sanding it in places so the white primer showed through. She had pulled out Aunt Evie's moss green platters and bowls, filling enough of them with everything from cheesy quiches to creamy chocolate pies, butterscotch cupcakes to the beef bourguignon to cover every inch of counter space. The place smelled heavenly.

In order to live a life truly worth living you had to have strength in the face of adversity, patience when confronted by challenge, and bravery in the face of fear. As Sandy Portman I had used arrogance in the face of fear, disdain in the face of challenge, and selfishness in the face of adversity.

But sometimes we have to be brave in order to dig deep and find answers. Even if we're not sure we're going to like the answers.

Some things are true whether you believe them or not.

No person, whether she is a scientist or a cook, can find success if she doesn't first believe that she holds power in her hands— not to use over people, but to use for the good of another.

The real question isn't "Why aren't you strong enough?" It's "Why do you keep doubting that you already are?

It's hard to believe in miracles until you've seen one happen. But once you've seen, well, life alters and you can never look

The real question isn't "Why aren't you strong enough?". It's "Why do you keep doubting that you already are?".

It's regret that kills, the if onlys that leave the mortal wounds.

Two people have to love and respect each other to make a good team, at least in marriage. They have to be committed down to their cores in order to survive the ups and downs of life.

Mothers are strong enough to let their daughters find out who they really are, and daughters are stong enough to realize that mistakes or no, every mother has done the best she can ... and if she's lucky, her own daughter will one day give her the same gift of understanding.

I still didn't know what the future held. I didn't have a map or even a plan. But I had learned that's what life was - risky, messy, no way to tie it up in neat little packages despite my desire for it to be otherwise.

Sometimes there is more to a person's need for white picket fences than safety, just as sometimes there is more to a person's rebellion than the need to lash out against rules.

I don't remember exactly when books became my refuge, but it was in the pages of a world created out of thin air that I began to find pieces I recognized as myself.

In order to live a life truly worth living you had to have strength in the face of adversity, patience when confronted with challenge, and bravery in the face of fear.

The images swirled through her. She needed to bake. Cake. A layered chocolate cake. With vanilla buttercream frosting. The images were as clear as four-color photos from a coffee table book on baking. She could taste the vanilla, butter, and cream whipped into a sugar frosting as if she had spooned it into her mouth. The chocolate smelled so real that a chill of awareness ran along her skin, pooling in her fingertips. She itched to bake.

Images of food rushed through her head, surprising her. Fried chicken. Sweet jalapeño mustard. Mashed potatoes. Biscuits. And a pie. Big and sweet, strawberries with whipped cream- so Texan, so opposite this fierce New Yorker.

I couldn't deal with the kind of need for a man that had ruled my mother's life - the kind of need that made it impossible to breath when self-worth was wrapped up in "I love yous.

Without a single one of those promised lessons from her grandmother, Portia began to see and taste food without having it in front of her, the images coming to her like instincts, automatic and without thought. She found that she knew things without having to be taught. Rich dark chocolate would calm a person who was hiding their anxiety. Hot red chili mixed with eggs first thing in the morning relieved symptoms of someone about to succumb to a terrible cold.

If Olivia was like a decadent chocolate-covered strawberry, and Portia a pineapple-and-spice hummingbird cupcake, then Cordelia was peanut butter brittle, still sweet, though with something more substantial added by way of peanuts, but unbendable.

Heart pounding, she started to prepare the meal that hit her so hard. Her famous cherry tomatoes stuffed with chile, cheese, and bacon, along with pulled pork, endive slaw, and potato pancakes with homemade catsup.

The German chocolate cake was easy. So was the vanilla buttercream. But the strawberry shortcake gave me fits. Turns out, the final fix came when I baked a fresh strawberry in the middle of a vanilla sour-cream batter instead of strawberry batter with chunks of strawberries.