Quotes About Taste

People take for granted what is in fact an art. To live well, to live comfortably by one's own standards takes a certain maturity of spirit, exceptional character, truly refined taste, and—' 'And money.

Maybe we need to literally come to our senses, to return to our sense of taste, touch, sight, smell, hearing and find sustenance in them, inspiration. Life is, after all, a sensual experience. Our senses have the power to truly transport us but also to ground us. Make us human.

Guillaume Gruel, Richemont's personal chronicler, recorded the dialogue from his employer's perspective with an evident taste for the dashing. "Joan, it has been said that you wish to fight with me. I do not know if you are from God or not. If you are from God, I do not fear you because God knows my good will. If you are from the devil, I fear you even less.

Vowels thicker than caramel on a Granny Smith.

Social media for me is a bit like tequila. Feels like it should be fun, but leaves you with an icky taste in your mouth.

Cross: Ha! An artist like you should appreciate my beauty, Tiedoll! You have no taste.

tastes, memory, and emotions have to be weakened;

Hunger is the best seasoning.

What are those bulb things you're slicing?" "You've never seen fennel? It looks like celery and tastes like licorice.

The eighties?' I said. 'As in, the nineteen -eighties? The decade that taste forgot? Honest, Sophie, ask your granny. Ask mine, if you like. She'll tell you the only good thing about it was that the internet and phone cameras weren't invented, well hardly anyway, so most of the awful photos are lying out of sight in drawers and shoeboxes.

D.T. Suzuki notes that "when Zen wants you to taste the sweetness of sugar, it will put the required article right into your mouth and no further words are said." In this sense, Zen is direct and not intermediated, concrete and not abstract, practical and not theoretical, sensual and not intellectual, down-to-earth and not otherworldly.

On the other hand, without excess mental baggage, playing music produces a feeling more exquisite than the sweetest nectar this world has to offer. It is the sound, smell and taste of grace.

Her lips are like the cherries ripe That sunny walls from Boreas screen. They tempt the taste and charm the sight.

I do not like broccoli. And I haven't liked it since I was a little kid and my mother made me eat it. And I'm President of the United States and I'm not going to eat any more broccoli.

That's ruining two good drinks (adding water to scotch).

I don't cook. I don't know anything about food. I've never reviewed a restaurant.

The fat woman came and offered us Turkish cigarettes and little red cubes of sweet stuff that smelled like soap and tasted like hell

As Lex pierced a wonton with her fork, its bubbled surface flaked pastry onto the stainless steel tines. She brought it to her mouth. The outer shell crunched against her teeth while the satiny, cheesy filling melted on her tongue. A ribbon of sweetness from the fresh crab lingered in her mouth.

We drank Pepsi out of these old-fashioned bottles that Dad had found at some ancient country store, and I swear they tasted better than the regular kind.

Willem has just glanced at the birthmark on Allyson's wrist, giving him an urgent desire to taste it again. Between her feet and her wrist, he is having a hard time getting out the door.

There's a science to ordering potatoes. Are they skinny shoestring or big, fat steak fries? You just have to let your taste buds guide you when deciding what to eat.

Why not defy custom and boldly snatch in that magic moment some satisfactory taste of warm human intercourse ?

After making my way through a bowl full of lawn (Sure, Dana had said it was exotic sautéed greens, but it smelled like the grass in Griffith Park to me.), a cold purée of squash soup (Cold. Squash. Two words that should never be thrown together in the same recipe.), and a platter of seared kelp (I'm sorry, anything that washes up onto the beach is not considered food in my world.), I

William whispered, "You're about to find out how your liver tastes, my friend." "I have tasted it already," Zacharel said, his voice its usual monotone. The snowflakes began to fall in earnest, tiny at first, but growing in diameter. An arctic wind blustered around. "It was a bit salty." How the hell was a guy supposed to respond to that?