Quotes About Food

Pizza! I want some.

She hated Mr. Meanie. But she'd gotten to know him and they'd reached an understanding of sorts. Now she was to have him for supper. Don't tell me you're feeling guilty? Breaking off a piece of the wing, she brought it to her lips and took a bite. It did taste good. Very good. I wonder if all grouchy males are this palatable. Drew choked. She looked up, tilting her head. Are you all right? He turned a dull red. Eat your supper, Connie.

He might be starving, but he ate when the meal was ready, and with her, not while she was still draining the pasta.

But how come it's always the poor who are expected to eat the food that's good for them no matter how it tastes?

That may have been necessary during the war, but by forcing it on us for six years afterwards they destroyed the whole organisation that had been built up over centuries of private firms importing our food from the best markets at the best prices. It will be years before the incredible muddle they made can be unsorted.

Look, this was the iniquity of your sister Sodom: She and her daughter [that is, her fellow cities] had pride, fullness of food, and abundance of idleness; neither did she strengthen the hand of the poor and needy." Ezekiel 16:49

On the cutting board there are two peanut butter and red currant jam sandwiches for Emerson and two Serrano ham, shaved cheddar, and apricot chutney sandwiches for Felice. Nieves wraps them smartly in waxed paper, tapes them, and puts them back in the fridge. There's also a cooler Nieves opens: packed with trail mix, sliced pears and apples, and the lemon bars.

Han breaks a tangerine into sections and feeds them to her one by one. Then he cuts a lemon in half, sprinkles a spoonful of sugar over the cut top, and bites into it. Sirine looks around at the wandering palms and the dusty street. Just that morning the radio weatherman had said it would be an Indian summer scorcher. She slices open an avocado and sprinkles it with coarse salt before handing it to Han.

At work, Sirine announces that this year will be an Arabic Thanksgiving with rice and pine nuts and ground lamb in the turkey instead of cornbread, and yogurt sauce instead of cranberries. Mireille sulks and says she doesn't like yogurt and Sirine says, annoyed, why can't we ever do things differently? And Um-Nadia says, girls, never mind already, we can have the for-crying-out-loud rice stuffing and I'll bring the can of the red berries sauce.

She is frying onions and working on two dishes at once, chopping eggplant and stirring the leben- a delicate mellow yogurt sauce that needs constant stirring or it will break-

She looks over, still smiling, to Sirine behind the counter, and says, Roasted lamb, rice and pine nuts, tabbouleh salad, apricot juice. Then she blows a kiss. Hanif glances at Sirine. She looks down, quick, a bunch of parsley pinched in her fingertips, rocks the big cleaver through a profusion of green leaves, onions, cracked wheat. Suddenly she remembers the leben and hurries to the big potful of yogurt sauce, which is just on the verge of curdling.

Li Pin Chu tells them that if he could eat one dish every day for the rest of his life it would be sliced pork and egg in palm sugar. Han says he would enjoy some chicken stewed in onion yogurt sauce. Sirine thinks she might like some reheated spaghetti and meatballs- a breakfast that her mother used to make from the previous night's dinner.

And as long as she could cook, she would be loved.

Sirine finishes deskewering six plates of lamb shish kabobs and three plates of chicken, drizzling oil over ground beef and hummus, over smoky puréed eggplant, over a bowl of olives, and splashing four tabbouleh salads with lemon.

It was fortunate that the room was empty, except for half a score or so of servants. These were busy enough laying out the six couple of roast fowl, the twenty pheasants, the baron of beef, the venison pies, gooseberry pies, and plum pudding, and they had no time or inclination to pay the least attention to their master's private conversation with his wife.

Oh, womanly sympathy, love AND food? I said, laughing. Don't want a lot, do you?

For several days, I slept. Whether this was a necessary part of physical recovery, or a stubborn retreat from waking reality, I do not know, but I woke only reluctantly to take a little food, falling at once back into a stupor of oblivion, as though the small, warm weight of broth in my stomach were an anchor that pulled me after it, down through the murky fathoms of sleep.

Some hae meat that canna eat, And some could eat that want it. We hae meat, and we can eat, And so may God be thankit. Amen.

Beans, beans, they're good for your heart," I said cheerily, seizing the opening. "The more you eat, the more you fart. The more you fart, the better you feel—so let's have beans for every meal!

A friend once told me 'The body has nay conscience.' I dinna ken that that's entirely so-but it is true that the body doesna generally admit the possibility of nonexistence. And if ye exist-well, ye need food, that's all.

could murder a plateful of eggs.

the curious alchemy of cookery, that process of making the transfer of life from one being to another palatable.

Looking at his horses," I said, putting a hand over my stomach in hopes of suppressing the resounding borborygmi occasioned by the sight of food.

he laughed. "Yeah, all right, I see," she said. "Mmm. Why did you have to mention tomatoes? I used the last of the dried ones last week, and