Quotes About Toast

What do you say?" "Gesundheit. Or 'to your health.' It means the same thing.

This is a cardinal Ya-Ya rule: you must meet each person's eyes while clinking glasses in a toast. Otherwise, the ritual has no meaning, it's just pure show. And that is something the Ya-Yas are not.

Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen;Here's to the widow of fifty;Here's to the flaunting, extravagant quean,And here's to the housewife that's thrifty. Let the toast pass—Drink to the lass;I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.

Down one branch, she lifts the glass to her lips, toasts the room—To Tachigali versicolor—and drinks.

I could hear hopefulness in her voice, but also doubt. She was waiting for me to admit the obvious: I'd forgotten. I was toast. I was boyfriend roadkill.

I drink to the general joy of the whole table.

petit déjeuner

What is abnormal is that I am normal. That I survived the Holocaust and went on to love beautiful girls, to talk, to write, to have toast and tea and live my life—that is what is abnormal.

I raise my glass to karma—which, I'm realizing, is sometimes a group effort.

Wedding: the point at which a man stops toasting a woman and begins roasting her.

And we've got a toaster and everything. So there is no reason for the wedding.

When it comes to breakfast, baked goods are my weakness (besides coffee): toast, croissants, heck, even a scone on the weekend. There is one bakery item, though, that you will never see in my life, and that's a muffin.

Another scar or two won't ruin my pretty face." "Right." "Carlos, are you being polite? That's not why I came here for. I know I'm not Steve McQueen." "My lady is totally in love with him. Lucky for me he's dead or I'd be in trouble." I hold up my glas of Jack Daniel's in a toast. "Here's to all the guys better looking than us. May they all die first.

Carlos comes back with our drinks. "What should we drink to?" "To love," says Brigitte. "To the few loyal customers I have left," says Carlos. I have to think for a minute. "To the dead. Let's think of them always, but not join them too soon." Everyone in the bar drinks to that.

You're saying you're a better person than me?" Kasabian thinks about it. "Yeah. That's exactly what I'm saying." "Then let's drink to that.

I would like to raise my glass to friendship between Russia and the United States.

I never liked that ending either. More love streaming out the wrong way, and I don't want to be the kind that says the wrong way. But it doesn't work, these erasures, this constant refolding of the pleats. There were some nice parts, sure, all lemondrop and mellonball, laughing in silk pajamas and the grain of sugar on the toast, love love or whatever, take a number. I'm sorry it's such a lousy story.

Brindemos por la raza femenina, Pet… ¡Encuéntralas y olvídalas!

The smell of that buttered toast simply spoke to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cozy parlor firesides on winter evenings, when one's ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender; of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries.

So before we end And then begin We'll drink a toast to how it's been A few more hours to be complete A few more nights on satin sheets A few more times that I can say, I've loved these days.

I like to use 'I Can't Believe it's Not Butter' on my toast in the morning, because sometimes when I eat breakfast, I like to be incredulous. How was breakfast? Unbelievable.

The kitchen smelled amazing. Turkey-apple sausage sizzled in a blackened iron skillet on the sturdy old eight-burner gas range. Thick slices of bread toasted in a shiny vintage Toastmaster. Hair tied back, sleeves rolled up on her blouse, apron around her waist, Grace tossed a handful of pecans into the skillet and let them brown with the sausage while she flipped a cheddar-filled omelet in another pan. The heady aroma of freshly ground black dark-roast coffee filled the kitchen.

Isabella entered her dining room in the morning to see two newspapers held by two sets of male hands, one set large and muscular, the other narrower and bonier. The occasional crunch of toast sounded behind the sheets of newsprint. Isabella

Hart having arrived before them, insisted they lift at least one glass to old Mrs. McCray. "May she, her husband, and our father be bullying one another in the great beyond." "I hope they enjoy it", Mac said lifting his glass. His cut crystal goblet held tea, not whiskey. Mac now drank no alcohol of any kind. "Confusion to them all," Cam said, joining the toast.