Kitchens Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
i-hate-kitchens-i-dont-understand-these-enormous-american-kitchens-that-take-up-half-living-room-then-they-just-order-pizza-marina-abramovic
i-cant-be-everywhere-but-im-always-in-one-my-kitchens-hopefully-im-motivating-inspiring
kitchens-are-for-conversation-theyre-not-just-for-cooking-theyre-for-conversations
good-kitchens-are-not-about-size-they-are-about-ergonomics-light-nigel-slater
kitchens-should-be-designed-around-whats-truly-importantfun-food-life-daniel-boulud
the-german-public-knows-me-quite-well-i-have-been-in-their-kitchens-living-rooms-for-years
kitchens-are-hard-environments-they-form-incredibly-strong-characters-gordon-ramsay
the-movie-theater-is-never-going-away-if-that-was-case-why-are-there-still-restaurants-people-still-have-kitchens-in-their-home-michael-moore
among-faithful-in-great-kitchens-world-escoffier-is-to-careme-what-new-testament-is-to-old-andre-simon
some-show-their-kindness-to-poor-by-employing-them-in-their-kitchens-would-they-not-be-kinder-if-they-employed-themselves-there-henry-david-thoreau
the-colors-yellow-and-orange-are-not-recommended-for-use-in-kitchens-as-they-are-known-to-be-appetite-stimulators
traditionally-lots-vagrants-unemployable-characters-wind-up-working-in-kitchens
a-gastronomical-supermeal-didnt-necessarily-have-to-involve-things-i-had-brought-from-other-top-kitchens
in-kitchens-love-after-all-vice-is-like-pepper-in-good-sauce-it-brings-out-flavor-its-indispensable-louisferdinand-celine
its-cyprus-misery-soup-kitchens-state-which-cannot-meet-basic-obligations-it-can-only-cause-me-grief-nicos-anastasiades
the-feminist-movement-has-helped-open-minds-and-kitchens-to-the-notion-that-men-can-be-at-home-on-the-range
just-because-restaurant-had-dynamite-shrimp-on-menu-was-that-any-reason-for-place-to-blow-up-re-april-15-release-killer-kitchens-jean-harrington
i-blame-all-craziness-people-buying-houses-redoing-them-selling-them-on-these-programs-on-television-where-they-are-redoing-your-homes-kitchens-barbara-hulanicki
in-the-21st-century-our-tastes-buds-our-brain-chemistry-our-biochemistry-our-hormones-and-our-kitchens-have-been-hijacked-by-the-food-industry
people-rescue-each-other-they-build-shelters-community-kitchens-ways-to-deal-with-lost-children-eventually-rebuild-one-way-another-rebecca-solnit
less-money-spent-on-billboards-that-just-make-us-feel-good-about-ourselves-more-on-soup-kitchens-organized-visits-to-sick-dying-rebecca-goldstein
i-have-theory-that-kitchens-once-they-reach-certain-level-complexity-attract-new-gadgets-into-their-orbit-like-planets-only-this-can-account-for-kerry-greenwood
spinach-champagne-going-back-to-kitchens-at-old-waldorf-dancing-on-kitchen-tables-wearing-chefs-headgear-finally-crash-being-escorted-out-by-zelda-fitzgerald
i-was-bored-at-school-bored-in-lot-kitchens-it-seemed-like-all-i-was-doing-was-putting-things-into-saute-pans
in-large-states-public-education-will-always-be-mediocre-for-the-same-reason-that-in-large-kitchens-the-cooking-is-usually-bad
this-is-not-ethnic-cookbook-but-rather-slice-life-in-aberdeen-kitchens-at-aberdeen-tables-decades-ago-sue-gates
culinary-tradition-is-not-always-based-on-fact-sometimes-its-based-on-history-on-habits-that-come-out-time-when-kitchens-were-fueled-by-charcoal-alton-brown
cats-gravitate-to-kitchens-like-rocks-gravitate-to-gravity-terry-pratchett
kitchens-were-different-then-too-not-only-what-came-out-them-but-their-smells-sounds-a-hot-pie-cooling-smells-different-from-frozen-pie-thawing-peg-bracken
true-health-care-reform-cannot-happen-in-washington-it-has-to-happen-in-our-kitchens-in-our-homes-in-our-communities-all-health-care-is-personal
i-love-food-i-love-everything-involved-with-food-i-love-fun-it-i-love-restaurants-i-love-cooking-although-i-dont-cook-much-i-love-kitchens-alma-guillermoprieto
are-trials-starting-the-girl-claps-her-hands-over-her-mouth-im-sorry-she-whispers-i-its-all-right-i-dont-smile-at-her-it-will-only-scare-her-for-female-slave-smile-from-mask-is-n
the-repetitive-phases-cooking-leave-plenty-mental-space-for-reflection-as-i-chopped-minced-sliced-i-thought-about-rhythms-cooking-one-which-involves-destroying-order-things-we-br
And at night the river flows, it bears pale stars on the holy water, some sink like veils, some show like fish, the great moon that once was rose now high like a blazing milk flails its white reflection vertical and deep in the dark surgey mass wall river's grinding bed push. As in a sad dream, under the streetlamp, by pocky unpaved holes in dirt, the father James Cassidy comes home with lunchpail and lantern, limping, redfaced, and turns in for supper and sleep. Now a door slams. The kids have rushed out for the last play, the mothers are planning and slamming in kitchens, you can hear it out in swish leaf orchards, on popcorn swings, in the million-foliaged sweet wafted night of sighs, songs, shushes. A thousand things up and down the street, deep, lovely, dangerous, aureating, breathing, throbbing like stars; a whistle, a faint yell; the flow of Lowell over rooftops beyond; the bark on the river, the wild goose of the night yakking, ducking in the sand and sparkle; the ululating lap and purl and lovely mystery on the shore, dark, always dark the river's cunning unseen lips, murmuring kisses, eating night, stealing sand, sneaky. 'Mag-gie!' the kids are calling under the railroad bridge where they've been swimming. The freight train still rumbles over a hundred cars long, the engine threw the flare on little white bathers, little Picasso horses of the night as dense and tragic in the gloom comes my soul looking for what was there that disappeared and left, lost, down a path-the gloom of love. Maggie, the girl I loved.

Jack Kerouac
and-at-night-river-flows-it-bears-pale-stars-on-holy-water-some-sink-like-veils-some-show-like-fish-great-moon-that-once-was-rose-now-high-like-blazing-milk-flails-its-white-refl
Little girls are the nicest things that can happen to people. They are born with a bit of angel-shine about them, and though it wears thin sometimes, there is always enough left to lasso your heart-even when they are sitting in the mud, or crying temperamental tears, or parading up the street in Mother's best clothes. A little girl can be sweeter (and badder) oftener than anyone else in the world. She can jitter around, and stomp, and make funny noises that frazzle your nerves, yet just when you open your mouth, she stands there demure with that special look in her eyes. A girl is Innocence playing in the mud, Beauty standing on its head, and Motherhood dragging a doll by the foot. God borrows from many creatures to make a little girl. He uses the song of a bird, the squeal of a pig, the stubbornness of a mule, the antics of a monkey, the spryness of a grasshopper, the curiosity of a cat, the speed of a gazelle, the slyness of a fox, the softness of a kitten, and to top it all off He adds the mysterious mind of a woman. A little girl likes new shoes, party dresses, small animals, first grade, noisemakers, the girl next door, dolls, make-believe, dancing lessons, ice cream, kitchens, coloring books, make-up, cans of water, going visiting, tea parties, and one boy. She doesn't care so much for visitors, boys in general, large dogs, hand-me-downs, straight chairs, vegetables, snowsuits, or staying in the front yard. She is loudest when you are thinking, the prettiest when she has provoked you, the busiest at bedtime, the quietest when you want to show her off, and the most flirtatious when she absolutely must not get the best of you again. Who else can cause you more grief, joy, irritation, satisfaction, embarrassment, and genuine delight than this combination of Eve, Salome, and Florence Nightingale. She can muss up your home, your hair, and your dignity-spend your money, your time, and your patience-and just when your temper is ready to crack, her sunshine peeks through and you've lost again. Yes, she is a nerve-wracking nuisance, just a noisy bundle of mischief. But when your dreams tumble down and the world is a mess-when it seems you are pretty much of a fool after all-she can make you a king when she climbs on your knee and whispers, "I love you best of all!

Alan Beck
little-girls-are-nicest-things-that-can-happen-to-people-they-are-born-with-bit-angelshine-about-them-though-it-wears-thin-sometimes-there-is-always-enough-left-to-lasso-your-hea
It took only a few hours for an exaggerated version of the attack on Dr. De Glew to reach all of Stanley. The big orderly told his wife; she told her sister who was married to a gas station worker; he in turn described the fight to a helper on the tank truck that serviced the Stanley station in competition with Gurmandy's. The two-man staff of the station plus four hangers-on and three children heard a tale of how a man who had turned into a wolf was vanquished by a seven-foot-tall Negro doctor armed with a pitch torch and how the wolf-man was even now stalking the towns in Washington, Bolivar, and Rapture counties. By nightfall terror held full sway. No locks could withstand the assault of the killer. No weapons save the torch could fend him off. No areaway was free of his shadow nor any wooded place safe from his onslaught. Every dog's bay was the wolf cry of the maddened man. On the plantations toward MacAllister and Skene, terrified tenants were brought to the main house by pickup truck to sleep on porches, in the kitchens, and in outbuildings. When the moon came up yellow that night over the flat land, the families in from the field gathered around a big fire and salted it with sulphur; their voices sounded low and awed drifting up to the windows of the dining room in the main house where the plantation owner ate with his own family. Around the fire, old men talked of the days before the tall evergreen cane was felled, of how wolves as big as lions crept among the cabins and watched while the older boys went by, waiting to grab off the youngest of the toddlers amid the screams of desolated mothers. Then the eyes of the youngsters around the fire grew wide. They sobbed and pressed up against their mothers, until one of the other men said sharply, 'Hush up, you're scaring the children.' There was silence then around the fire for a while, each with his own thoughts: of wolves who were truly men and men who were wolves. No man rode horseback at night if he could avoid it, and no hitchhiker was offered a lift save by the foolhardy or the secret death-lover. For town dwellers, the walk in at twilight from the garage to the house seemed inordinately long and dark.

Leslie H. Whitten Jr.
it-took-only-few-hours-for-exaggerated-version-attack-on-dr-de-glew-to-reach-all-stanley-the-big-orderly-told-his-wife-she-told-her-sister-who-was-married-to-gas-station-worker-h
Last year I had a very unusual experience. I was awake, with my eyes closed, when I had a dream. It was a small dream about time. I was dead, I guess, in deep black space high up among many white stars. My own consciousness had been disclosed to me, and I was happy. Then I saw far below me a long, curved band of color. As I came closer, I saw that it stretched endlessly in either direction, and I understood that I was seeing all the time of the planet where I had lived. It looked like a woman's tweed scarf; the longer I studied any one spot, the more dots of color I saw. There was no end to the deepness and variety of the dots. At length, I started to look for my time, but, although more and more specks of color and deeper and more intricate textures appeared in the fabric, I couldn't find my time, or any time at all that I recognized as being near my time. I couldn't make out so much as a pyramid. Yet as I looked at the band of time, all the individual people, I understood with special clarity, were living at the very moment with great emotion, in intricate detail, in their individual times and places, and they were dying and being replaced by ever more people, one by one, like stitches in which whole worlds of feeling and energy were wrapped, in a never-ending cloth. I remembered suddenly the color and texture of our life as we knew it- these things had been utterly forgotten- and I thought as I searched for it on the limitless band, 'that was a good time then, a good time to be living.' And I began to remember our time. I recalled green fields with carrots growing, one by one, in slender rows. Men and women in bright vests and scarves came and pulled the carrots out of the soil and carried them in baskets to shaded kitchens, where they scrubbed them with yellow brushes under running water... I saw may apples in forest, erupting through leaf-strewn paths. Cells on the root hairs of sycamores split and divided and apples grew striped and spotted in the fall. Mountains kept their cool caves, and squirrels raced home to their nests through sunlight and shade. I remembered the ocean, and I seemed to be in the ocean myself, swimming over orange crabs that looked like coral, or off the deep Atlantic banks where whitefish school. Or again I saw the tops of poplars, and the whole sky brushed with clouds in pallid streaks, under which wilds ducks flew, and called, one by one, and flew on. All these things I saw. Scenes grew in depth and sunlit detail before my eyes, and were replaced by ever more scenes, as I remembered the life of my time with increasing feeling. At last I saw the earth as a globe in space, and I recalled the ocean's shape and the form of continents, saying to myself with surprise as I looked at the planet, 'Yes, that's how it was then, that part there we called 'France''. I was filled with the deep affection of nostalgia- and then I opened my eyes.

Annie Dillard
last-year-i-had-unusual-experience-i-was-awake-with-my-eyes-closed-when-i-had-dream-it-was-small-dream-about-time-i-was-dead-i-guess-in-deep-black-space-high-up-among-many-white-
Last year I had a very unusual experience. I was awake, with my eyes closed, when I had a dream. It was a small dream about time. I was dead, I guess, in deep blank space high up above many white stars. My own consciousness had been disclosed to me, and I was happy. Then I saw far below me a long, curved band of color. As I came closer, I saw that it stretched endlessly in either direction, and I understood that I was seeing all the time of the planet where I had lived. It looked like a woman's tweed scarf; the longer I studied any one spot, the more dots of color I saw. There was no end to the deepness and variety of dots. At length I started to look for my time, but, although more and more specks of color and deeper and more intricate textures appeared in the fabric, I couldn't find my time, or any time at all that I recognized as being near my time. I couldn't make out so much as a pyramid. Yet as I looked at the band of time, all the individual people, I understood with special clarity, were living at that very moment with great emotion, in intricate, detail, in their individual times and places, and they were dying and being replaced by ever more people, one by one, like stitches in which wholly worlds of feeling and energy were wrapped in a never-ending cloth. I remembered suddenly the color and texture of our life as we knew it- these things had been utterly forgotten- and I thought as I searched for it on the limitless band, 'that was a good time then, a good time to be living.' And I began to remember our time. I recalled green fields with carrots growing, one by one, in slender rows. Men and women in bright vests and scarves came and pulled the carrots out of the soil and carried them in baskets to shaded kitchens, where they scrubbed them with yellow brushes under running water. I saw white-faced cattle lowing and wading in creeks. I saw May apples in forests, erupting through leaf-strewn paths. Cells on the root hairs of sycamores split and divided, and apples grew spotted and striped in the fall. Mountains kept their cool caves and squirrels raced home to their nests through sunlight and shade. I remembered the ocean, and I seemed to be in the ocean myself, swimming over orange crabs that looked like coral, or off the deep Atlantic banks where whitefish school. Or again I saw the tops of poplars, and the whole sky brushed with clouds in pallid streaks, under which wild ducks flew with outstretched necks, and called, one by one, and flew on. All these things I saw. Scenes grew in depth and sunlit detail before my eyes, and were replaced by ever more scenes, as I remember the life of my time with increasing feeling. At last I saw the earth as a globe in space, and I recalled the ocean's shape and the form of continents, saying to myself with surprise as I looked at the planet, 'yes, that's how it was then, that part there was called France.' I was filled with the deep affection of nostalgia- and then I opened my eyes. We all ought to be able to conjure up sights like these at will, so that we can keep in mind the scope of texture's motion in time.

Annie Dillard
last-year-i-had-unusual-experience-i-was-awake-with-my-eyes-closed-when-i-had-dream-it-was-small-dream-about-time-i-was-dead-i-guess-in-deep-blank-space-high-up-above-many-white-
I'M LOSING FAITH IN MY FAVORITE COUNTRY Throughout my life, the United States has been my favorite country, save and except for Canada, where I was born, raised, educated, and still live for six months each year. As a child growing up in Waterloo, Ontario, Canada, I aggressively bought and saved baseball cards of American and National League players, spent hours watching snowy images of American baseball and football games on black and white television and longed for the day when I could travel to that great country. Every Saturday afternoon, me and the boys would pay twelve cents to go the show and watch U.S. made movies, and particularly, the Superman serial. Then I got my chance. My father, who worked for B.F. Goodrich, took my brother and me to watch the Cleveland Indians play baseball in the Mistake on the Lake in Cleveland. At last I had made it to the big time. I thought it was an amazing stadium and it was certainly not a mistake. Amazingly, the Americans thought we were Americans. I loved the United States, and everything about the country: its people, its movies, its comic books, its sports, and a great deal more. The country was alive and growing. No, exploding. It was the golden age of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. The American dream was alive and well, but demanded hard work, honesty, and frugality. Everyone understood that. Even the politicians. Then everything changed. Partly because of its proximity to the United States and a shared heritage, Canadians also aspired to what was commonly referred to as the American dream. I fall neatly into that category. For as long as I can remember I wanted a better life, but because I was born with a cardboard spoon in my mouth, and wasn't a member of the golden gene club, I knew I would have to make it the old fashioned way: work hard and save. After university graduation I spent the first half of my career working for the two largest oil companies in the world: Exxon and Royal Dutch Shell. The second half was spent with one of the smallest oil companies in the world: my own. Then I sold my company and retired into obscurity. In my case obscurity was spending summers in our cottage on Lake Rosseau in Muskoka, Ontario, and winters in our home in Port St. Lucie, Florida. My wife, Ann, and I, (and our three sons when they can find the time), have been enjoying that 'obscurity' for a long time. During that long time we have been fortunate to meet and befriend a large number of Americans, many from Tom Brokaw's 'Greatest Generation.' One was a military policeman in Tokyo in 1945. After a very successful business carer in the U.S. he's retired and living the dream. Another American friend, also a member of the 'Greatest Generation', survived The Battle of the Bulge and lived to drink Hitler's booze at Berchtesgaden in 1945. He too is happily retired and living the dream. Both of these individuals got to where they are by working hard, saving, and living within their means. Both also remember when their Federal Government did the same thing. One of my younger American friends recently sent me a You Tube video, featuring an impassioned speech by Marco Rubio, Republican senator from Florida. In the speech, Rubio blasts the spending habits of his Federal Government and deeply laments his country's future. He is outraged that the U.S. Government spends three hundred billion dollars, each and every month. He is even more outraged that one hundred and twenty billion of that three hundred billion dollars is borrowed. In other words, Rubio states that for every dollar the U.S. Government spends, forty cents is borrowed. I don't blame him for being upset. If I had run my business using that arithmetic, I would be in the soup kitchens. If individual American families had applied that arithmetic to their finances, none of them would be in a position to pay a thin dime of taxes. In this connection I witnessed what I consider to be t

Stephen Douglass
im-losing-faith-in-my-favorite-country-throughout-my-life-united-states-has-been-my-favorite-country-save-except-for-canada-where-i-was-born-raised-educated-still-live-for-six-mo