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Quote by Penny Watson

“Cady had drawn a goblet filled with layers of peaches and brown sugar and rum and shortbread crumbs, topped with maple whipped cream. "I love the Scottish shortbread in here. Let's add a cookie to the top." Elliott drew that onto the picture. "I'll make some candied violets for a garnish. It will look spectacular. And since Elliott has now been trained, he can be my sous-chef." Cady smirked. Elliott chuckled and patted Cady on the head. "Nice try. I approve of the candied violets, especially since Jenny will adore that idea." He added some more notations onto the menu. "And let's cut the richness of this meal with a little palate cleanser between the entrée and dessert. How about tipsy oranges?" "Oh. That sounds good. How do you make that?" She leaned closer to him, needing to feel his heat. He pressed his arm against hers, instinctively reacting to her needs. How had this happened so fast? This connection between them? "Easiest thing in the world. Section the orange, drizzle Drambuie on top, sprinkle some brown sugar on there and broil quickly to get the sugar bubbling. Add some fresh mint. A quick, refreshing stop before Cady's decadent dessert.”

Quote by Penny Watson

Book:A Taste of Heaven
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A Taste of Heaven

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Penny Watson

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“A dinner party would not be satisfied with ices and rice puddings. I tried to think what Mr Roland would have done. At least an impressive gateau. I thumbed through the cookery books. Mille-feuilles cake à la chantilly. Yes, I could do that. I could always guarantee that pastry would turn out well. And oranges were abundant here. An orange cream served in orange shells? That seemed doable, too. And for a third? I thought of a bread and butter pudding, to remind them of home, but alas we had no stale bread. This was one of the disadvantages of being in someone else's kitchen. So I decided I couldn't go wrong with profiteroles- who doesn't like them?”

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“In the produce section she stopped to inhale the smell of so many oranges- Valencia, blood, juice, navel- net bags of limes, stacks of pineapples. The hygienic overtones of bleach were also in the air and she sniffed at the scent of chlorine as though it were a delicacy. She picked up a watermelon as big as a child, lifting it with difficulty into her cart. A sheaf of plantains. Peaches thick with fuzz. She chose bottled waters from Maine and Italy, from Germany and France, then proud-colored squeeze bottles of Joy and Cheer, Dove and Palmolive. She reached for high-protein cereals and protein bars, granola with cranberries, Cap'n Crunch. She explored the store, lapping up the light, listening to the music with its brave half-heard songs of love lost and found. Naomi passed by the stacks of mammalian flesh cut into portions wrapped in tight plastic. She lingered at the fish counter to contemplate the blackness of the mussels, the glistening dislocated stripes of the mackerel, the rosy pinkness of the salmon fillets arrayed on the ice. Here were animals still with their eyes on, red snapper and Mediterranean black bass. In a tank of greenish water, lobsters swam with halting deliberation; she pursed her lips and gave a furtive salute, her fingers held like claws.”

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“And this is Isabella's nonna's, made with the whole Moro orange from her grove--- pulped into the mix and no dusting, no glaze. Plain." "You mean perfect," says Isabella, scolding Luca. There was no doubting Isabella's would win. The pulp added something even softer and more luscious to the crumb. If the cake we had yesterday, warm from the oven, was divine, this was magic. "I told you," says Luca. "The orange."”

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“The wicker basket of gnarled and dimpled bitter oranges is glowing like a beacon, the fruits flashed here and there with viridian, their skins tight to the flesh beneath. Each one sports a bright-green button, which is all that is left of its stem. The words 'Seville oranges', written in red, are as welcome as the sight of the first pink stalks of rhubarb, or lemons with their glossy leaves intact. I buy two kilos and take them home with a spring in my step-- a brown paper carrier bag of sunshine on a clear and frosty January morning.”

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Book:A Thousand Feasts: Small Moments of Joy… A Memoir of Sorts
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“They were chocolate-covered orange slices, each slice perfect and plump as a jewel, with smooth-as-silk chocolate encasing half of them. She felt a lump in her throat. She hadn't known he'd been listening when she talked about oranges weeks ago. He'd barely liked her then. In fact, she was certain he hadn't. All of a sudden, it felt like her family was here with her, even though they hadn't yet written back to the letter she'd sent--- it had been picked up by a passing sailor weeks ago, but no boat had returned with a response. Still, here was a bit of home. Terlu blinked quickly. "You don't like them?" he said, concerned. "I know you said you remembered candied oranges from your Winter Feast, but then I thought with your story about the orange tree..." "It's perfect," she said. "You're perfect.”

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“As children', wrote Alice Raikes (Mrs. Wilson Fox) in The Times, January 22, 1932, 'we lived in Onslow Square and used to play in the garden behind the houses. Charles Dodgson used to stay with an old uncle there, and walk up and down, his hands behind him, on the strip of lawn. One day, hearing my name, he called me to him saying, "So you are another Alice. I'm very found of Alices. Would you like to come and see something which is rather puzzling?" We followed him into his house which opened, as ours did, upon the garden, into a room full of furniture with a tall mirror standing across one corner.' "Now", he said giving me an orange, "first tell me which hand you have got that in." "The right" I said. "Now", he said, "go and stand before that glass, and tell me which hand the little girl you see there has got it in." After some perplexed contemplation, I said, "The left hand." "Exactly," he said, "and how do you explain that?" I couldn't explain it, but seeing that some solution was expected, I ventured, "If I was on the other side of the glass, wouldn't the orange still be in my right hand?" I can remember his laugh. "Well done, little Alice," he said. "The best answer I've heard yet." "I heard no more then, but in after years was told that he said that had given him his first idea for Through the Looking-Glass, a copy of which, together with each of his other books, he regularly sent me.”

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“And so we see the paradox that evolution has handed us. If man is the only animal whose consciousness of self gives him an unusual dignity in the animal kingdom, he also pays a tragic price for it. The fact that the child has to identify -first- means that his very first identity is a social product. His habitation of his own body is built from the outside in; not from the inside out. He doesn't unfold into the world, the world unfolds into him. As the child responds to the vocal symbols learned from his object, he often gives the pathetic impression of being a true social puppet, jerked by alien symbols and sounds. What sensitive parent does not have his satisfaction tinged with sadness as the child repeats with such vital earnestness the little symbols that are taught him?”

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Book:The Birth and Death of Meaning: An Interdisciplinary Perspective on the Problem of Man
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