Quotessence
Home / Quotes / Quote by Nitya Prakash

Quote by Nitya Prakash

Author

Nitya Prakash

Browse famous quotes and profile details for Nitya Prakash. more

You May Also Like

“For our first course, we have a play on biscuits and gravy, a classic Southern dish that's also popular in the Midwest." Chef Laurent picked up his fork and cutter into the biscuit. "Here, we have a miniature biscuit topped a boudin blanc sawmill gravy and a poached quail egg." Chef Martinet poked at the quail egg until the yolk burst. Probably looking for egg flaws. Rosie decided to just keep talking. If she kept talking, she wouldn't be thinking about what they were eating. "I first had biscuits and gravy at the restaurant where my mom works." "Your mother, she is a chef?" Chef Laurent asked. He was going back in for another bite. That had to be a good sign. "No. She, um, manages the store... at the restaurant... where she works." No matter how much time Chef Laurent may have spent in Ohio, Rosie was pretty sure he hadn't experienced a Cracker Barrel. But he nodded like a combined restaurant and gift store was nothing out of the ordinary. "I put my own spin on sawmill gravy by using boudin blanc instead of breakfast sausage to incorporate some of the flavors I've discovered living here, and I kept the biscuit small and used a quail egg to keep the portion appropriate for a first course." "The biscuit is excellent," Chef Laurent said. "Fluffy, light, buttery- it is everything a biscuit should be. I should tell Marcus that this exactly the kind of appetizer he should serve." He must have meant Marcus Samuelsson. Rosie felt her hopes start to rise. "For our next course, we have a burger topped with Gruyère and caramelized onions on a brioche bun.”

“Her kitchen was full of memories. This was where she demonstrated the god-given talent and craft that had made Sugar a success when she’d founded it at the age of twenty. This was where she had perfected her techniques and recipes---the dense Detroit pound cake, the light-as-air pastries, her signature champagne torte, and the bestselling kolaches had all been developed here in the homey old-fashioned kitchen. Biscuits, she often said, were the purest test of a baker’s skill. The ingredients were simple and technique was everything. Use flour from winter wheat and sift it twice. Keep a cube of butter in the freezer and shred it with the box grater. Wet your fingertips with buttermilk and handle the dough as if it were as fragile as a soap bubble.”

“It was a classic southern spread. Shrimp and grits, red rice, biscuits, mac and cheese, pulled pork, and a ton of other sides. It smelled delicious. I made myself a little pulled pork sandwich with Carolina BBQ sauce on a Hawaiian roll. It was even better than it smelled. I made a note of the caterer. Hamby. Of course. Hamby Cateringwas the caterer; they did all the best events in Charleston. We both wolfed down the delicious chicken salad sandwiches, huge helpings of mac and cheese, and two biscuits that were lighter than clouds--- not as good as Maggie's, but pretty good.”

“In fact that is why the lives of most women are so vaguely unsatisfactory. They are always doing secondary and menial things (that do not require all their gifts and ability) for others and never anything for themselves. Society and husbands praise them for it (when they get too miserable or have nervous breakdowns) though always a little perplexedly and half-heartedly and just to be consoling. The poor wives are reminded that that is just why wives are so splendid -- because they are so unselfish and self-sacrificing and that is the wonderful thing about them! But inwardly women know that something is wrong. They sense that if you are always doing something for others, like a servant or nurse, and never anything for yourself, you cannot do others any good. You make them physically more comfortable. But you cannot affect them spiritually in any way at all. For to teach, encourage, cheer up, console, amuse, stimulate or advise a husband or children or friends, you have to be something yourself. [...]"If you would shut your door against the children for an hour a day and say; 'Mother is working on her five-act tragedy in blank verse!' you would be surprised how they would respect you. They would probably all become playwrights.”

“Problems,” lamented Duncan. “They never seem to end.” “Do they even end in the first place?” Duncan grimaced, “If only we know when they begin, we might be able to nip it in the bud before it putrefies.” “Not everyone recognizes the bud when it manifests itself,” interjected Juliette. “Quite true,” agreed Duncan. “But what is life without hurdles?” Juliette remarked, philosophical. “Some of us simple folk prefer smooth sailing lives,” he deadpanned. “What can I say?” she smiled, shrugging. “To each his own.”

“She stiffened and gasped, and the touch was immediately withdrawn. "Did I hurt you?" Her lashes lifted. "No," she said in wonder. "In fact, I didn't feel any pain." She strained to look between them. "Is there blood? Perhaps I should-" "No. Win..." There was a near-comical expression of dismay on his face. "What I just did isn't going to cause pain or blood." A brief pause. "When I do it with my cock, however, it's probably going to hurt like hell." "Oh." She pondered that for a moment. "Is that the word men use for their private parts?" "One of the words gadjos use." "What do Romas say?" "They call it a kori." "What does that mean?" "'Thorn.'" Win slid a bashful glance at the heavy protrusion straining behind his trousers. "Rather too substantial for a thorn. I should have thought they would use a more fitting word. But I suppose-" She inhaled sharply as his hand moved downward. "I suppose if one wants roses, one must-" his finger had slipped inside her again- "bear the occasional thorn." "Very philosophical.”