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Quote by P. L. Travers

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P. L. Travers
P. L. Travers

P. L. Travers, born Phyllis Lillian Travers, was an English novelist best known for her creation of the 'Mary Poppins' series. Her works, which have been adapted into the famous film 'Mary Poppins,' are celebrated for their unique style and deep insight into the psychology of children. more

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“On one occasion, an ancient great-aunt of mine, hieratically assuming a head-dress of feather and globules of jet, required me to accompany her to the beehives. ‘But you surely don't need a hat, Aunt Jane! They're only at the end of the garden.’ ‘It is the custom,’ she said, grandly. ‘Put a scarf over your head.’ Arrived, she stood in silence for a moment. Then — ‘I have to tell you,’ she said, formally, ‘that King George V is dead. You may be sorry, but I am not. He was not an interesting man. Besides,’ she added — as though the bees needed the telling! — ‘everyone has to die’.”

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“Maddy stared at the backs turned to her, the reflection of the two smirking faces that watched in the mirror. Watched the way kids watched all day long – sideways in their desks, sneering over their lunches, and tossing endless comments as they passed in the halls. Gone was the memory of Leanne and the team; gone was the inner voice telling her to keep cool, to shut the hell up and get out of there. Inside her brain, heat swelled, fused into quantum thermodynamics, and exploded.”

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“We ate slowly, looking at each other the whole while, silent, anticipating, savoring the sensations building, mounting inside. Utterly enthralled I watched him eat chicken, his strong white teeth tearing the flesh apart, and it was thrilling, tantalizing. I observed the way his neck muscles worked when he swallowed his wine, and that was thrilling, too and I watched with fascination as his large brown hand reached out, fingers wrapping around a fuzzy golden-pink peach, clutching it. He took up a knife and carefully peeled the peach and divided it into sections and ate them one by one, his brown eyes devouring me as he did so. The tip of his tongue slipped out and slowly licked the peach juice from his lips…”

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“There's no messing with perfection. (Okay, a little messing, just for fun.) A few crystals of coarse sea salt, a drizzle of local olive oil, and a sprig or two of purple basil. Sliced and layered in a white ceramic dish, the tomatoes often match the hues of the local sunsets--- reds and golds, yellows and pinks. If there were such a thing in our house as "too pretty to eat," this would be it. Thankfully, there's not. If I'm not exactly cooking, I have done some impromptu matchmaking: baby tomatoes with smoked mozzarella, red onions, fennel, and balsamic vinegar. A giant yellow tomato with a local sheep's milk cheese and green basil. Last night I got a little fancy and layered slices of beefsteak tomato with pale green artichoke puree and slivers of Parmesan. I constructed the whole thing to look like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I love to think of the utterly pretentious name this would be given in a trendy Parisian bistro: Millefeuille de tomate provençale, tapenade d'artichaut et coppa de parmesan d'Italie (AOC) sur son lit de salade, sauce aigre douce aux abricots. And of course, since this is a snooty Parisian bistro and half their clientele are Russian businessmen, the English translation would be printed just below: Tomato napoleon of artichoke tapenade and aged Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese on a bed of mixed greens with sweet-and-sour apricot vinaigrette. The sauce abricot was a happy accident. While making the dressing for the green salad, I mistook a bottle of peach/apricot syrup for the olive oil. Since I didn't realize my mistake until it was at the bottom of the bowl, I decided to try my luck. Mixed with Dijon mustard and some olive oil, it was very nice--- much sweeter than a French vinaigrette, more like an American-style honey Dijon. I decided to add it to my pretentious Parisian bistro dish because, believe it or not, Parisian bistros love imitating American food. Anyone who has been in Paris in the past five years will note the rise of le Tchizzberger. (That's bistro for "cheeseburger.") I'm moderate in my use of social media, but I can't stop taking pictures of the tomatoes. Close up, I've taken to snapping endless photos of the voluptuously rounded globes. I rejoice in the mingling of olive oil and purply-red flesh. Basil leaves rest like the strategically placed tassels of high-end strippers. Crystals of sea salt catch the afternoon sun like rhinestones under the glaring lights of the Folies Bergère. I may have invented a whole new type of food photography: tomato porn.”

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“The next dish was a plate of three gently cooked quail eggs served in a buttery crust filled with an equally buttery leek cream, and topped with a generous spoonful of jet-black caviar. Cassie broke open the runny yolk of an egg with the tip of her fork, videoing as it oozed into the caviar and covered the tart. "Now that's what I call food porn," she said, before taking a bite.”

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“which anyone could have guessed from breakfast. Usually our morning fare was watery vegetable broth and burnt rice, but today a feast awaited us. There was fish congee with all the toppings-chives and dried shrimp and salted eggs and an enormous pan of fried crullers, her specialty. Mama only made crullers when she foresaw good tidings in our future. "This is the trip that's going to change everything," she'd said, dropping a cruller into Nomi's bowl of congee. "I can feel it." After we ate, she gathered us around Baba. "Come, ask your father what presents you'd like him to bring back.”

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