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Quote by Ignace Dermaux

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Ignace Dermaux

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“De Hamiltons hadden een beroemde gast over de vloer, de grote admiraal Nelson. Hij was zojuist teruggekeerd uit egypte. De admiraal sprak niet veel, hij leek volledig in de ban van de vrouw des huizes. De decoraties waarmee zijn uniform behangen was, vroegen glimmend om aandacht. Hamilton merkte op dat hij Napels vreselijk miste, omdat hij zich op Sicilië niet aan zijn liefhebberij van het verzamelenvan antieke schatten kon overgeven. Het viel Elgin op dat 'vrouwe' Hamilton niet veel meer droeg dan een onderjurk, die meer van haar lichaam toonde dan betamelijk was. Ze pronkte met haar borsten. Hij vond die borsten mooi, ze voldeden althans aan het klassiek schoonheidsideaal. Ze wiegde overdreven met haar heupen, wellicht omdat ze die heupen zo vaak gebruikte. Haar donkerbruine gazellenogen keken iedereen doordringend aan. Ze had volle, sensuele lippen en had zich smaakvol opgemaakt.”

NelsonVrouw
Book:Een beschaafde man
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“If the infinite is to manifest the potential that lies within it in form, then the mechanism by which it does so is this apparent division of itself into a subject and object. Now there is duality. The subject-object relationship is the mechanism by which the manifest — the potential that lies unmanifest in the infinite — is realized in form. But it comes at a price [...]”

PhilosophyInfiniteOnenessNon DualityConciousnessRupert Spira
Author:Rupert Spira
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“I worked on a new dish while you were away. A pudding." She ties her apron tight around her waist. "Milk, cream, vanilla, eggs, and sugar." "Oh," I say, slightly unsettled at the jauntiness of her tone, at its certainty. "A custard? Did it curdle?" She ignores my question and tells me that she garnished her pudding with branches of preserved barberries. She asks if I would like to see it. But before I can answer she scuttles to the pantry, returning with a clean pudding cloth over one arm, and my best platter----on which wobbles a custard as large and pale as a harvest moon. Atop are woven branches of barberries that wink like garnets. For a second I am speechless. Her creation---for it is nothing less---is picture-perfect. She offers me an egg spoon and jabs at the platter. "Go on, Miss Eliza. I saved it for you to taste first." I dip the spoon into the custard's wrinkled rind and lift it swiftly, curiously, to my lips. As I do so, I'm aware of a sense of serenity washing through me. My anguish over dedications, the lurking accusatory voice that lives inside my head, all of it slips away. And there is only cream and vanilla. It occurs to me that although this glorious pudding is her creation, Ann is partly my creation, and I am partly her creation. Cooking and tasting have provided their own stage and we are performing on it at this very moment.”

CreationIngredientsPresentationPuddingCustard
Book:Miss Eliza's English Kitchen
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“And then?" I said. "Then we shall go through the records and get the names and addresses of all the witches in the whole wide world!" "And after that?" I said, quivering with excitement. "After that, my darling, the greatest task of all will begin for you and me! We shall pack our bags and go travelling all over the world! In every country we visit, we shall seek out the houses where the witches are living! We shall find each house, one by one, and having found it, you will creep inside and leave your little drops of deadly Mouse-Maker in the bread, or the cornflakes, or the rice-pudding or whatever food you see lying about. It will be a triumph, my darling! A colossal unbeatable triumph. We shall do it entirely by ourselves, just you and me! That will be our work for the rest of our lives!" My grandmother picked me up off the table and kissed me on the nose. "Oh, my goodness me, we're going to be busy these next few weeks and months and years!" she cried. "I think we are," I said. "But what fun and excitement it's going to be!" "You can say that again!" my grandmother cried, giving me another kiss. "I can't wait to get started!”

LifeInspirationalPurposeTimeMeaningMortalityBeginningLifes Work
Book:The Witches
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“He spooned the zabaglione into ramekins and slid them into the fridge. They were to form part of a complex assemblage of warm and cold, consisting of a fresh peach gelato, just starting to thaw; then zabaglione made with Barolo wine, slightly chilled; then a warm froth of more zabaglione, a thicker one this time, made with the yolks of goose eggs and rich, sherry like marsala; and finally a topping of crisp fried mint leaves and freshly roasted espresso beans, arranged like the petals and seeds of a flower on top of the other ingredients.”

ItalianDessertCustard
Book:The Food of Love
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