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Quote by Alain Bremond-Torrent

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running is flying intermittently

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Alain Bremond-Torrent

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“A flock of fairy wrens could land on grass stalks in the medieval garden. Splendidly whistling their fine stories, fluttering their wings before the Queen. The golden pear could be their gift, a very rare find in a world so bleak. The pear could be placed into the lap of the very tired and aged Queen. [Seeing Life Through the Bleak]”

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Book:Bare Spirit: The Selected Poems of Susan Marshall
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“Remembering the careful way the cooks she'd met chose their ingredients--- the snails at L'Ami Louis, Taeb's saffron, Baldwin's asparagus--- Stella thought Django was more like a magician, conjuring dishes out of thin air. By the time George nudged Stella aside to poke his nose in the door, Lucie was strewing crisp breadcrumbs on top of a thick vegetable potage, and Django was stirring a tart lemon pudding. Downstairs, customers lingered, people who had intended on stopping in for a moment stayed on as increasingly seductive scents wafted through the shop. Unwilling to admit that he was pleased, George tasted the pudding and grumbled, "You've used up all the eggs. And I wanted gingerbread for tonight's reading." "Gingerbread!" Django pulled a face. "Nous sommes en France. I will make something more appropriate." Still standing in the doorway, Stella wondered how he would manage this; he'd used everything in the kitchen except an aged pound cake resembling a rock, a handful of desiccated dried apricots, and the sour milk. "We'll make some coffee." Django was tearing up the stale cake. As she watched, he produced curds from the sour milk, cooked the apricots into jam, and soaked the cake in coffee. With a flourish, he pulled a bar of chocolate from his pocket. "J'ai toujours du chocolat sur moi." He melted the chocolate, stirring in the last of the coffee. "I always have chocolate. You never know when you will need it." Against her better judgement, Stella was charmed. Lucie stood close by, watching him layer the coffee-drenched cake with jam, curds, and chocolate, grabbing each spoon as he finished. "Will you make this for my birthday?" she asked. "No." "Please," she begged. "For your birthday I will make something better.”

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Book:The Paris Novel
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“Earlier this afternoon when Kate was unpacking the food delivery, she'd suffered a mild meltdown when she realized she'd ordered raspberries, not cherries, there wasn't enough asparagus, and she hadn't allowed enough time to factor in more shopping. But then Cecily's advice, from "Dinner in a Bed-Sitting Room" had popped into her mind: What can't be disguised must be utilized. Don't apologize--- improvise. Kate had turned the raspberries into a sharp, fruity purée for Bellinis, kept the chocolate mousse simple, and ended up asking Martin to find more greens--- if not asparagus, then frozen peas or broad beans. The pasta had turned out even better, the peas adding sweet little bursts of freshness to cut through the rich, creamy, smoky sauce.”

ImprovisingSage AdviceFlavorful
Book:Miss Cecily's Recipes for Exceptional Ladies
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“I choose a long, flat stone from the pile and wedge it carefully between two larger stones in the wall. It's a good fit, I note with satisfaction. "You've always been good at that, making something out of very little," Nicolo responds, and there's a fondness and admiration in his gaze that surprises me. He sees something in me I forgot was even there.”

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Book:The Secret of Orange Blossom Cake
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“Here, in Lorrain's poisoned little jewel of a tale (“The Man Who Made Wax Heads”) the consummate achievement of decadent art is caught in miniature. The genius of the artist entangles perpetrators and victims in a sticky web of perverse delights, in which exploitation becomes collusion, the ripples of guilt spread outward, and the real criminal slips away. In the end, responsibility is lodged firmly with the consumer, forced – he must confess – by his own perverse desires, to buy into the values of this particularly black market.”

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Author:Jennifer Birkett
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“The streets of Prague were a fantasia scarcely touched by the twenty-first century—or the twentieth or nineteenth, for that matter. It was a city of alchemists and dreamers, its medieval cobbles once trod by golems, mystics, invading armies. Tall houses glowed goldenrod and carmine and eggshell blue, embellished with Rococo plasterwork and capped in roofs of uniform red. Baroque cupolas were the soft green of antique copper, and Gothic steeples stood ready to impale fallen angels. The wind carried the memory of magic, revolution, violins, and the cobbled lanes meandered like creeks. Thugs wore Motzart wigs and pushed chamber music on street corners, and marionettes hung in windows, making the whole city seem like a theater with unseen puppeteers crouched behind velvet.”

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Book:Daughter of Smoke & Bone
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“Across the road, under the willows, Rose Thorn saw a tangle of purple waterleaf, edible. The May apples had opened their umbrellas over creamy flowers, and a clump of white trillium waved flags of truce, a few of them blushing pink. The foliage between them and the island--- elderberry bushes and silky dogwood--- was already so thick that Rosie could barely see the cottage perched just above the bridge. She didn't understand why she'd wanted to leave this lovely, lush, watery place; at this time of year, she was always sure she'd never want to leave again.”

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Book:The Waters
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