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Quote by Abhijit Naskar

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The God Sonnets: Naskar Art of Theology

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Abhijit Naskar

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“She hoped Dad would have liked this burger. No, she knew he would have. Even if he would have raised an eyebrow at her choice of cheese. American cheese was specifically engineered to melt, Ro, he used to say. Rosie grinned at the memory, remembering how it felt to stand barefoot in the grass in their backyard, hands on her hips, asking her father to use some other kind of cheese as he manned the grill. And maybe American cheese did melt really well. But she'd never been a Kraft Singles kind of girl. And she knew that Dad had loved that about her, too. Just like he'd loved everything about her.”

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“Everyone always assumed it was her mom who was the grilled cheese aficionado, but it was her dad who had mastered the art first. "Remember when Dad would make us breakfast grilled cheeses?" May asked. She and her mom had finally found a rhythm where they could work and talk at the same time. "I miss those," May said. Her mom swallowed, then cleared her throat. "I don't know what he did that made them so good. The Nutella and mascarpone was my favorite. I think he browned the butter first- he always did something to make it a little special." She even managed a tiny smile. May smiled back at her. "I liked the bacon and egg with marble cheese." "He grilled that one in bacon grease." "The house would smell so good." "Except that one time he got distracted by a crossword and burned the sandwiches. It took all day to to get the smell of burned toast smoke out of the house. And you have to admit, not every one of his creations was good." May scrunched her face, remembering some of the worst. Her mom wiped at her eyes and flipped the sandwiches in front of her. "Like the pickle and Brie combo. What was he thinking?" "That wasn't as bad as the pineapple and blue cheese.”

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Book:The Optimist's Guide to Letting Go
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“Do you need a rest, Mama?" Tiana said as she drizzled praline syrup on the order of beignets she'd just made. "No, baby. You know I stopped sewing to embrace the excitement of the restaurant business." "Well, that's not the only reason you're here," Tiana said with a laugh. She rounded the cooking station and enveloped her mother in a hug. "No, it isn't," Eudora said. She and Tiana stared up at the portrait of her daddy that hung on the wall, looking down over the entire kitchen. "I'm here because this is exactly where he would want me to be." "And it's exactly where I want you to be, too. What did that man from the paper call you? The queen of Tiana's Palace?" "Well, he's right," her mother replied with no small amount of sass. Then she and Tiana burst out laughing.”

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“He gave me the birds, and he gave me the swamp. At some point he stopped trying to teach me the finer points of fishing. He saw what I liked about the place and supplied a way to describe it. "Pond chicken," he'd say, at the movement of something purple in the reeds, or "Kingfisher," when a small rocket flew past and ahead of us, close to the water. Once, in the same tone of voice, he said, "Swamp girl." I turned, quick, to see. "That's you, Loni Mae." He looked at me sideways and laughed. Shafts of sunlight shone through the Spanish moss above him. "Or no. I got a better name for you. The Marsh Queen.”

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Book:The Marsh Queen
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“This time it was a strawberry shortcake with homemade whipped cream. If Angela closed her eyes, she could still remember the fluffy perfection of the shortcake, the ripe flavor of the strawberries, the sweet thickness of the cream. But more than that, she remembered a summer day from her childhood that the cake made her recall. She'd been only seven years old, and on the hottest day of the summer, she and Daddy had gone down to Sweet Creek, which ran right through town, meandering behind houses and through the park, until it emptied into Dove Pond itself. Daddy had loved creeks, and there was nothing he liked better than to roll up his pants and walk barefoot over rocks worn smooth by cool, shimmering water. She'd learned to love that same experience herself. That summer day, the heat of the late afternoon had dissipated as the coolness of the water washed over their feet. They'd held hands as they walked, and had laughed and talked as they splashed and scared off more fish than she could count. Oh, how she relished that memory. And Ella's cake had made it so immediate, so real, that when Angela had finished swallowing the final bite, she'd had to wipe away happy tears. That had been one of the best days of her life. But then that was the beauty of an Ella Dove cake. It wasn't just the flawlessness of the bake, or the richness of the flavors, although they were something to behold themselves. It was the unexpected memories of those perfect combinations of flavor and texture stirred. The glimpses of special, exquisite moments from one's past were astoundingly real and, oh, so precious.”

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Book:The Secret Recipe of Ella Dove
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“Her breath caught as a memory hit her like a tidal wave: ten-year-old Jasmine, curled up with a book at her father's feet while he worked through the piles of parchment in the box, full of official correspondence from his ministers and satraps, the governors who ruled neighboring provinces in the sultan's name. "One day, Jasmine azizam, this will be your job too," he had said, peering down at her with a serious expression. "It's the most important work a mortal could ever do: taking care of an entire kingdom and its people. Is that something you can see yourself doing one day? Ruling just like your Baba?" "I only have to do it if you don't have a son." Jasmine had shrugged off the question with all the carefree obliviousness of a child. An inscrutable expression had come over her father then. He opened his mouth to say something and stopped, as if thinking better of it. And then he reached down to squeeze her shoulder. "There will be no son, Jasmine," he had said. "You are the one.”

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“Adding firewood to the hearth, she made a thick syrup by mixing rosewater and dark meadow-flower honey, a gift from Lord Zopyrus. Setting the pot aside to cool, she turned her attention to the cake's filling. From the storehouse, she fetched a sackcloth filled with pistachios that she had harvested herself the previous fall. Pistachios always reminded Roxannah of her father. Not the man lying in his bed now, the one who had a barbed tongue and heavy hand. No. Pistachios remind Roxannah of the father she remembered from her girlhood. The quiet, amiable man who hadn't yet been ruined by the cruelty of war and too much wine. For a moment, her eyes welled. When she had been little, her father had taken her on one of his rambles through their land. They had ended up in the pistachio grove. Plucking a young fruit from a fat cluster, he had peeled off the pink and green outer skin to show her the split seed inside.”

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Book:The Queen's Cook
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