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C Quotes

Browse famous quotes beginning with C. This page is a child index of the full Popular Quotes A-Z directory.

All C Quotes

“Chicago PD has a rule that if you work in Chicago you have to live in Chicago. Some areas don't have that rule.So oftentimes you get people from different environments that get thrown into environments with people that they never spent time with before in they life. On a daily basis or in their personal life. The only access they had to these type of people was through the media.”

“Chicago theater vs. New York theater. There's just nothing to say about it really. If you've seen Chicago theater, you know that the work is true to what is there on the page. It's not trying to present itself with some sort of flashy, concept-based thing. It's about the work, and it's about the acting you're about to watch. So acting-based theater feels like it was born there to me.”

“Chicago's downtown seems to me to constitute, all in all, the best-looking twentieth-century city, the city where contemporary technique has best been matched by artistry, intelligence, and comparatively moderated greed. No doubt about it, if style were the one gauge, Chicago would be among the greatest of all the cities of the world.”

“Chicken Francese, or lamb chops, or plump spinach gnocchi that she'd roll out by hand and drop into boiling salt water. When her brothers came home for the holidays, she'd spend days in the kitchen, preparing airy latkes and sweet and sour brisket; roast turkey with chestnut stuffing; elaborately iced layer cakes. She'd stay in the kitchen for hours, cooking dish after dish, hoping that all the food would somehow conceal their father's absence; hoping that the meals would take the taste of grief out of their mouths. "After my father died, I think cooking saved me. It was the only thing that made me happy. Everything else felt so out of control. But if I followed a recipe, if I used the right amounts of the right ingredients and did everything I was supposed to do..." She tried to explain it- how repetitive motions of peeling and chopping felt like a meditation, the comfort of knowing that flour and yeast, oil and salt, combined in the correct proportions, would always yield a loaf of bread; the way that making a shopping list could refocus her mind, and how much she enjoyed the smells of fresh rosemary, of roasting chicken or baking cookies, the velvety feel of a ball of dough at the precise moment when it reached its proper elasticity and could be put into an oiled bowl, under a clean cloth, to rise in a warm spot in the kitchen, the same step that her mother's mother's mother would have followed to make the same kind of bread. She liked to watch popovers rising to lofty heights in the oven's heat, blooming out of their tins. She liked the sound of a hearty soup or grain-thickened stew, simmering gently on a low flame, the look of a beautifully set table, with place cards and candles and fine china. All of it pleased her.”

“Chicken legs, beef ribs- they ate the food with their fingers, dipping into the horseradish sauce, feeding each other greedily. Laughing. They rolled leaves of cabbages and chewed on them like monkeys. They ate the golden potatoes as if they were apples. By the time they returned to the making of stock, and took the roasted veal bones from the stove and put them into the pot and filled it with enough cold water so that it could slowly simmer, their own legs no longer ached, their feet felt as if they could stand the weight of their bones for yet another day and they tasted of garlic and wine. "Thank you, chef," he said. "Thank you, chef." She opened the cheese larder and took out a wedge of runny Camembert, which she covered with a handful of white raspberries that he had draining in a colander by the sink. He opened a bottle of port. The dishes could wait. They sat on the back stairs of the tall thin house and looked over the lights of the steep city of Monte Carlo and out into the endless sea. The air was cool, the cheese and raspberries were rich and tart; the port was unfathomably complex with wave and wave of spiced cherries, burnt caramel and wild honey.”

“Chicken meat, gizzard, chicken skin and chicken wing. This time, I added about 10 percent more water to the Takazasu I gave to you... ...and let it sit for about a week to blend the alcohol and flavor together. And I've warmed it just like the last one so that it will be 118 degrees when poured into the cup. If the temperature is any lower than that, the sweetness of the sake becomes too distinct and it loses its lightness." "Hmmm! This one tastes so light, even though it's the same temperature!" "After eating for a while, people tend to start getting a bit tired. If you warm this sake up to the right temperature, it helps you continue to eat." "That's right. And this sake is not only light, but it also has a strong, rich taste... ... so it can capture the fatty parts like the chicken skin and chicken wing and boost their flavor." "This way, you can continue to eat, and you'll never get tired of drinking.”

“Chicken Roast Puff your plume in anger and fight, cock, delight the owner of knife smear sting with pollen and flap your wings As I said: Twist the arms and keep them bent roll the rug and come down the terrace after disturbed sleep Shoeboots-rifle-whirring bullets-shrieks The aged undertrial in the next cell weeps and wants to go home Liberate me let me go let me go home On its egg in the throne the gallinule doses asphyxiate in dark fight back, cock, die and fight, shout with the dumb Glass splinters on tongue-breast muscles quiver Fishes open their gills and enfog water A piece of finger wrapped in pink paper With eyes covered someone wails in the jailhouse I can't make out if man or woman Keep this eyelash on lefthand palm- and blow off with your breath Fan out snake-hood in mist Cobra's abdomen shivers in the hiss of female urination Deport to crematorium stuffing blood-oozing nose in cottonwool Shoes brickbats and torn pantaloons enlitter the streets I smear my feet with the wave picked up from a stormy sea That is the alphabet I drew on for letters. (Translation of Bengali original 'Murgir Roast')”

“Chicken Soup for the Soul". You've heard of these books, am I right? We've all heard of them. But I wonder if you're aware of just how many "Chicken Soup" books exist on the planet. No offense, but I doubt it. I doubt it because in the time it would take you to come up with a number, the number would have become obsolete. Even as you read this, in some quiet, fecund place, another "Chicken Soup" book is being born.”