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Book Title Quotes

“She reached for a tiny white dish on top of the stove. "Oops, and salt. I almost forgot salt." "Salt?" I wrinkled my nose, and then widened my eyes. "Is that your secret ingredient?" Sophie laughed. "Salt isn't a secret ingredient, doofus. Besides, you just add a pinch. Salt brings out all the flavors." She paused. "It's weird, isn't it? How something so opposite of sweet can make things taste even better?" "How does it do that?" I asked. "I don't know," Sophie answered. "It just kind of brings everything together in its own strange little way.”

SaltSistersSweetnessBook TitleSophie AndersonJulia Anderson
Book:The Sweetness of Salt
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“Majina ya vitabu yanapaswa kuchaguliwa kwa mantiki na kwa makini ya hali ya juu mno, kwa sababu ni miongoni mwa vitu vya kwanza watu wanavyoviona na kuvisoma. Watu wakivutiwa na jina la kitabu, au mwandishi; kitu cha pili watakachovutiwa kuangalia ni dibaji, kusudi wasome muhtasari wa kitabu kizima. Kwa hiyo dibaji inapaswa iandikwe kwa mantiki na kwa makini ileile iliyotumika katika kuchagua jina la kitabu. Lengo la jina la kitabu na dibaji ni kuishawishi hadhira kusoma kitabu na kukifurahia.”

BookCareCreativityAudienceBooksLogicWriterCreative WritingIntroductionBook TitleTitleEnticementSynopsisAudiencesEntice
Author:Enock Maregesi
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“My brother Clive thinks I'm dog crazy," she says. "In this office," I respond, deadpan, "we call it 'dog normal.'" Anya's lip twitches. Is that the beginning of a smile? I sense something shifting between us. The line was a joke, but I was also serious. It's important that my patients know they aren't alone in caring deeply for an animal companion. Our dogs see us at our best and at our worst, and love us with unparalleled devotion through it all. We share our lives with them. They know our deepest, darkest secrets, things that sometimes our closest human confidants don't even know. No one should feel ashamed for caring for another being, for feeling heartbroken when a friend is gone. What is more "normal" than love?”

Real LoveDogsCompanionsBook TitleDogs Loyalty
Book:Dog Crazy
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“If someone had told Shang he'd be happily married with a son he adored, another bun in the oven, a restaurant he could call his own, and a team he'd do anything for, he would have rolled his eyes. He thinks about all the different choices that brought him here, all the different steps he took like those of a complicated recipe. He's a different man than he was a few years ago, and he suspects it's all thanks to her. In the end, it didn't matter how much he sharpened his knives or how well he seasoned his dishes. He realizes now that he was missing a secret ingredient all along: a little dash of love.”

True LoveHappily Ever AfterBook TitleMilestones
Book:Knives, Seasoning, & A Dash of Love
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“At the end of The Story of Little Babaji they make pancakes out of the tigers that have transformed into butter, and eat them. I think they mix the tiger-butter into the batter. Or put it on top. Maybe they even melt it in the frying pan.' But Rika's words got lost amid the sound of the pancake mix being poured into the pan. She heard the noise of the pancake being flipped and sticking again to the pan. After a while, Makoto came over with a plate in his hand. The perfectly round, golden brown pancake was steaming, the maple syrup shining, and the knob of butter on top beginning to melt. She brought her hands together, and said, 'Itadakimasu.' With a fork, Rika broke off a small piece of the pancake, revealing its bright yellow insides. The way that the batter with its structure of fine air bubbles and countless little pillars supported the surface layer, burnished to a deep brown, was proof that it had been well mixed. The butter slid around sluggishly. Rika put a tiny sliver into her mouth. She instructed her teeth to bite, and with some effort, succeeded in moving her mouth, chewing the soft, warm pancake into which the salted butter and syrup had been absorbed.”

MetaphorJapanesePancakesButterBook Title
Book:Butter
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“That's no secret, honeybee." "Honeybee?" she repeated, a warning in her voice. I bit back a grin. "If II'm going to be a honey pie, makes sense you'd be the bee." The sweep of her brows lowered ominously. "Why? Because I'm after your honey?" She scoffed long and loud, and I had to laugh. If anyone was after honey here, it was me. "Bees make honey, Em." I nudged her again, hard enough to rock her and make her squeak with a laugh. "And you seem intent upon making me sweet.”

SweetBook TitleHoneybeeMake Me
Book:Make It Sweet
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“There was this time of morning that always gave me peace. I liked to call it the "Violet hour." Not because it was my alone time, although it was, but because the light was the prettiest blue violet. It was the hour before the sun would rise, turning the pitch-black velvet night into the fresh blue brightness of day. It happened right before the world woke up and gave me the slice of the morning to really think, or pray, or problem-solve.”

SkyVioletPurpleAlone TimeBook TitleNamesakeViolet Hour
Book:The Violet Hour
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“Alice marveled at the flowers. Huge, fragrant, God-praising blooms. That rose, transplanted and broken, giving beauty to this ground. The dirt and the seed, the flood and the flame, all writing a story of where we belong. Where roses grow, but more than that. Where roses bloom, and where life---full and glorious at its crescendo---finds its meaning over and over again. Maybe the important thing was the same root bound them through any circumstance and any ground. And after a few months, or maybe a few years, the rose would bloom again. The rose always bloomed again. Because somewhere, deep within that plant, was life---abundantly.”

RoseAbundant LifeBook Title
Book:Where the Last Rose Blooms
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“I am re-inventing myself, writing my own story; changing my name to fit the course that I have chosen for myself. The old woman called me Vianne Rocher. Not Rochas, but Rocher, like the chocolate. This seems meaningful, somehow. As if that village on the Baïse and the chocolaterie on Allée du Pieu might both be part of my future. And before I settle anywhere, I need to learn how to be Vianne.”

Purpose In LifeBook TitleReinventing YourselfMain CharacterVianne Rocher
Book:Vianne
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“There was something about those birds in the glass aviary that was foreboding and sad. They could fly, but they had no sky. The one who had escaped- the homing pigeon- was mourned, but shouldn't he have been celebrated? He had freedom; he had escaped his predictable route between Malibu and Bel-Air and was now flying in bigger and brighter skies, with a flight plan that was spontaneous and new. And then there was the girl: I had forced myself to forget her but was only successful for an hour or two, and then she would creep back in, the way a spider returns to a musty corner of a room to spin her web.”

FreedomBook TitleCaged BirdMystery Woman
Book:The Gilded Life of Matilda Duplaine
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“Just then, the reel snapped off the projector and the screen went black. We stood under the chandelier for one last moment. It cast stars on the floor below us, and we were surrounded by so much velvet I felt like a diamond nestled in a jewel box. But the stars weren't real, and I wasn't a gem. In fact, it was only then that I realized that pretty much everything about the gilded life of Matilda Duplaine was make-believe.”

Movie TheaterBook TitleGilded Cage
Book:The Gilded Life of Matilda Duplaine
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“She melted the butter in the pan. She warmed the egg yolks by immersing them in a bowl of hot water and mixing them with vinegar, then pouring in the shining golden butter little by little. She moved the whisk ceaselessly, making the contents of the bowl whirl round and round. Having observed Chizu's troubles up close, and learned how to avoid them, she succeeded in producing the fine egg-colored foam relatively quickly. Her whole hand, from the wrist down, was dancing on a waltz. The tigers in the book, whose desires had kept them spinning round and round until they transformed into butter, had ended up in the stomachs of Little Babaji's family. Even after their deaths, Kajii's victims continued to be exposed to and consumed by the curious gaze of the general public. Rika had stopped believing that any blame lay with the victims themselves. Being sucked into the vortex of Kajii's ominous power, like she herself had been, was something that could happen to anybody. Thinking this, she went on single-mindedly whisking the butter. Through her adventures with the quatre-quarts on Valentine's Day, she'd learned that waiting on the far side of all of this seemingly endless whisking was not stasis or evaporation, but emulsification. If she couldn't tear her eyes away from Kajii, if she couldn't stop herself from spinning round and round, then maybe all that was left to do was to grip on to Kajii with all her might, so as to ensure she wasn't shaken off. 'Done!' Rika said to herself and lifted up the whisk. The sauce of warm, bright yellow that came dripping off the whisk was smooth as cashmere.”

ManipulateVictimsButterBook TitleRound And RoundLured In
Book:Butter
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“She took the butter from its box and opened up its foil wrapper. It was hard and cold. She didn't want to create more washing-up than necessary and she still hadn't located a chopping board, so she sliced it on top of the paper and placed it on the scale. There was a tiny fragment left over on the knife, which she raised to her mouth. The lack of salt meant it coasted across her tongue like a placid midwinter wave, leaving her with an impression of silkiness and concentrated fat.”

TasteButterBook Title
Book:Butter
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“She floated unsteadily over to the dairy section, and found her eyes immediately directed to the small packet with its crisp navy logo exerting enough power to eclipse all the other products around it. To think that a regular supermarket such as this one would stock Échiré butter! Checking the price, she saw it was less than a thousand yen. Not just that, either, but there was a whole assortment of different kinds of butter filling the display: cultured, aged, salted, unsalted... Until just a few months ago, it was difficult to find. Things changed at such speed. For a while, Rika stood still, bathing in the white light of the dairy section.”

ButterBook TitleAvailable Now
Book:Butter
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“But she stopped at the third picture, a gorgeous baking tray of golden buttery-topped tiropetes, with a bowl on the side of bright-colored Greek salad with what appeared to be fresh oregano. It had popped up because she was following #bethesdafood scene. The caption, written by BoozyCrocker, said: BoozyCrocker MUST EAT BUTTER. #TheCookbookClub is now open to new members. Foodies, come join us! Three-drink minimum. No skipping dessert. Meet in Bethesda. DM me. No psychos, no diets. #foodporn #saycheese #cheese #feta #musteatbutter #delicious #whenindoubtaddbutter #bethesdafoodscene”

CheeseInstagramWhen In DoubtButterBook TitleHashtagsBethesda
Book:The Cookbook Club: A Novel of Food and Friendship
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“The butter should still be cold. Remove it from the fridge just before. Superior-quality butter should be eaten when it's still cold and hard, to truly luxuriate in its texture and aroma. It will begin to melt almost immediately with the heat of the rice, but I want you to eat it before it melts fully. Cool butter and warm rice. First of all, savor the difference in their temperatures. Then, the two will melt alongside one another, mingle together, and form a golden fountain, right there inside your mouth. Even without seeing it, you just know that it's golden--- that's the way it tastes. You'll sense the individual grains of rice coated in butter and aromatic fragrance as if the rice were being fried will ascend to your nose. A rich, milky sweetness will spread itself across your tongue...”

RiceButterBook TitleHow To Eat
Book:Butter
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“Wendell and I would spend the next several months traveling his realm. Our realm. I must get used to that. I would take copious notes all the while, no doubt filling several of the ridiculous journals the bookbinders kept churning out, and stumbling across so many research questions it would take me ten lifetimes to tackle them all. And after that, who knows? I have my compendium of tales to finish--- I plan to gather stories as Wendell and I travel, adding them to the small hoard I've already collected. My presence is not required in the mortal world until October, when I will be delivering a presentation on several key findings in my map-book, which shall be published in a month's time. When the Berlin Academy of Folklorists sends you an invitation to their annual conference, you cannot say no.”

RomantasyHeroineAtlasBook TitleResearcherFairy RealmFaerie KingFaerie QueenConferenceCompendium
Book:Emily Wilde's Compendium of Lost Tales
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“There was only the memory of Cassandra's sweet, yielding mouth, the lush curves of her body molding perfectly to his. Like a melody that kept repeating itself throughout a symphony, she was his idée fixe, haunting him whether dreaming or awake. Everything demanded that he chase Cassandra, do whatever was necessary to win her. But if he succeeded, he would destroy everything that made her worth having.”

Book TitleCassandra RavenelTom SeverinFeminine BodyThe Chase
Book:Chasing Cassandra
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“The charlottes cooled in their tin molds while she squeezed lemons and crushed strawberries to flavor her Sicilian ices. The juices trickled into the rectangular tins she stored them in. Then she split off a sheet of foil and smoothed it out on top of the tins; the foil crackled beneath her hands. Later on, the names of the desserts she made got printed in dark green cursive on the backs of the menus: Raspberry Fool. Queen Mother's Cake with a shot of Rum. Mocha Ice Parfait in a Bitter-Chocolate Tuille. And, of course, Charlotte au Chocolat.”

SummertimeDessertsBook TitleIces
Book:Charlotte Au Chocolat: Memories of a Restaurant Girlhood
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“To me, nothing showed how much times had changed more than the disappearance of the charlotte au chocolat. (It still appeared at weddings and special events, but was no longer available on the regular menu.) This came about when my mother stopped baking the desserts herself and hired a procession of young pastry chefs. These pastry chefs had gone to culinary school, and apparently they didn't understand charlotte au chocolat. It was an old-fashioned dessert, whose beauty spoke for itself; it didn't need any frills. But the pastry chefs liked embellishing desserts with frills now: star-shaped cookies and chocolate cigarettes and spun sugar that looked like golden spiderwebs. Now, whenever I ordered dessert, I chose from clementine granita with red-wine-poached pears, almond cake trimmed with candied orange rind, or triple-crème cheesecakes, soft and dripping with huckleberry sauce. Charlotte au chocolat was gone.”

DessertsBook TitleTimes Change
Book:Charlotte Au Chocolat: Memories of a Restaurant Girlhood
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“She looked up to see a knob of canary-yellow butter being carried towards her in a glass-lidded container. 'All this butter just for me, when there's a national shortage...' Hearing Rika mumbling these words, the maitre d' smiled and lifted the lid of the dish. 'This butter had been flown in especially from overseas. Pleas help yourself to as much as you'd like.' Confronted with an overwhelming selection of different kinds of bread on the trolley, Rika chose the simplest option she could see--- a piece of baguette. Once again, she thought that she should have come with Reiko. Reiko would have told her which to choose. Rika spread a thick layer of butter on the bread. The butter, of a firmness that would break apart slowly on the tongue, went sinking into the crumb of the baguette. That alone was enough to make Rika glad she'd come. The next course to be served was a chilled dish of avocado and snow crab stacked delicately like layer cake, topped with a generous helping of caviar. The acidity of the pomegranate seeds that exploded juicily in her mouth accentuated the creamy richness of the avocado and the sweetness of the crab flesh. Their unabashed scarlet hue brought the color palette of the whole plate to life. Chased by the champagne, the taste of the crab and the caviar expanded like light suffusing her mouth.”

SeafoodFusionBread And ButterAppetizersBook Title
Book:Butter
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“Our cake represents the best our families' bakeries Salt and Sugar have to offer," Pedro says, addressing the audience. "Two layers. There's the savory, nourishing quality of Parmesan corn and the sweetness of a guava-drizzled cake that's a reinterpretation of bolo de rolo. Two flavors that are dominant by themselves, meeting to complement each other." He points at each layer. "Salt and Sugar. Just like our families' bakeries." The judge smiles. "Thank you, kids. And what do you call your cake?" I meet Pedro's eyes. Deciding on the name wasn't hard. But saying it out loud in front of our families could go either way. "Romário and Julieta," we say in unison.”

CakeSymbolicEnemies To Lovers RomanceBook TitleBakery RomanceRomeo And JulietSalt And Sugar
Book:Salt and Sugar
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“she could sell in the café provisions she baked in her own time with a shelf life longer than pastries. When she thought of it there had been a rush of certainty she could do it, and a prickling of pride in having conceived a way to make money on her own. It would double at least what she was making now. Without Nicholas it might never had occurred to her. The other day he had stuck a label, which he had found in the junk drawer, on a plastic-wrapped loaf of banana bread. He wrote on the label with a marker, "From the Summer Kitchen Bakery." She had found the gesture adorable at the time and hugged him, but something about it had evidently started percolating in the recesses of her mind, and now she was lapping at the brew like someone tasting it for the first time and wondering how she had never before tasted such ambition. She was thinking of cellophane-packaged chocolate brownies and caramel blondies and orange-and-almond biscotti and pear and oat slices and butter shortbread and Belgian chocolate truffles, marmalades, chutney, relishes, and jellies beautified in jars with black-and-white gingham hats and black-and-white ribbon tied above skirted brims. She could even sell a muesli mix she had developed, full of organic cranberries and nuts and the zest of unwaxed lemons. And she wouldn't change Nicholas's label at all. A child's handwriting impressed that the goods were homemade. She would have his design printed professionally, in black and white, too, old world, like the summer kitchen itself.”

HomemadeOrganic FoodBook TitleBaked GoodsMoneymakingProvisionsBrand NameFranchise
Book:The Summer Kitchen
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“When she was starting out as an actress, a well-known director had leaned over his script, straightened his Coke-bottle glasses, and told Laurel she hadn't the looks to play leading roles. The advice had stung, and she'd wailed and railed, and then spent hours catching herself accidentally on purpose in the mirror before hacking her long hair short in the grip of drunken bravura. But it had proven a "moment" in her career. She was a character actress. The director cast her as the leading lady's sister, and she garnered her first rave reviews. People marveled at her ability to build characters from the inside out, to submerge herself and disappear beneath the skin of another person, but there was no trick to it; she merely bothered to learn the character's secrets. Laurel knew quite a bit about keeping secrets. She also knew that was where the real people were found, hiding behind their black spots.”

Keeping SecretsBook TitleActress
Book:The Secret Keeper
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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.”

BirdsBook TitleSwampMemories Of DaddyPet NameMarsh Queen
Book:The Marsh Queen
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“The store smells of roasted chicken and freshly ground coffee, raw meat and ripening stone fruit, the lemon detergent they use to scrub the old sheet-linoleum floors. I inhale and feel the smile form on my face. It's been so long since I've been inside any market other than Fred Meyer, which smells of plastic and the thousands of people who pass through every day. By instinct, I head for the produce section. There, the close quarters of slim Ichiban eggplant, baby bok choy, brilliant red chard, chartreuse-and-purple asparagus, sends me into paroxysms of delight. I'm glad the store is nearly empty; I'm oohing and aahing with produce lust at the colors, the smooth, shiny textures set against frilly leaves. I fondle the palm-size plums, the soft fuzz of the peaches. And the berries! It's berry season, and seven varieties spill from green cardboard containers: the ubiquitous Oregon marionberry, red raspberry, and blackberry, of course, but next to them are blueberries, loganberries, and gorgeous golden raspberries. I pluck one from a container, fat and slightly past firm, and pop it into my mouth. The sweet explosion of flavor so familiar, but like something too long forgotten. I load two pints into my basket. The asparagus has me intrigued. Maybe I could roast it with olive oil and fresh herbs, like the sprigs of rosemary and oregano poking out of the salad display, and some good sea salt. And salad. Baby greens tossed with lemon-infused olive oil and a sprinkle of vinegar. Why haven't I eaten a salad in so long? I'll choose a soft, mild French cheese from the deli case, have it for an hors d'oeuvre with a beautiful glass of sparkling Prosecco, say, then roast a tiny chunk of spring lamb that I'm sure the nice sister will cut for me, and complement it with a crusty baguette and roasted asparagus, followed by the salad. Followed by more cheese and berries for dessert. And a fruity Willamette Valley Pinot Noir to wash it all down. My idea of eating heaven, a French-influenced feast that reminds me of the way I always thought my life would be.”

ProduceFood For ThoughtSaladBerriesFruits And VegetablesBook TitleSmellsFrench CookingGrocery Store
Book:Eating Heaven
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“I'm ready," she whispered, her stomach fluttering as soon as the words left her. Charles looked at her, the light in his eyes wavering. "Then-" "Yes," she spoke over him. "I accept." He drew her close, holding both her hands and bringing them to his lips. Wishing this moment could last forever, she leaned against the prince's shoulder. At last, she knew. So this was love.”

AcceptanceCinderellaMarriage ProposalBook TitleCinderella And Charles
Book:So This is Love
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“Now that this latest order of beignets was done, Tiana turned her attention back to the pot of gumbo gurgling on the stovetop. She took in the dents and pings along the walls of her daddy's big gumbo pot. Every imperfection was perfect in her eyes. "How's that gumbo coming along, baby girl?" "It's almost there," Tiana called. Her father came over and pulled her into a side hug. "Smells good." "And it tastes even better." She scooped up a big spoonful of the gumbo and blew lightly across it. Then she held the spoon up to him and grinned as he sipped a bit of the dark brown liquid. "Just like your daddy taught you to make it," he said.”

Book TitleTianaAlmost ThereGumboIn The KitchenDaddys Girl
Book:Almost There
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“We collected our things from our quarters---the ones that had been assigned to us and the ones we had adopted--- and I gathered up all my notes that would slowly metamorphose into The Extinction of Irena Rey. Maybe Grey Eminence was right that writing has to be an engine of extinction. But the first to inhabit a traumatized landscape are often fungi, lichen, slime molds, and species of plants known as "ruderal," a word that derives from the Latin word for "rubble." Maybe the extinction of Irena Rey made the space for a ruderal art, like a book about what happened to her translators.”

ExtinctionRubbleForeshadowingBook TitleInhabitants
Book:The Extinction of Irena Rey
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“Naomi makes a face and points to the potted flowers near the front door of her houseboat. "Just look at that," she says, as if something upsetting has happened. She reaches into one of the pots and pulls out a green vine, a few feet long, with several bell-shaped flowers. "There," she says with a vindicated look in her eye, as if this vine has wronged her in some way. "What is it?" I ask. She flashes a patronizing smile. "An invasive weed," she says, tossing the vine into the lake. I watch the little white flowers flutter in the water. I want to kneel down and rescue them from drowning. "Morning glory," Naomi continues, shaking her head. "It'll take over if you let it." I watch as the vine drifts away on the lake. The little flowers bob up and down as if gasping for air. I consider that the vine might find its way to shore and wash up on a patch of soil, where it will start a new existence, maybe sink its roots and thrive. Maybe Naomi has set it free. I think of the bluebells that grew in my mother's garden when I was a child. Weeds, really. But I'd pick them by the handful, and when bunched together they looked stunning.”

FreedomSymbolicBook TitleWeedsBluebellsMorning GloryPenny Wentworth
Book:Morning Glory
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“Not that we expect anything less of Lord Bourne- husband or not, he remains a rogue! And that which we call a rogue, by any other name would scandalize as sweet!" "Oh, for heaven's sake." Penelope did roll her eyes at that, looking to Michael, who looked... pleased. "You're complimented?" He turned innocent eyes on her. "Should I not be?" "Well," Philippa added thoughtfully, "anything Shakespearean must be at least a vague compliment." "Precisely," Michael said, gifting Pippa with a smile that made Penelope more than a little envious of her younger sister.”

ShakespeareBook TitlePippa MarburyPhilippa MarburyMichael LawlerBy Any Other Name
Book:A Rogue by Any Other Name
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“That will be $22.95." He held out a hand, and this time she laughed, the full, delightful belly chuckle he remembered from the past. "How about I buy you dinner when we get to the Shark Tank instead?" she offered. "I don't believe that's on our dating plan, Ms. Patel." He pulled out his phone. "Let me see... Hmm. It appears that we've already crossed off the dinner option." Daisy shrugged. "If you don't like their roast beef sandwiches..." "With horseradish?" "And beer." Liam stroked his chin as if considering. "Double order of fries?" "Each." "And for dessert?" he asked. "Fried Oreos, of course." He tucked away his phone. "For you, I'm willing to go 'off plan.”

Book TitleFood CravingsDatenight
Book:The Dating Plan
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“Those are juice glasses," she said. I smiled. "Right," I said. "This is how we drank it in Baghdad." I put down the steaming glass in front of her and wrapped the oven mitt around the bowl of bamia and brought that too, smelling it on the way. "Heaven," I said. I watched her as she ate until I caught myself. "I haven't made this in years," I said. Lorca lifted her shoulders, cocked her head, asking why. "I don't know," I said. "I should have. There's a saying in Arabic: Bukra fil mish mish. 'Tomorrow, when the apricots bloom.' Or, in other words, maybe tomorrow. I kept thinking that. I'd do it tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow." I was thinking of Lorca, of cooking again. But I thought of Joseph too. No more tomorrows with him.”

TomorrowBook TitleLorcaVictoria Shohet
Book:Tomorrow There Will Be Apricots
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