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Sausage Quotes

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Sausage Quotes

“Оповідання «Собака» чітко вкарбовує це в памʼять. Підмогильний описує героя, який перші дні недоїдання намагається переконати себе, що Кант йому дорожчий за ковбасу. Але через три дні голоду він уже сміливо може сказати, що для нього дорожче. У пізнішому оповіданні «Третя революція» Підмогильний цю дилему теж побіжно згадує — усе підлягає обміну, тільки не книжки. Ніхто не виходив на базар із таким товаром, бо й за цілий університет не дістав би картоплини. На базарі людський розум зазнав смертельної поразки від свого одвічного суперника — людського шлунка.”

“There was something sort of bleak about her tone, rather as if she had swallowed an east wind. This I took to be due to the fact that she probably hadn't breakfasted. It's only after a bit of breakfast that I'm able to regard the world with that sunny cheeriness which makes a fellow the universal favourite. I'm never much of a lad till I've engulfed an egg or two and a beaker of coffee. "I suppose you haven't breakfasted?" "I have not yet breakfasted." "Won't you have an egg or something? Or a sausage or something? Or something?" "No, thank you." She spoke as if she belonged to an anti-sausage league or a league for the suppression of eggs. There was a bit of silence.”

“He seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper and mustard, and then grilled it to absolute perfection in clarified butter! The light coating of panko is toasted to a beautiful golden brown. Its crunch delightfully highlights the chicken's tender juiciness. "But what takes this dish's flavor and elevates it to a whole other level... are the tiny crumbles of Boudin Noir blood sausage you added during the grilling step!" "That's right! The Poussin Chicken had just been butchered, so I took a little of its blood and mixed it with some pork blood... to whip up my own special blood sausage! That gave the dish some real punch, don'tcha think?" "B-but that shouldn't even work! Blood sausage has such a powerful flavor it should have overwhelmed the more delicate Poussin Chicken... but that chicken flavor is still undeniably the centerpiece of this dish!" "That's from the fat. See, I didn't just grab some of the chicken's blood. I siphoned up some of its fat too. With this special injector here." Animal fat is just as jam-packed with richness and body as blood! A little dollop of that keeps the chicken balanced as the center of the dish while deepening its overall flavor! Not only that, he used the chain carving knife to add innumerable delicate hidden cuts in the chicken. Thanks to those, the flavors of the chicken, the sausage and the sauce all meld together seamlessly, creating a cohesive overall experience.”

“The next morning we experienced our very first “full English breakfast,” which consisted of tea, orange juice, cookies, oatmeal, granola, berries, bananas, croissants, grapes, pineapples, prunes, yogurt, five kinds of cold cereal, eggs, hash browns, back bacon, sausage, smoked salmon, tomatoes, mushrooms, beans, toast, butter, jam, jelly, and honey. I don’t know how the British do it.”

“From time to time she tasted his food. The sausage was delicious, seasoned with ginger and spices. His sides were all buttery and rich- the mushrooms sautéed in butter, the tattie scones cooked in butter. She tried the black pudding with trepidation. It wasn't her favorite item, but it wasn't awful. It tasted a bit like liverwurst mixed with oatmeal. All of his dishes were rich and heavy. She had to lighten up their menu. Her vegetables looked beautiful- red and yellow tomatoes, grilled Portobello mushrooms, purple potatoes. Colorful, bright, bursting with flavor. She prepared an orange marmalade, another Scottish specialty, and paired it with crispy challah toast. Cady and Em would have loved that part. The fruit salad was all citrus and lemon basil. The sauce fruity and tart.”

“There is something about the first frost that brings out the caveman--- one might even say the vampire--- in me. I want to wear fur and suck the meat off lamb bones, and on comes my annual craving for boudin noir, otherwise known as blood sausage. You know you've been in France for nearly a decade when the idea of eating congealed blood sounds not only normal, but positively delightful. When I was pregnant, my body craved iron in silly amounts. I could have eaten a skyscraper. It's a shame that it's not on the French pregnancy diet--- forbidden along with charcuterie, liver, and steak tartare. It's true that boudin noir is not the sort of thing I'd buy at any old supermarket. Ideally, you want a butcher who prepares his own. I bought mine from the mustached man with the little truck in Apt market, the same one I'd spotted during our first picnic in Provence. Since our first visit, I'd returned many times to buy his delicious, very lean, saucisses fraîches and his handmade andouillettes, which I sauté with onions, Dijon mustard, and a bit of cream. I serve my boudin with roasted apples--- this time, some Golden Delicious we picked up from a farm stand by the side of the road. I toasted the apple slices with olive oil, sprinkled the whole lot with sea salt, and added a cinnamon stick and a star anise to ground the dish with cozy autumn spices. Boudin is already cooked through when you buy it, but twenty minutes or so in a hot oven gives it time to blister, even burst. I'm an adventurous eater, but the idea of boiled (or cold) boudin makes me think about moving back to New Jersey. No, not really. I admit, when you first take it out of the oven, there are some visual hurdles. There's always a brief moment--- particularly when I serve the dish to guests--- that I think, But that looks like large Labrador shit on a plate. True enough. But once you get past the aesthetics, you have one of the richest savory tastes I can imagine. Good boudin has a velveteen consistency that marries perfectly with the slight tartness of the roasted apples. Add mashed potatoes (with skin and lumps), a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, and wake me in the spring.”

“в Берлинцоне, в стране басков, в области, называемой Живи-лакомо, где виноградные лозы подвязывают сосисками, гусь идет за копейку, да еще с гусенком впридачу; есть там гора вся из тертого пармезана, на которой живут люди и ничем другим не занимаются, как только готовят макароны и клецки, варят их в отваре из каплунов и бросают вниз; кто больше поймает, у того больше и бывает; а поблизости течет поток из Верначчьо, лучшего вина еще никто не пивал, и нет в нем ни капли воды.("Декамерон", Дж. Бокаччо)”

“I opened the fridge but there was nothing in it; apart from the stubby end of a black pudding sausage wrapped in cling film, which had been in there for god knows how long, as an emergency stash for when we ran out of blood or the butcher's was closed. I chopped it up into little pieces and carried them in the palm of my hand, like I was offering bread crumbs to the birds, while I went around the house one last time. I took little pieces one by one and popped them in my mouth. The black pudding tasted bad, especially so cold from the fridge. And my body couldn't take much of the egg and oats and pepper that were mixed with the blood to make the sausage; I had to spit most of it out. But it was sustenance, enough to tide me over.”

“Thursday night is pasta night," I say. "I left you guys a lasagna Bolognese, garlic knots, and roasted broccolini. Ian is going to make the Caesar salad table side." Thursday is the day I come in only to train Ian, so on Wednesdays I always leave something for an easy pasta night. Either a baked dish, or a sauce and parboiled pasta for easy finishing, some prepped salad stuff, and a simple dessert. "Awesome. Does the lasagna have the chunks of sausage in it?" I narrow my eyes at him. "Robert Adam Farber, would I leave you a lasagna without chunks of sausage in it?" I say with fake insult in my voice. "No, El, you totally have my back on all things meat. What's for dessert?" "Lemon olive oil cake with homemade vanilla bean gelato.”

“Галицька «виборча ковбаса» (Wahlwurst), якою чиновники та поміщики підкуповували селян, навіть увійшла до загальноімперського політичного жаргону. У суспільному житті галицьких українців у цей час з’являється новий персонаж — хрунь. Так називали тих русинів, які свідомо чи легковажно голосували не за власних кандидатів, а за польських, куплялися за «горілку й ковбасу» чи на обіцянки грошової винагороди.”

“I have a feeling he’s aware of everything going on around him and that he’ll jump to his feet at the slightest provocation and kill whoever bothered him with that damn sausage. I wonder what my obituary would say in that scenario? Here lies Nicholette Bettencourt, who died from being whipped to death by sausage. Rest in peace. Then again, do the criminals here get obituaries?”

“At the table of a gentleman living in the Chausee d'Antin was served up an Arles sausage of enormous size. "Will you accept a slice?" the host asked a lady who was sitting next to him; "you see it has come from the right factory."It is really very large," said the lady, casting on it a roguish glance; "What a pity it is unlike anything."”

“Stretch of I-95 has already had one brush with disaster. In 2008 two contractors from the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation stopped to get a sausage sandwich, and parked their cars under this bridge. And fortunately they wanted that sausage sandwich because they saw one of these piers with an eight foot gash in it about five inches wide. And oh, they knew automatically that this bridge was in deep trouble.”

“Any part of the piggy Is quite all right with me Ham from Westphalia, ham from Parma Ham as lean as the Dalai Lama Ham from Virginia, ham from York, Trotters Sausages, hot roast pork. Crackling crisp for my teeth to grind on Bacon with or without the rind on Though humanitarian I'm not a vegetarian. I'm neither crank nor prude nor prig And though it may sound infra dig Any part of the darling pig Is perfectly fine with me.”

“I devoured hot-dogs in Baltimore 'way back in 1886, and they were then very far from newfangled...They contained precisely the same rubber, indigestible pseudo-sausages that millions of Americans now eat, and they leaked the same flabby, puerile mustard. Their single point of difference lay in the fact that their covers were honest German Wecke made of wheat-flour baked to crispiness, and not the soggy rolls prevailing today, of ground acorns, plaster-of-Paris, flecks of bath-sponge, and atmospheric air all compact.”

“Heaped on the floor were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, great joints of meat, sucking pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, bartrels of oysters, re-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam.”

“THE AMERICAN WAY OF LIFE. Even what they eat and drink, these palefaces who don't know what wine istheir uglinesstheir pink sausage skin, horrible, they only live because there is penicillin,... the world as an Americanized vacuumtheir fake health, their fake youthfulnessthe way they use cosmetics even on corpses, their whole pornographic attitude to death.”