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Tomato Quotes

Browse 17 quotes about Tomato.

Tomato Quotes

“I don't know how long I spent wandering about the supermarket creating meals in my mind. Hot roast chicken and mayonnaise sandwiches. Pizzas on crispy bases. Big, heaving bowls of spaghetti Bolognese. Crunchy, cheesy nachos with sour cream. I did a full circle and ended back in the fruit and veg section. Next to the peaches were boxes filled with tomatoes still clinging to their vines. The ripe tomato smell was almost sexual. It filled my nostrils as I lifted the box. There were some slightly rotten ones near the bottom of the box, but the rest were just perfect, thick with the perfume of their green vines, fat and red.”

MealsTomatoesTartTomatoSupermarketFood CravingsGrace Raven
Book:The Color of Tea
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“I wish you could have seen the kitchen when I was done: It looked like a hurricane had blown right in the door! But I cleaned it all up, and when Mother came home the whole house smelled warm and spicy, Bing Crosby was singing "White Christmas" on the radio, I was wearing a clean apron, and she called me her "little homemaker." What would you think about tomato mincemeat cookies? I bet no one else will think of that!”

CookiesHomemakerTomatoLulu SwanMincemeat
Book:Delicious!
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“The bread was earthy and chewy, crunchy on the bottom and meltingly soft on top, and rather than rubbing the bread with tomato as in a traditional pan con tomate (yes, I'd done my research), the raw tomato had been shredded and mashed and spread on top, a cool, sweet, tangy contrast to the bread. A hint of garlic spoke up in the back of my throat; anchovies whispered underneath, the salt and the brine making everything else taste sweeter.”

BreadFlavorsSavoryTomatoAnchoviesSweet And Salty
Book:Best Served Hot
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“I was so caught up in my thoughts I did not notice the wire till I got caught up in it. Right. Of course. Tomato patch. Those poor fruits. Or vegetables. Those poor fruitables. Those poor veguits. I have too much time on my hands.”

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Book:The Community: A Funny and Disturbing Conspiracy Mystery Novel
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“Her smile was somehow a little too bright, but I watched as she showed me how she had scored the puff pastry and brushed it with oil. She got me to smell the thyme pressed between her fingers and thumb, and told me how good garlic was for keeping away colds. She preached about food and sang and laughed and baked until the light started to come in the windows. Then we sat and ate hot tart without knives and forks. She kissed my cheeks and smelled like garlic. I remember the hot cheese dropping onto Mama's sweater and drying to a rubbery streak against the wool.”

IngredientsHerbsTomatoesMother And DaughterTartTomato
Book:The Color of Tea
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“Madame Escoffier," he said. In his white apron, he was again the man she loved. The gentle man who only spoke in whispers. "I am sorry," she said. "I am not." He leaned over and kissed her. His lips tasted of tomatoes, sharp and floral. The moment, filled with the heat of a reckless summer, brought her back to the gardens they had grown together in Paris in a private courtyard behind Le Petit Moulin Rouge. Sweet Roma tomatoes, grassy licorice tarragon, thin purple eggplants and small crisp beans thrived in a series of old wine barrels that sat in the tiny square. There were also violets and roses that the 'confiseur' would make into jellies or sugar to grace the top of the 'petit-fours glacés,' which were baked every evening while the coal of the brick ovens cooled down for the night. "No one grows vegetables in the city of Paris," she said, laughing, when Escoffier first showed her his hidden garden, "except for Escoffier." He picked a ripe tomato, bit into it and then held it to her lips. "Pomme d'amour, perhaps this was fruit of Eden." The tomato was so ripe and lush, so filled with heat it brought tears to her eyes and he kissed her. "You are becoming very good at being a chef's wife." "I love you," she said and finally meant it. 'Pommes d'amour.' The kitchen was now overflowing with them.”

MemoriesGardensTomatoAuguste And Delphine
Book:White Truffles in Winter
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“There is the standing prime rib roast, which I salted three days ago and have left uncovered in the extra fridge to dry out. I place the roast in a large Ziploc bag and put it in the bottom of the first rolling cooler, and then the tray of twice-baked potatoes enriched with cream, butter, sour cream, cheddar cheese, bacon bits, and chives, and topped with a combination of more shredded cheese and crispy fried shallots. My coolers have been retrofitted with dowels in the corners so that I can put thin sheets of melamine on them to create a second level of storage; that way items on the bottom don't get crushed. On the top layer of this cooler I placed the tray of stuffed tomatoes, bursting with a filling of tomato pudding, a sweet-and-sour bread pudding made with tomato paste and orange juice and lots of butter and brown sugar, mixed with toasted bread cubes. I add a couple of frozen packs, and close the top. "That is all looking amazing," Shawn says. "Why, thank you. Can you grab me that second cooler over there, please?" He salutes and rolls it over. I pull the creamed spinach out of the fridge, already stored in the slow cooker container, and put it in the bottom of the cooler, and then add three large heads of iceberg lettuce, the tub of homemade ranch dressing and another tub of crispy bacon bits, and a larger tub of popover batter. I made the pie at Lawrence's house yesterday morning before heading to the airport- it was just easier than trying to transport it- and I'll make the whipped cream topping and shower it with shards of shaved chocolate just before serving. I also dropped off three large bags of homemade salt-and-pepper potato chips, figuring that Lawrence can't eat all of them in one day and that there will hopefully be at least two bags still there when we arrive. Lawrence insisted that he would pick up the oysters himself.”

ChocolatePieTubsLeftoversTomatoFood StoragePuddingsCooler
Book:How to Change a Life
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“My eyes widened at this jungle of freshness, the earth on the ground. The back wall, around thirty feet high, burst with terra-cotta pots filled with every herb imaginable- basil, thyme, coriander, parsley, oregano, dill, rosemary, and lavender. There were tomatoes of almost every variety beaming with colors of red, dark purple, yellow, and green. Lemon trees. Avocados. Lettuces, like roquette and feuille de chêne. Zucchinis and eggplants. Fennel, celeriac, artichokes, and cucumbers. Leeks, asparagus, cabbages, and shallots, oh my. I exhaled a happy breath. This explosion of color, this climate-controlled greenhouse, was every chef's idea of heaven. I ran my hands over the leaves of a cœur de bœuf tomato plant and brought my fingers to my nose, breathing in the grassy and fragrant aroma, an unmistakable scent no other plant shared. All of the smells from my summers in France surrounded me under one roof. As the recipes Grand-mère taught me when I was a child ran through my head, my heart pumped with happiness, a new vitality. I picked a Black Krim, which was actually colored a reddish purple with greenish brown shoulders, and bit into it. Sweet with just a hint of tartness. Exactly how I summed up my feelings.”

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Book:The Secret French Recipes of Sophie Valroux
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