Best 15 quotes of Beth Harbison on MyQuotes

I think things ultimately work out the way they're supposed to, even if it's not always the most comfortable, cushy way.

I was always in complete control of everything in my life and I was just so tired of having to do that alone. Not that I wanted someone else to take over my life for me or tell me how to do things, but when you're the only one accountable for everything, that can get old.

We can understand the science of what makes a heart beat, but we can never stop it from breaking.

Writing is always a solitary experience, but living, if you're lucky, is not.

Fairy tales die hard in the minds and hearts of some girls. Quinn

Here's the only thing I know for sure: Chopped pineapple is incredible on hot dogs. Honest to God, I love pineapple on everything- I would probably even eat it off a cadaver's hand- but toss it with a little chopped red onion and put it on a hot dog, and it's bliss. There's not a lot you can count on in this world, but pineapple? It's solid.

I could definitely rise to the challenge of re-inventing comfort food. Neufchatel and low-fat sour cream were my friends! Low-carb pasta with omega-3s and protein were the greatest inventions ever! I'd had luck using all of them. Granted, even though I couldn't resist a good fatty slice of prime rib every now and then, and Fromager d'Affinois bursting into cream in my mouth was like heaven for me- and certainly I had the curves to show for it- but even if I didn't follow a strict diet, I could certainly cook one!

I guess everyone likes praise for what they do, but that night I enjoyed cooking for the Olekseis more than I ever had before. Everything about the ingredients, the smells, the textures, everything delighted me. Maybe I should specialize in Russian food. I sliced the garlic and dropped it into the pan. It started to sizzle, and I turned the heat down and began slicing the onion. It was very fresh, very pungent. My eyes watered, and I got sniffly. Then I smelled a hint of burn on the garlic and hurried back to the stove and shook the pan. Just in time. The slices were brown but not too brown. I was getting good at this. I could detect the smell of burning just before it happened. That had to be some sort of superpower. As I put the rest of the dish together- dicing deep, ruby beets; slicing carrots and Yukon gold potatoes, sizzling spicy sausage in the pan; spicing and tasting, and mixing, and finally pureeing the whole thing into a savory maroon liquid- I continued to marvel at the perfect ripeness and freshness of every ingredient I'd picked out.

I put a big slab of butter into the pan. The Olekseis didn't give one damn about health, which made them refreshing to cook for, and my motto was pretty much, 'When in doubt, add butter.' Right now, I was definitely in doubt. I added more butter.

Love seems like such a simple thing to ask for. Such a basic right. It takes no skill, no experience, no money, no education, nothing--it can happen to anyone. But it doesn't happen to everyone. Even though everyone, deep down, wants it. Anyway, I do.

Myself, I couldn't help think of anything in the world better than stirring sharp white cheddar, smoked Gouda, creamy Havarti, Monterey Jack, and a touch of piquant Maytag blue cheese into a bubbling hot white sauce, stirring it to a thick honey consistency, and pouring it over al dente macaroni to toast to a crispy deep golden on top.

So your final assignment is a simple one but it’s going to take forever: be happy. No matter what it takes. No matter how embarrassing it might be sometimes, no matter who or what you might have to forgive, no matter how hideous the color of the hat that makes you smile, be happy.

That is just one more thing I love about cooking. Recipes are certain. Use good ingredients, follow the directions, be sure your oven temperature is true and monitor your stove properly, and you are assured success. There are not many variables once you understand how cooking works. Life, on the other hand, is full of variables. Nothing is predictable. Not the weather, not other people, not traffic, not even our own bodies. We are like seaweed, whipped around in the current of an erratic ocean.

What are you making?" he asked me. "Eggplant with a pomegranate walnut sauce." It was nice to be able to answer at least something with certainty. I turned the eggplant over in the pan. The sauce was just a mixture of pomegranate juice, good red wine vinegar, garlic, red pepper flakes, and salt. Nothing else. It was hard for me to resist embellishing recipes that called for so little, but the complexity of the juice transformed what would otherwise be the world's most basic support ingredients into a symphony of flavor.

You know," she confided, "your recipe for Cajun Chicken Pasta? On page twenty-eight?" She nodded toward the book I'd just signed for her. "Yes?" "Totally works with skim milk instead of heavy cream." She nodded proudly. "Not that I tried the cream version. I'm sure in a blind taste test that's the one I'd prefer, but skim works!" I imagined the dish, using milk in the pan with the chicken fond, sun-dried tomatoes, oregano, and blackening spice, and could see where the milk would reduce into a nice thick sauce.