Best 457 quotes in «bread quotes» category

Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate, Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours Weeping upon his bed has sate, He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers.

Who never ate his bread in sorrow, Who never spent the darksome hours Weeping, and watching for the morrow,- He knows you not, ye heavenly Powers.

Who sail on stormy seas; And that's the way I get my bread -- A trifle, if you please.

Who needs bread crumbs," Dan replied, "when you have GPS?

Why ask for your daily bread when you own the bakery?

Why do croutons come in airtight packages? It's just stale bread to begin with.

Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy? Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good, and your soul will delight in the richest of fare.

Winner gave me my bread and Russell gave me my art.

Without bread all is misery.

Woman is as common as a loaf of bread, and like a loaf of bread, will rise.

Women have no wilderness in them They are provident instead Content in the tight hot cell of their hearts To eat dusty bread.

...won't you give some bread to get the starving fed

Workers need poetry more than bread. They need that their life should be a poem. They need some light from eternity. Religion alone can be the source of such poetry.

Work is a search for daily meaning as well as for daily bread.

You are free, but you have to choose. An open oven bakes no bread

You are who you go to lunch with! Break bread with cool and you will become more cool. Conversely: break bread with dull and well, you can figure it out.

You cannot do anything without rousing the masses to action. A plenary meeting of the Soviet must be called to decide on mass searches in Petrograd and the goods stations. To carry out these searches, each factory and company must form contingents, not on a voluntary basis: it must be the duty of everyone to take part in these searches under the threat of being deprived of his bread card. We can't expect to get anywhere unless we resort to terrorism: speculators must be shot on the spot. Moreover, bandits must be dealt with just as resolutely: they must be shot on the spot.

You do not build your own houses, nor make your own garments, nor bake your own bread, simply because you know that if you were to attempt all these things they would all be more or less ill done.

You can't just leave out one part; the bread won't rise if the yeast isn't there.

You've done what?" "I know," he said. "You're impressed. You send me out for bread and I come back with a boy. Well, not literally. That would be weird. Even for me.

You grow in reputation like bread in the hands of a child.

You have to think you're the greatest thing since sliced bread, but you have to know that you're not.

You know how ESPN works; they'll throw themselves into a frenzy over Tebow's white bread lame ass niceness and then vilify Johnny Football just 'cause he rages now and then.

You must open a little, or rather raise on high your corolla so that the Bread of Angels may come as divine dew to strengthen you, and to give you all that is wanting to you.

You must strive to multiply bread so that it suffices for the tables of mankind, and not rather favor an artificial control of birth, which would be irrational, in order to diminish the number of guests at the banquet of life.

Youth eats all the sugared fancy cakes and regards them as its daily bread. But there'll come a time when you'll start asking just for a crust.

You walk into a strip club with a wad of cash; they all flock around you. Strippers are just pigeons with tits. They go where the bread is.

You will always be the bread and the knife, not to mention the crystal goblet and—somehow—the wine.

And Jesus answered him, saying, "It is written, That man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word of God.

A man needs only his daily bread.

After breakfast, Kat would go around to the neighbors with her mother, carrying a basket of bread. During the week, they'd make inquiries to see who needed their help. They baked yarrow bread for those with broken hearts, sorrel bread for neglected children, stephanotis bread for couples who were fighting, pear blossom bread for anyone grieving, laurel bread for those needing financial help, and a simple sage bread for everyone else.

Bad business should be done without guilt if it is a source of income.

Baking bread is a lot like growing your faith in the Lord, Carrie Louise. You mix together the best ingredients you can find and wait for the mixture to mature, but it's the heat of the oven that makes it something of worth and substance. The same way the tribulations of this world mature a persons faith.

A slice of bread eaten is a million times more nourishing than a loaf of bread imagined.

As we come marching, marching, we battle too for men, For they are women's children, and we mother them again. Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes; Hearts starve as well as bodies; give us bread, but give us roses!

Bread cannot feed the addicts of beauty.

Bread, however, is their chief food. It is cheap; they like it; it comes into the house ready cooked, it is always at hand, and needs no plate and spoon. Spread with a scraping of butter, jam, or margarine, according to the length of purse of the mother, they never, tire of it as long as they are in their ordinary state of health. They receive it into their hands, and can please themselves as to where and how they eat it. It makes the sole article in the menu for two meals in the day. Dinner may consist of anything from the joint on Sunday to boiled rice on Friday. Potatoes will play a great part as a rule, at dinner, but breakfast and tea will be bread.

Bread plays favorites. From the earliest times, it acts as a social marker, sifting the poor from the wealthy, the cereal from the chaff. The exceptional from the mediocre. Wheat becomes more acceptable than rye; farmers talk of losing their 'rye teeth' as their economic status improves. Barley is for the most destitute, the coarse grain grinding down molars until the nerves are exposed. Breads with the added richness of eggs and milk and butter become the luxuries of princes. Only paupers eat dark bread adulterated with peas and left to sour, or purchase horse-bread instead of man-bread, often baked with the floor sweepings, because it costs a third less than the cheapest whole-meal loaves. When brown bread makes it to the tables of the prosperous, it is as trenchers- plates- stacked high with fish and meat and vegetables and soaked with gravy. The trenchers are then thrown outside, where the dogs and beggars fight over them. Crusts are chipped off the rolls of the rich, both to make it easier to chew and to aid in digestion. Peasants must work all the more to eat, even in the act of eating itself, jaws exhausted from biting through thick crusts and heavy crumb. There is no lightness for them. No whiteness at all. And it is the whiteness every man wants. Pure, white flour. Only white bread blooms when baked, opening to the heat like a rose. Only a king should be allowed such beauty, because he has been blessed by his God. So wouldn't he be surprised- no, filled with horror- to find white bread the food of all men today, and even more so the food of the common people. It is the least expensive on the shelf at the supermarket, ninety-nine cents a loaf for the storebrand. It is smeared with sweetened fruit and devoured by schoolchildren, used for tea sandwiches by the affluent, donated to soup kitchens for the needy, and shunned by the artisan. Yes, the irony of all ironies, the hearty, dark bread once considered fit only for thieves and livestock is now some of the most prized of all.

Broken things are precious. We eat broken bread because we share in the depth of our Lord and His broken life. Broken flowers give perfume. Broken incense is used in adoration. A broken ship saved Paul and many other passengers on their way to Rome. Sometimes the only way the good Lord can get into some hearts is to break them.

Bubbles enters with a plate overflowing with rugelach. The three of us fall silent as we indulge in the small snail-shaped pastries of tender cream-cheese-infused dough wrapped around various fillings: one with walnuts and cinnamon, one bursting with chocolate, one with a thick, sweet poppy seed paste, and one with apricot jam that has been bumped up with some chewy bits of diced dried apricots.

Bread – like real love – took time, cultivation, strong loving hands and patience. It lived, rising and growing to fruition only under the most perfect circumstances.

Christstollen. I can shake away thoughts of favorite gifts and trips to Oma's house and building snowmen with Santa hats every Christmas Eve, as long as enough snow covered the ground. But my mother's stollen won't fall off as easily. She made it for my father; he ate the first piece with cream cheese at breakfast while I had bacon and chocolate chip pancakes and my mother drank her special amaretto tea. The recipe is there, tucked in her recipe box, the index card translucent in places from butter stains. I hold it in my hand, considering, reading the ingredients and pawing through the cupboards and pantry. We have raisins and a bag of dried cranberries from last year's Christmas baking. There's a wrinkled orange in the fruit bin, a couple plastic packets of lemon juice that came with one of my father's fish and chips take-out orders. No marzipan, almonds, candied fruit, or mace. I'll be up all night. It's too much effort. But the card won't seem to leave my hand. So I start, soaking the fruit and preparing the sponge.

Cecelia and Seamus both have a day off, Columbus Day, and I invite them to the bakehouse for... well, for no reason in particular at all. They show up mid afternoon while my hands are varnished with molasses and rye because I have it in my mind to tweak my mother's pumpernickel formulas. While I respect dark breads, I'm not a particular fan of eating them. I know I should offer the classic at least weekly, though, so I first find and then photocopy the pages in my mother's journals where she'd kept notes about her adventures in pumpernickel bread. She has three versions- one using the crumbs of stale rye bread, one with a hint of cocoa powder, and one featuring a commercial yeast booster- all of them with ingredients I want for my own version, and also with this and that I plan to eliminate.

But then Oma tells me of bread, of the six hundred kinds made throughout her homeland, white and gray and black in color. Loaves heavy with pumpkin seeds. Pumpernickel. Rye. All with long, dense names like 'Sonnenblumenkernbrot' and 'Roggenmischbrot'. Each word is music to her. She has never eaten a tinned bread bagged in plastic with a little twist tie, a pride she wears all over. 'It matters,' she tells me. 'Wes Brot ich ess, des Lied ich sing.' Whose bread I eat, his song I sing.

Don’t feed your body and keep your spirit starving. Butter bread for your body and living bread for your spirit. Read the Bible every day and keep your spirit away from hunger.

Give dry bread to a rich kid and he will throw it into the dustbin, give it to the poor kid and he will remember your name for the rest of his days

For several people the challenge with the dream isn't bread & butter but the luxury.

Eaters of Wonder Bread Must be underbred. So little to eat. Where's the wheat?

Fasting empties the stomach and the mind; freeing up space to refuel our bodies with the Bread of Life.

Had a cold hummus with pita bread, Under a delicious food, yellow or red. Might just have the appetite to cook Urgent dinner by hook or crook. So that's just a humus humor spread.