Best 621 quotes in «fruit quotes» category

I spent 33 years and 4 months in active military service . . . And during that period I spent most of my time as a high-class muscle man for Big Business, for Wall Street and the bankers. In short, I was a racketeer, a gangster for capitalism. Thus, I helped make Mexico and especially Tampico safe for American oil interests in 1914. I helped make Haiti and Cuba a decent place for the National City Bank boys to collect revenues in. I helped in the raping of half a dozen Central American republics for the benefit of Wall Street. I helped purify Nicaragua for the international banking house of Brown Brothers in 1902–1912. I brought light to the Dominican Republic for American sugar interests in 1916. I helped make Honduras right for American fruit companies in 1903. In China in 1927, I helped see to it that Standard Oil went on its way unmolested. Our boys were sent off to die with beautiful ideals painted in front of them. No one told them that dollars and cents were the real reason they were marching off to kill and die.

It is not the size of a tree that matters, but the size of its fruit.

It smells of blood and honey, of sex and song.

It was a fruit we had never seen before, larger than an apple, about the size of a grapefruit. It was round and yellow like the leaves of a neglected book.

I've long been a fan of Hi-Chew, the Japanese fruit chews, for their resilient texture and uncannily accurate fruit flavors: sour cherry, apple, grape, pickled plum, and especially mango, which is closer to the flavor of an actual tropical mango than most imported mangoes.

Look at all the life in this," she said. "Every pip could become a tree, and every tree could bear another hundred fruits and every fruit could bear another hundred trees. And so on to infinity." I picked the picks from my tongue with my fingers. "Just imagine," she said. "If every seed grew, there'd be no room in the world for anything but pomegranate trees.

I still couldn't believe how creative Annie was in coming up with the different flavors and embellishments for each cupcake; the finished products looked like huge jewels that sparkled appealingly in the counter display and on the black lacquer trays passed by the waitstaff. Annie had had her nose to the grindstone for days, as focused as I'd ever seen her, dicing apples and pears until they looked like nuggets of gold- as well they should, considering what that fruit cost!- and tasted like pure, sweet, warm explosions of flavor baked into the cakes. Annie's dexterity, precision, and speed with a knife had been a sight to behold. My contributions to the cupcakery's opening night were decidedly more mundane: I'd interviewed and hired the night's waitstaff, overseen the completion of the various construction and design projects, and ordered all of the noncooking supplies the shop needed. Treat glowed with sexy, low-lit energy; laughter and music filled the space; hip, beautiful people bit into cupcake after cupcake. If the shop had been in the Marina instead of the Mission, it was just the sort of place I would have visited frequently. But there was no use crying over that spilled buttercream.

I tend to make my joy a private experience and hoard all the fruit for myself, forgetting that the tree doesn’t eat its own fruit but presents it to others.

I used to be into ‘forbidden fruit’, but I’ve moved on to‘verboten vegetables

I've got it! Shecret Shauce! We can bottle it and sell it at farmers' markets or on the Internet!" We both laugh at her, but then Anne's face grows thoughtful. "It was pretty good stuff," she says. "Hey, Eleanor, what would happen if we blended it, so no one knew it was fruit cocktail? Then we wouldn't even have to give away the shecret." I get up and walk to Benny's cupboard, pull out ingredients: vegetable oil, soy sauce, garlic powder, salt, pepper, and one can of fruit cocktail. The only thing I can blend it in is Benny's old Osterizer, which actually works better than any appliance I've got. The finished product is a beautiful peach color, silky in texture, and tastes almost perfect. "All it needs is a bit of sweet chili sauce to perk it up," I say. "Here, taste." Who knows? A family dynasty might have been born from the ashes of our fathers.

I’ve never been with a boy who hasn’t seen me naked. It’s always the squeaky futon, bear-it-all, turn-off-the-lights quickstep. Don’t chalk it up to “daddy issues.” Maybe I’m sick of keeping private parts private. I don’t want rainwater secrets on my lips, tasting of “don’t make too much noise”. October’s dust in my lungs, maybe I don’t want bits of four AM lingering in my subconscious. Smokers breathe in fire, coat their insides in ash. Is that suicide or arson? Listen to me, listen to me. I’m alive. I’M ALIVE. I’m naked and bruised, but I’m alive. I’m not a piece of fruit. Don’t press into my flesh, looking for soft spots. My whole body is tender and rotten, but I’m alive. I’m alive and just because you can see it all, doesn’t mean you know it all

Love is a banana. First you peel it, and then you roll on the condom.

Men sat behind charcoal braziers turning ears of corn and fanning skewered liver kebabs they slipped sizzling into pockets of lavash bread with a tangle of cilantro and mint. Ribbons of fruit leather, apricot, plum, tamarind, and cherry, draped like laundry from wires strung between awnings.

Most raw fooders don't embrace fruit, instead they embarrass it. by stripping the avocado down to fats and proteins, they paint a portrait that is most uncomely, unflattering and entirely dishonest. By reducing a banana to 100 calories, in the most ugliest of fashions, they attempt to quantify the unquantifiable. By converting a fruit salad to a plate of LFHCs, they degrade and insult the innocence and beauty of fruit.

Most successful people move from fear to failure; to faith and then to fruitfulness. That's the trend.

Mungu alimuumba mwanadamu ili aitawale dunia. Shetani tayari alikuwepo wakati Adamu anaumbwa. Adamu na Hawa walipokula tunda la mti wa katikati, walikufa kiroho – Yaani, walipoteza sura na asili ya Mungu – Shetani akawashinda kuanzia kipindi hicho na kuendelea. Tulizaliwa katika dhambi. Kila mtu anayezaliwa anazaliwa katika dhambi. Njia pekee ya kuikomboa sura na asili ya Mungu ni kumpokea Yesu (Kristo) kama Bwana na Mwokozi wa maisha yako.

My mother had a passion for all fruit except oranges, which she refused to allow in the house. She named each one of us, on a seeming whim, after a fruit and a recipe- Cassis, for her thick black-currant cake. Framboise, her raspberry liqueur, and Reinette after the reine-claude greengages that grew against the south wall of the house, thick as grapes, syrupy with wasps in midsummer. At one time we had over a hundred trees (apples, pears, plums, gages, cherries, quinces), not to mention the raspberry canes and the fields of strawberries, gooseberries, currants- the fruits of which were dried, stored, made into jams and liqueurs and wonderful cartwheel tarts on pâte brisée and crème pâtissière and almond paste. My memories are flavored with their scents, their colors, their names. My mother tended them as if they were her favorite children. Smudge pots against the frost, which we base every spring. And in summer, to keep the birds away, we would tie shapes cut out of silver paper onto the ends of the branches that would shiver and flick-flack in the wind, moose blowers of string drawn tightly across empty tin cans to make eerie bird-frightening sounds, windmills of colored paper that would spin wildly, so that the orchard was a carnival of baubles and shining ribbons and shrieking wires, like a Christmas party in midsummer. And the trees all had names. Belle Yvonne, my mother would say as she passed a gnarled pear tree. Rose d'Aquitane. Beurre du Roe Henry. Her voice at these times was soft, almost monotone. I could not tell whether she was speaking to me or to herself. Conference. Williams. Ghislane de Penthièvre. This sweetness.

Nini kingetokea kama Adamu na Hawa wasingekula tunda la Mti wa Maarifa ya Mema na Mabaya mpaka siku ya Sabato? Mungu angewaruhusu kula na lengo la uumbaji wa Mungu lingekamilika. Wanadamu wakifuata Amri Kumi za Mungu katika maisha yao watakuwa na uwezo maalumu ambao baadaye utawawezesha, kupitia Roho Mtakatifu, kuwa na maarifa ya siri ya uumbaji wa Mungu.

One sip of this wine and you will go mad with drunkenness. You will drop your masks and tear your clothes — destroying everything that separates you from the Lover. Once you taste the fruit of this vine, you will be kicked out of the city of yourself. You will forget the world. You will forget yourself. I tell you: you will become a madman who wanders the streets looking for the Lover once you drink this Wine of Love.

On the third day, she smelled the fruit as soon as she came in. She followed the scent to the kitchen, and the peach was radiant, dusky rose and gold, its skin so plush she thought her fingertip might bruise it. This was the day, the very hour to eat- and she had come prepared, but she didn't want Concepcion to see her. She waited until the housekeeper shouldered her leather-handled canvas bag and left. Then Jess unwrapped the organic peach she'd bought that morning. Slightly smaller, slightly harder, but decently rosy, the peach listed left- just the right direction- when she set it on the table. Leaving this changeling for George, she washed his ripe fruit, and bit and broke the skin. An intense tang, the underside of velvet. Then flesh dissolved in a rush of nectar. Juice drenched her hand and wet the inside of her wrist. She had forgotten, if she'd ever known, that what was sweet could also be so complicated, that fruit could have a nap, like fabric, soft one way, sleek the other.

Peace": the fruit of justice done especially to the Self.

pomegranates

Rivers don’t drink their own waters; trees don’t eat their own fruits. The salt seasons the soup in order to have its purpose fulfilled. Live for others!

Science n’ Shit in a Hip-Hop Style with Stephen Hawking (Kick-snare, kick-kick snare). ‘Let me tell you my plan for the human race, well I would but I can’t, ‘Cos I can’t move me face, So my computerised voice is how I’ll go, I type with me eye to keep the flow We’re all gonna go live in outer space Where zero gravity will stop me dribbling all over the place I’ll tell y’all how I’ll get there: With some rockets built into me special wheel chair The moons of Jupiter, in perfect animation We’ll all live in a huge space station I’ll be able to dance and chase all the fanny And finally get me end away with me nanny.’ Science n’ Shit in a Hip-Hop Style with Stephen Hawking II ‘From the moons of Ganymede, Io & Titan, I’ll tell y’all somethin’ that’s sure to enlighten In space, there are galaxies nebula & stars And dying suns that are going super no-va But no anomalies can compare, To how much I wanna run my fingers through your hair Sir Patrick Moore, a true space oracle, With your knowledge of cheats and gorgeous monocle I’m coming out as gay, and I don’t give a hoot I’m the first fuckin’ vegetable that turned into a fruit Word.

Shetani ana mbinu nyingi za kuwateka wana wa Mungu. Mwanzo sura ya tatu inaonyesha jinsi Hawa alivyoona tunda linang’aa na akazama kwenye tunda pasipokujua kuna mauti ndani yake. Shetani anaangalia kipengele unachokitumia kuchukua maamuzi magumu naye anavaa jezi kama ya kwako ili usimgundue. Roho Mtakatifu akiwa anakuongoza penye hila nafsi yako itakuongoza.

The fact that you lack the fruits is not a proof that you don’t have seeds. It’s not too late to drop your potentials into a good soil. Do it now; harvest awaits you soon!

The greater the fruit a trees bears, the greater the number of stones thrown at it.

The joy of research is picking the fruits of discovery.

Lorelei sat at the window of her drawing room, painting in the fading daylight. It was yet another portrait of Jack, her favorite piece of fruit.

No person is just one person. Everyone is a crate of fruits, a crate of mixed fruits. The apple in there may have worms, a peach may be mildewed, a banana may be too green, a pear may be in perfect ripeness, and a melon may have the sweetest smell.

Nothing comes as an accomplishment instantly. Success does not come overnight. Patience is the key! Grow up and be the tree; but remember it takes dry and wet seasons to become a fruit bearer, achiever and impact maker!

Often times, the world looks at Christians and they are quick to criticize the ways we fall short. That is not God’s fault. That is each Christian’s fault, for not cultivating the fruit of the Spirit in their own soul. As Christians we all have a responsibility to ensure that we are always growing in our Christian walk, and that we are walking 'worthy of our calling,' as Paul says.

Our bodies should be seen as temporary sacred temples of the soul and our duty to keep our individual one clean. Both internally and externally. Internally this is done by eating the right food; fruit. Thus avoiding any foods that sludge and sully the interior (especially animal products and cooked foods of any kind!). Externally, regular bathes in water will normally suffice, but all fruits can also be massaged into the skin with benefits. The skins of mangos and papaya feel especially pleasant, as does a head/hair bath in lemon juice

Plant the trees just for beauty, If flowers bloom or fruits ripen, Enjoy it as a gift and appreciate nature as a universal giver.

Sow the seeds of hard work and you will reap the fruits of success. Find something to do, do it with all your concentration. You will excel.

The bitterest fruit tastes sweet when you share it with someone you love.

The farther you venture into the forest the more valuable the fruit.

The fig tree grows its flowers strangely inside out, concealed within the soft interior of the fruit. Erszébet imagines the fig's hidden fairy weight of seeds, grown in sweetness that is also a darkness. Like treasure in a cave.

The greater the fruit a tree bears, the greater the number of stones thrown at it.

The greatest evidence of what is inside of a seed is its fruit.

The more failures you overcome, the more sweeter your victory will become.

The planting of [orchards] represents a reduction of a complex ecology into the monocultural grid of modern agriculture, and the transformation of a complex symbiosis with the land into the simpler piecework or agricultural labour for surplus and export.

The playwright Edward Albee has characterized [the suddenness of the appearance of fruits and flowers in evolutionary history] as 'that heartbreaking second when it all got together: the sugars and the acids and the ultraviolets, and the next thing you knew there were tangerines and string quartets.

The poulterers' shops were still half open, and the fruiterers' were radiant in their glory. There were great, round, pot-bellied baskets of chestnuts, shaped like the waistcoats of jolly old gentleman, lolling at the doors, and tumbling out into the street in their apoplectic opulence. There were ruddy, brown-faced broad-girthed Spanish onions, shining in the fatness of their growth like Spanish friars, and winking from their shelves in wanton slyness at the girls as they went by, and glanced demurely at the hung-up mistletoe. There were pears and apples, clustered high in blooming pyramids; there were bunches of grapes, made, in the shopkeepers' benevolence, to dangle from conspicuous hooks, that people's mouths might water gratis as they passed; there were piles of filberts, mossy and brown, recalling, in their fragrance, ancient walks among the woods, and pleasant shufflings ankle deep through withered lanes; there were Norfolk Biffins, squab and swarthy, setting off the yellow of the oranges and lemons, and, in the great compactness of their juicy persons, urgently entreating and beseeching to be carried home in paper bags and eaten after dinner.

There is far too much common nonsense, and not nearly enough uncommon sense about fruit.

The ripen fruit is for a sacred season.

The seed of self-esteem so eagerly planted in youngsters in school will eventually bloom and ripen into the genuine fruit of humility.

The smell of the sweat is not sweet, but the fruit of the sweat is very sweet.

The sweetest fruits grow at the top of a tree so that only those who deserve them can reach them.

The sweeter the fruit a tree bears the greater the number of birds that eat from it.