Best 58 quotes in «salad quotes» category

My husband is the cook at our house. I can make dessert and salad, but I stay away from meals. He makes amazing omelets, fish, and grilled vegetables like Brussels sprouts and cauliflower.

One uncongenial guest can ruin a dinner more easily than a poor salad, and that is saying a great deal.

My salad days, When I was green in judgment.

Prince Charles is very relaxed at the table, throwing his salad around willy-nilly. I didn't find him stiff at all.

Salads was a big indicator of that - there was a huge market out there for it. And why not tap it? Some of the things we are doing now around the globe are responding to customers. It's not because some guy sued you.

On going vegetarian." I was sitting here eating my plate of chicken salad, and suddenly I looked down and saw all the meat on my plate and just wasn't hungry anymore. So i've decided I'm not going to eat meat.

Our Garrick 's a salad; for in him we see Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree!

"Subterranean Homesick Blues" [of Bob Dylan] captures, in word-salad format, life in an encroaching police state.

The families of rabbits or woodchucks will eat the salad greens just before they are ready to be picked; I plot ways to kill these animals but can never bring myself to do it.

There is no inevitable connection between Christianity and cynicism. Truth is not a salad, is it, that you must always dress it with vinegar?

...the pepper is beginning to show signs of strain, and tonight should grace a salad. It has been suggested that I am a cannibal to eat my models.

There was a time-a lonely, lonely time-when salads were a pale and limp affair, relegated to the side of your plate, practically weeping. I think those dark days were also known as the '80s. -p.11

Vulgarity is the garlic in the salad of charm.

Well there are a lot of things I like to eat but at this time of year I'm finding I'm making fig and chèvre salad at least once a week and that's a combo that's hard to beat.

We are beginning to wonder whether a servant girl hasn't the best of it after all. She knows how the salad tastes without the dressing, and she knows how life's lived before it gets to the parlor door.

We cover hamburgers, chicken, veggie burgers, salads, we've got a pretty broad range. To me, McDonald's isn't only about the food. It's about the prices, it's about the way we eat.

Well, we became a vegetarian. But that didn't last very long, because, um, I don't like vegetables. Or salad, nothing like that!

All morning Sirine winds the bread dough in and out of itself, spins cabbage leaves, fat and silky, around rice and currants. She puts new ingredients in a salad, a frill of nuts, fresh herbs, dried fruit. Um-Nadia samples her salad, which tastes of ocean and beach grass, and she seems startled. "It's so good," she murmurs. Sirine hums and stirs. She sifts through bags of wild rice. While Victor rushes around, assembling the usual plates of hummus and tabbouleh, she makes a mustard out of crushed grapes, a cake with lashings of cinnamon and pepper.

Whoa!" he says with a smile. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepen. "Chicken salad a la George Orwell!

Whoever eats anything at a wedding luncheon? They make the food out of papier mache. My salad had been used four or five times this week.

Who puts strawberries in a salad? Seriously, is this a thing now? Is it a thing I don't know about? Is it an American thing? It can be. It's freaking me out.

Tom Cruise has-we all have-the right to practice how we feel...don't judge someone until they have tossed your salad.

A lich guards his phylactery like an elf guards his salad.

Elliot, that was amazing." The meal has been spectacular. We started with a salad of fennel, golden beets, and grapefruit. He did a veal roast with a classic shallot-cognac pan sauce, smooth with butter and brightened with thyme and parsley, the meat perfectly cooked, still rosy in the middle, with a great crisp brown sear on the outside. An interesting dish of fregola, toasted pearl pasta that is one of my favorite ingredients, cooked with sweet corn he charred on the grill, and chives. And simple steamed asparagus. Everything cooked perfectly, well seasoned, and full of soul.

A sapient cat looking at humanity's salad garden buffet designed by God would not be seen as so much a paradise if the divine is seen as giving this to intelligent cats. It would be seen as quite the opposite. Since cats use plants as emetics and also lack the ability to taste sweet, Eden would be a rather hellish place. It would be a place where God might send a cat to punish the feline. This is because fruits and vegetation to eat would be a place to eat bland foods that cause one to vomit. It would hardly be a beneficial place for cats if this was a place of divine refuge where death did not exist. Again the immortal state would place cats in a rather hellish environment.

But, you must remember, whatever you eat, make sure you have at least one bowl of salad with it.

Eating a salad (in public) is an overweight person’s attempt to appear in control.

Every salad you serve is a picture you have painted, a sculpture you have modeled, a drama you have created.

Yesterday, I masturbated for 45 minutes... with salad tongs.

I once went to a restaurant and ordered a chicken salad sandwich and an egg salad sandwich to see which would come first.

I don’t really do drugs apart from salad sometimes.

I had the house salad - a terrific concoction of iceberg greens, cold blue cheese and warm red bacon. If I were a county, I would have made it my flag.

Pierre mixed the salad. The romaine and cress he doused with walnut oil chilled to an emulsion, turning it with wooden forks so that the bruises showed on the green in dark lines. He poured on the souring of wine vinegar and the juice of young grapes, seasoned with shallots, pepper and salt, a squeeze of anchovy, and a pinch of mustard. At the Faison d’Or the salad was in wedlock with the roast.” (p.24)

It's been a pretty tough day," he said. "No sense making it worse with a salad.

More often than not, expecting to lose weight without first losing the diet that made the weight loss necessary is like expecting a pig to be spotless after hosing it down while it was still rolling in mud.

I thought for our last session we should celebrate spring," Lillian said, coming out of the kitchen with a large blue bowl in her hands. "The first green things coming up through soft earth. I've always thought the year begins in the spring rather than January, anyway. I like the idea of taking the first asparagus of the year, picked right that day, and putting it in a warm, creamy risotto. It celebrates both seasons and takes you from one to the next in just a few bites." They passed the bowl around the table, using the large silver spoon to serve generous helpings. The salad bowl came next, fresh Bibb lettuce and purple onions and orange slices, touched with oil and lemon and orange juice. Then a bread basket, heaped high with slices of fragrant, warm bread.

On top of a goodly helping of baby lettuce, Grace placed a neat rectangle of grilled salmon, and then precisely five cherry tomatoes, five broccoli florets, five baby carrots, five cucumber slices, and five slices of green bell pepper. She liked the balance and symmetry of the meal she had made. Still, she liked almonds more, and daring to disrupt the balance of the universe, she threw in a spoonful of an unknown number.

The priest pointed to the sky, and all eyes turned to the bright comet streaking across their vision. It burned with a stunning white blue nucleus and a shimmering tail of silver and red. It was still small, but larger than the day I first saw it, the day of Bartolomeo's funeral. The crowd murmured exclamations of fear. I did not feel afraid when I gazed at the comet. I felt only the warmth of Bartolomeo's light. I could no think of the orb as anything other than his presence shining into our world from the one above. I thought of the type of salad he might have served- it might have been bitter chicory, true, but sweetened with fennel and pea shoots, drizzled with a bit of oil and vinegar, mixed with some sugar and spices, and topped with a little pepper or cheese.

So what's on the menu?" "We soak prunes in whisky and tea, dip them in honey, and stuff them with walnuts. These are mixed with sausage for the stuffing. I usually soak the prunes for several days, but we'll make do." "My God. That sounds fabulous." Elliott nodded, but said nothing. He was staring at her intently. "And..." "And..." What was he waiting for? He started to fiddle with the pencil. Finally she realized he was waiting for her input! He had no idea how to banter back-and-forth or to brainstorm creatively. She broke the awkward silence. "Elliott, are you waiting for my suggestions for dinner?" "Aye. I'm waiting." "I think... we should go with the honey." "I use heather honey in North Berwick. But I'm sure the honey here will be fine." "My favorite is from the Akins Apiary. They have delicious apple honey. It's rare, but I'll see if they have some in the pantry." "Excellent. What... what else do you like about the honey?" Sophia tried not to laugh out loud at Elliott's stilted and awkward attempt at conversation. The give-and-take was clearly not a natural process for him. "Let's use the honey in all our dishes. How about roasted vegetables in a balsamic-honey dressing? With thyme? I think rutabaga and turnips would be a nice side for the turkey." He scratched something on his tablet. "Keep going." "And how about a bitter green salad? Maybe arugula and dandelion greens with a honey vinaigrette That will cut the richness of the bird." Elliott nodded. "I like both of those ideas. This meal will showcase the best of both of us... a traditional Scottish roast bird and various preparations for the vegetables and greens.

...so even if spring continues to disappoint we can say at least the lettuce loved the rain.

A tuna steak and a salad? Seventy bucks. Welcome to Los Angeles.

The store smells of roasted chicken and freshly ground coffee, raw meat and ripening stone fruit, the lemon detergent they use to scrub the old sheet-linoleum floors. I inhale and feel the smile form on my face. It's been so long since I've been inside any market other than Fred Meyer, which smells of plastic and the thousands of people who pass through every day. By instinct, I head for the produce section. There, the close quarters of slim Ichiban eggplant, baby bok choy, brilliant red chard, chartreuse-and-purple asparagus, sends me into paroxysms of delight. I'm glad the store is nearly empty; I'm oohing and aahing with produce lust at the colors, the smooth, shiny textures set against frilly leaves. I fondle the palm-size plums, the soft fuzz of the peaches. And the berries! It's berry season, and seven varieties spill from green cardboard containers: the ubiquitous Oregon marionberry, red raspberry, and blackberry, of course, but next to them are blueberries, loganberries, and gorgeous golden raspberries. I pluck one from a container, fat and slightly past firm, and pop it into my mouth. The sweet explosion of flavor so familiar, but like something too long forgotten. I load two pints into my basket. The asparagus has me intrigued. Maybe I could roast it with olive oil and fresh herbs, like the sprigs of rosemary and oregano poking out of the salad display, and some good sea salt. And salad. Baby greens tossed with lemon-infused olive oil and a sprinkle of vinegar. Why haven't I eaten a salad in so long? I'll choose a soft, mild French cheese from the deli case, have it for an hors d'oeuvre with a beautiful glass of sparkling Prosecco, say, then roast a tiny chunk of spring lamb that I'm sure the nice sister will cut for me, and complement it with a crusty baguette and roasted asparagus, followed by the salad. Followed by more cheese and berries for dessert. And a fruity Willamette Valley Pinot Noir to wash it all down. My idea of eating heaven, a French-influenced feast that reminds me of the way I always thought my life would be.

Well, I was up bright and early, and while everybody else went to church or whatever they do on Sunday morning, I was chopping turkey and ham and mushrooms for the casserole and mixing chopped pickled peaches and pecans with cream cheese for the salad that had to congeal in the fridge at least two hours. I also decided to go ahead and mix all the dry ingredients and shortening for the biscuits so all I'd have to do would be to add buttermilk at the last minute, cut 'em out, and bake 'em. That left only the cheese grits, which I knew could be boiled in advance, then mixed with butter and sour cream and eggs and cheddar and a little garlic and seasonings, scraped into a big baking dish, and stuck in the oven with the casserole to get nice and golden by the time everybody arrived.

Will you dance for me? Let your breasts roam for a moment -- I need to see how they dance.' 'Okay.' She danced, and as she danced, she tried to think of the most delicious salads she could imagine -- with artichokes and sundried tomato and blue cheese dressing, and beets, lots of beets.

Acceptance is going to a restaurant where the salad's not great, but the steak is fine.

Cholesterol is a substance in the blood that causes you to eat salads.

I eat a lot of chicken with salad or salmon with salad.

I care not who hoes the lettuce of my country if I can eat the salad!

I don't like salads: I like the strong food.

Having your husband at a party is like adding anchovies to a salad. I love anchovies, but you can't taste anything else.