Best 136 quotes in «baking quotes» category

That baking day was the third day Mrs G had shut herself away in the stillroom, dosing herself with medicinal waters. As I rolled the pastry I lived out a fancy I had nourished, since the first apple blossom pinked in May- the making of the perfect dish. Next day was All Hallows Eve, or Souling Night as we called it, and all our neighbors would gather for Old Ned's cider and Mrs Garland's Soul Cakes. After the stablemen acted out the Souling play, the unmarried maids would have a lark, guessing their husband's name from apple pairings thrown over their shoulders. So what better night, I thought, for Jem to announce our wedding? At the ripe age of twenty-two years, the uncertainties of maidenhood were soon to pass me by. Crimping my tarts, I passed into that forgetfulness that is a most delightful way of being. My fingers scattered flour and my elbows spun the rolling pin along the slab. Unrolling before my eyes were scenes of triumph: of me and Jem leading a cheery procession to the chapel, posies of flowers in my hand and pinned to Jem's blue jacket. In my head I turned over the makings of my Bride Cake that sat in secret in the larder- ah, wouldn't that be the richest, most hotly spiced delight? And all the bitter maidens who put it underneath their pillows would be sorrowing to think that Jem was finally taken, bound and married off to me.

That's how it is for us servants. No one pays you much heed; mostly you're invisible as furniture. Yet you overhear a conversation here, and add a little gossip there. A writing desk lies open and you cannot help but read a paper. Then you find something, something you should not have found...

The cookie-verse is infinite

The difference between superlative pie and a wish for cake is crust. Understand that pie is a generous but self-centered substance. It likes attention, not affection. Do not hug your crust. Do not rub its back or five its high. Don't fuss with refrigerators every step oft he way. Keep the water and butter cold, and remember what a wise baker once said: The goal is pie.

The first time Avis knelt on a chair and stirred eggs into flour to make a vanilla cake, she had an inkling of how higher orders of meaning encircle the chaos of life. Where philosophy, she already intuited, created only thought- no beds made, no children fed- in other rooms there were good things like measuring spoons, thermometers, and recipes, with their lovely, interwoven systems and codes. Avis labored over her pastries: her ingredient base grew, combining worlds: preserved lemons from Morocco in a Provencal tart; Syrian olive oil in Neapolitan cantuccini; salt combed from English marshes and filaments of Kashmiri saffron secreted within a Swedish cream. By the time Avis was in college, her baking had evolved to a level of exquisite accomplishment: each pastry as unique as a snowflake, just as fleeting on the tongue: pellucid jams colored cobalt and lavender, biscuits light as eiderdown.

Then just when I thought I was going to really break down for a good cry, I remembered a large bag of pistachio nuts in the back of the pantry. I don't know what made me think of them. I had hidden them beneath several packages of dried pasta. Sam liked pistachio nuts. I bought them for a cake recipe I had seen in Gourmet. I stood up like a sleepwalker, my hands empty of sheets or shoes. I would take care of all this once the cake was in the oven. The recipe was from several months ago. I didn't remember which issue. I would find it. I would bake a cake. My father liked exotic things. On the rare occasions we went out to dinner together over the years, he always wanted us to go to some little Ethiopian restaurant down a back alley or he would say he had to have Mongolian food. He would like this cake. It was Iranian. There was a full tablespoon of cardamom sifted in with the flour, and I could imagine that it would make the cake taste nearly peppered, which would serve to balance out all the salt. I stood in the kitchen, reading the magazine while the sharp husks of the nuts bit into the pads of my fingers. I rolled the nut meat between my palms until the bright spring green of the pistachios shone in my hands, a fist full of emeralds. I would grind the nuts into powder without letting them turn to paste. I would butter the parchment paper and line the bottom of the pan. It was the steps, the clear and simple rules baking, that soothed me. My father would love this cake, and my mother would find this cake interesting, and Sam wouldn't be crazy about it but he'd be hungry and have a slice anyway. Maybe I could convince Camille it wasn't a cake at all. Maybe I could bring them all together, or at least that's what I dreamed about while I measured out the oil.

There was a mood of magic and frenzy to the room. Crystalline swirls of sugar and flour still lingered in the air like kite tails- the smell of hope, the kind of smell that brought people home. Tonight it was the comfort of browning butter and the excitement of lemon zest.

The timer rang and I went to take two more sweet potato cakes out of the oven. There was a pot of sweet potatoes simmering on the stove. The kitchen was a warm and steamy place that smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg. A tropical rain forest of baking.

This year I am doing praline pecans, an old favorite family favorite, easy and addictive. And a festive holiday dark chocolate loaf cake, with pistachios and dried cherries and white chocolate chips. I get out my huge seven-quart KitchenAid mixer, and head to the basement, where I have ten pounds of gorgeous halved pecans in the chest freezer, and a pallet of organic eggs from Paulie's Pasture in the commercial refrigerator I use for entertaining and overflow. Upstairs, I focus on separating eggs, reserving the yolks for making pasta or custard later. Beating whites, melting butter, I can feel my shoulders unclench as the scent of toasted sugar pecans caramelizing fills the house.

A basic rule of baking is that, in general, it's almost impossible to make an inedible batch of brownies.

The incarnation took all that properly belongs to our humanity and delivered it back to us, redeemed. All of our inclinations and appetites and capacities and yearnings are purified and gathered up and glorified by Christ. He did not come to thin out human life; He came to set it free. All the dancing and feasting and processing and singing and building and sculpting and baking and merrymaking that belong to us, and that were stolen away into the service of false gods, are returned to us in the gospel.

There comes a point in your life when you need to stop eating other people's bread and make your own!

This morning's pastry poses challenges. To assemble the tiny mosaic disks of chocolate flake and candied ginger, Avis must execute a number of discrete, ritualistic steps: scraping the chocolate with a fine grater, rolling the dough cylinder in large-grain sanding sugar, and assembling the ingredients atop each hand-cut disk of dough in a pointillist collage. Her husband wavers near the counter, watching. "They're like something Marie Antoinette would wear around her neck. When she still had one." "I thought she was more interested in cake," Avis says, she tilts her narrow shoulders, veers around him to stack dishes in the sink.

This was why she enjoyed baking. A good dessert could make her feel like she'd created joy at the tips of her fingers. Suddenly, the people around the table were no longer strangers. They were friends and confidantes, and she was sharing with them her magic.

What would your word be?" Twiss said. Something to do with baking. Whenever Milly could scrape together enough flour, sugar, and butter, she'd bake a dessert. Often, her parents would stop what they were doing and wander into the kitchen, where Twiss would already be sitting with a napkin tucked into the collar of her shirt. Something about sugar made their family sweeter. "'Sugar,'" Milly said to Twiss, measuring out two cups' worth. She mixed the batter and poured it into a cake pan. After she put the pan in the oven, she gave Twiss the bowl to lick and took the spoon for herself.

When art calls, you have to follow it. It doesn’t happen often, so take the opportunity when it strikes. In all reality, what I do is art. I do create fabulous pieces of decorative baked goods.

When she returned to Bella Vista, she discovered Isabel in her manic-baking mode. The kitchen was filled with the aromas of butter, vanilla and cinnamon. She'd created Danishes and rugelach and crispy twisty things that promised to glue themselves promptly to Tess's hips.

When you celebrate, there is sure to be cake." Florence Ditlow, in "The Bakery Girls.

While Ginger didn't like the evil-recipe days, she certainly loved the treat-making days. She liked rolling dough and cutting it into perfect shapes. She liked grating chocolate into curlicues and pouring syrups into lollipop molds.

You're extra beautiful when you talk about baking. You know you're good at it, and that knowledge lights you up.

A bad review is like baking a cake with all the best ingredients and having someone sit on it.

Baking happens with ingredients that last for months and come to life inside a warm oven. Baking is slow and leisurely.

Baking isLife. So when you describe what you're making, you must describe life. Do you see? It's not just recipes.

Baking is too precise for me. I cook with a pinch of this or that.

He that will have a cake out of the wheat must tarry the grinding. Have I not tarried? Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting. Have I not tarried? Ay, the bolting; but you must tarry the leavening. Still have I tarried. Ay, to the leavening; but here's yet in the word 'hereafter' the kneading, the making of the cake, the heating of the oven, and the baking; nay, you must stay the cooling too, or you may chance to burn your lips.

I don't have a very good relationship with baking. I do bake sometimes, but my natural instinct is to just do what feels right a lot, and that's what you're not supposed to do in baking. I'm not a good baker.

Feminism has never been about getting a job for one woman. It's about making life more fair for women everywhere. It's not about a piece of the existing pie; there are too many of us for that. It's about baking a new pie.

I enjoy cooking and baking. Alicia Silverstone's vegan cookbook is awesome.

If baking is any labor at all, it's a labor of love. A love that gets passed from generation to generation.

I foresee great refinements in the field of short-pulse microwave signaling, whereby several simultaneous programs may occupy the same channel, in sequence, with incredibly swift electronic communication... Short waves will be generally used in the kitchen for roasting and baking, almost instantaneously...

If you're trying to create a company, it's like baking a cake. You have to have all the ingredients in the right proportion.

Few people know this about me, but I love baking pies.

I got picked on a lot, even by teachers too. I liked to listen to musicals and bake, and my homeroom teacher found out and mocked me in front of the whole class for baking.

I like the idea of baking. I'd like to be good at it. But I feel like I'm young and one day I can be.

I love being at home and cooking and baking.

It's all about a balancing act between time, temperature and ingredients: That's the art of baking.

I love baking, it's the most calming thing for me. It's therapeutic, it makes the house smell good, and I get to take the goods to my friends. I do it for other people.

I love cooking and baking.

I'm baking stories, and singing cookies, oh the tonderous wimes!

I've heard it said that when you die you enter a room of bright light, and that you can smell bread baking just around the corner.

Life was like a batch of biscuits without the baking powder: flat, flat, flat.

Language is an art, like brewing or baking.... It certainly is not a true instinct, for every language has to be learnt.

I want to work on some more complicated baking... and it would be interactive!

Some days, I'm as shallow as a baking pan, but I still stretch miles in all directions.

Me writing about tennis is like a baker baking bread.

My once-keen analytical mind has become so dulled by endless hours of baking in the hot sun, thrashing about in tight chimneys, pulling at impossibly heavy loads, freezing my ass off.... so that now my mental state is comparable to that of a Peruvian Indian, well stoked on coca leaves.

Picture your grandmother in Hell, baking pies... without an oven.

The ordinary activities I find most compatible with contemplation are walking, baking bread, and doing laundry.

The arts are not frosting but baking soda.

The biggest challenge of being a pastry chef is that, unlike other types of chefs, you can't throw things together at a farmer's market. When you're working with baking powder and a formula, you have to be exact. If not, things can go wrong.