Best 328 quotes in «breakfast quotes» category

The Labour Party is being led by a woman but she has not been elected to anything. She is the lady who makes the breakfast in the Kinnock household.

The land of embarrassment and breakfast.

The next day, she was silent. For breakfast, she murdered an onion and served it raw.

There should be more booing in shops and restaurants and places like that when when the service is bad. If you've had a poor breakfast in a hotel, you should put your knife and fork down and boo.

Then the two friends leaned back and watched the sun rise clear of the trees. “Best time of day,” said Will. Yes,” Horace agreed. “What’s for breakfast?

There are many things that are unbelievable. Especially before breakfast, is it not? That is what one of your classics says. Six impossible things before breakfast.

There's no buying a greasy breakfast in L.A. - it's all organic juices.

The walk downstairs to the breakfast table is excercise enough for any gentleman.

The soldiers' last meal is generally served out about five o'clock in the afternoon, sometimes earlier; and a stretch of fourteen hours intervenes between then and breakfast.

What I don't like is breakfast in the morning. I have a double-espresso cappuccino, but no food.

This editor is a critic. He has pulled out his carving-knife and his tomahawk and is starting after a book which he is going to have for breakfast.

To quit between tee and green is more habit-forming than drinking a highball before breakfast.

Vicodin and vodka the breakfast of champion's.

We're all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it, that's all.

We will breakfast together here and dine together in hell.

We [ with Emilio Estevez] asked if we could take some things [ in Breakfast Club] that weren't in the shooting draft, but from earlier drafts, "Can we maybe use this?" And Hughes was very amenable to all that. And there was some stuff that I liked, and I said, "How about this?" And he went, "Well, we'll check with Molly [Ringwald]. Those scenes are with her. And if she likes it, fine." So it was just wonderful. It was great.

What doesn't kill men makes them stronger. What doesn't kill women makes men breakfast.

This was Dante's. Crazy was what we had for breakfast when we ran out of Corn Flakes

We eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner to the soundtrack of our own impending death.

We had our breakfasts--whatever happens in a house, robbery or murder, it doesn't matter, you must have your breakfast.

Well, when I get it the only thing that does any good is to jump in a cab and go to Tiffany's.  Calms me down right away.

We mortals, men and women, devour many a disappointment between breakfast and dinnertime.

What good are fans? You can't eat applause for breakfast. You can't sleep with it.

When I was little, I wasn't allowed to put sugar on my breakfast cereal because it made me so hyper.

What the dead don't know piles up, though we don't notice it at first. They don't know how we're getting along without them, of course, dealing with the hours and days that now accrue so quickly, and, unless they divined this somehow in advance, they don't know that we don't want this inexorable onslaught of breakfasts and phone calls and going to the bank, all this stepping along, because we don't want anything extraneous to get in the way of what we feel about them or the ways we want to hold them in mind.

When I was younger I made it a rule never to take strong drink before lunch. It is now my rule never to do so before breakfast.

When you make a mistake, don't make a second one -- keeping it to yourself. Own up. The time to sort out rotten eggs is at the nest. The deeper you hide them in the case the longer they stay in circulation, and the worse impression they make when they finally come to the breakfast table.

When you have bacon and eggs for breakfast, the chicken makes a contribution, the pig makes a commitment.

When Kino had finished, Juana came back to the fire and ate her breakfast. They had spoken once, but there is not need for speech if it is only a habit anyway. Kino sighed with satisfaction - and that was conversation.

When you grow up, your heart dies.

Why are breakfast foods breakfast foods?

Who has not wished that his host would come out frankly at the beginning of the visit and state, in no uncertain terms, the rulesand preferences of the household in such matters as the breakfast hour? And who has not sounded out his guest to find out what he likes in the regulation of his diet and modus vivendi (mode of living)?

You know what Ken Lay had for breakfast this morning? Shredded Wheat.

You can get used to eating breakfast with a man in a fedora. You can get used to anything, my mother was in the habit of saying.

Why wouldn't I dance?' Uh, maybe because at first glance he looked like he ate puppies for breakfast and kittens for lunch?

Yeah, but I forgot to take my George Orwell-shaped multivitamins along with my breakfast bowl of Big Brother Os this morning.

Writing's just as natural to me as getting up and cooking breakfast.

You can't say your favorite kind of cake is birthday cake, that's like saying your favorite kind of cereal is breakfast cereal.

You'll consider what you did wrong & bookend your reflections with hunger - no supper, no breakfast.

You may as well say, 'That's a valiant flea that dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion.

Young poets are advised by their elders to avoid the practice of journalism as they would wet socks and gin before breakfast.

A real prison breakfast" I said. "Yeah, but we are free." And that summed it up.

A dozen or so guests gathered in the conservatory for breakfast. The sweet scent of jasmine perfumed the air and an aviary of lemon yellow canaries sang for them. They drank fresh-squeezed juice that smelled like orange blossoms and spooned perfect bites of soft-boiled eggs from fragile shells. White sunlight poured through the glass dome above their heads like an affirmation from heaven, and a constant breeze blew over them as though fanned by invisible servants. Beyond the open doors stretched emerald lawn. Beyond the lawn, the ocean, blue as a robin's egg.

Breakfast! My favorite meal- and you can be so creative. I think of bowls of sparkling berries and fresh cream, baskets of Popovers and freshly squeezed orange juice, thick country bacon, hot maple syrup, panckes and French toast - even the nutty flavor of Irish oatmeal with brown sugar and cream. Breaksfast is the place I splurge with calories, then I spend the rest of the day getting them off! I love to use my prettiest table settings - crocheted placemats with lace-edged napkins and old hammered silver. And whether you are inside in front of a fire, candles burning brightly on a wintery day - or outside on a patio enjoying the morning sun - whether you are having a group of friends and family, a quiet little brunch for two, or an even quieter little brunch just for yourself, breakfast can set the mood and pace of the whole day. And Sunday is my day. Sometimes I think we get caught up in the hectic happenings of the weeks and months and we forget to take time out to relax. So one Sunday morning I decided to do things differently - now it's gotten to be a sort of ritual! This is what I do: at around 8:30 am I pull myself from my warm cocoon, fluff up the pillows and blankets and put some classical music on the stereo. Then I'm off to the kitchen, where I very calmly (so as not to wake myself up too much!) prepare my breakfast, seomthing extra nice - last week I had fresh pineapple slices wrapped in bacon and broiled, a warm croissant, hot chocolate with marshmallows and orange juice. I put it all on a tray with a cloth napkin, my book-of-the-moment and the "Travel" section of the Boston Globe and take it back to bed with me. There I spend the next two hours reading, eating and dreaming while the snowflakes swirl through the treetops outside my bedroom window. The inspiring music of Back or Vivaldi adds an exquisite elegance to the otherwise unruly scene, and I am in heaven. I found time to get in touch with myself and my life and i think this just might be a necessity! Please try it for yourself, and someone you love.

As Ross entered the kitchen, he saw Ernest sitting at the scrubbed wooden table. The boy wolfed down a plate of breakfast as if it were the first decent meal he'd had in months. Sophia stood at the range with the scrawny cook-maid, apparently showing her how to prepare the morning's fare. "Turn them like this," Sophia was saying, expertly flipping a row of little cakes on a griddle pan. The kitchen atmosphere was especially fragrant today, spiced with frying bacon, coffee, and sizzling batter. Sophia looked fresh and wholesome, the trim curves of her figure outlined by a white apron that covered her charcoal-gray dress. Her gleaming hair was pinned in a coil at the top of her head and tied with a blue ribbon. As she saw him standing in the doorway, a smile lit her sapphire eyes, and she was so dazzlingly pretty that Ross felt a painful jab low in his stomach. "Good morning, Sir Ross," she said. "Will you have some breakfast?" "No, thank you," he replied automatically. "Only a jug of coffee. I never..." He paused as the cook set a platter on the table. It was piled with steaming batter cakes sitting in a pool of blackberry sauce. He had a special fondness for blackberries. "Just one or two?" Sophia coaxed. Abruptly it became less important that he adhere to his usual habits. Perhaps he could make time for a little breakfast, Ross reasoned. A five-minute delay would make no difference in his schedule. He found himself seated at the table facing a plate heaped with cakes, crisp bacon, and coddled eggs. Sophia filled a mug with steaming black coffee, and smiled at him once more before resuming her place at the range with Eliza. Ross picked up his fork and stared at it as if he didn't quite know what to do with it. "They're good, sir," Ernest ventured, stuffing his mouth so greedily that it seemed likely he would choke. Ross took a bite of the fruit-soaked cake and washed it down with a swallow of hot coffee. As he continued to eat, he felt an unfamiliar sense of well-being. Good God, it had been a long time since he'd had anything other than Eliza's wretched concoctions. For the next few minutes Ross ate until the platter of cakes was demolished. Sophia came now and then to refill his cup or offer more bacon. The cozy warmth of the kitchen and the sight of Sophia as she moved about the room caused a tide of unwilling pleasure inside him.

Breakfast was, on the whole, a leisurely and silent meal, for no member of the family was very talkative at that hour. By the end of the meal the influence of the coffee, toast, and eggs made itself felt, and we started to revive, to tell each other what we intended to do, why we intended to do it, and then argue earnestly as to whether each had made a wise decision.

Breakfast was an irritable business. The clock, on the wall, MapHead noticed, seemed to make everyone unhappy. Everyone checked the clock on the wall, then rushed around looking grim. It would be a simple matter to fix it, MapHead thought. No reason not to be happy.

Does he ever eat cotton candy for breakfast?" He stepped around the counter to face us, lowered his gaze, and took a sip from the black mug in his hands. "No," I said. "He's very much like the Big Bad Wolf. He eats little girls for breakfast." He spoke from behind the cup, his voice deep and as smooth as butterscotch. "She's wrong. I eat big girls for breakfast.

Distance, the dissonance insurmountable, would be not the end, but a magnet. When fingertips kiss, they imprint and cement something, that cannot be disintegrated. Time becomes a phantom, the wind becomes an anchor, and old dreams- blankets of warmth. Lull with me, Lady, there is no greater escape. Love and war, even when buttered on toast, still makes for the breakfast of champions.

Dave grimaced. 'Cheesecake for breakfast?' 'What's the problem? It's dairy and cereal. It's practically a bowl of cornflakes.