Best 457 quotes in «bread quotes» category

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

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

Greenie had brought together ingredients for cherry bread. It was a variation on Irish soda bread, baked in a cast-iron skillet with dried cherries and pepitas instead of raisins and caraway seeds. At lunch, she would serve it with a spinach gorgonzola salad (the dressing sweet, to appease Ray) and a veal roast studded, porcupine fashion, with long, thin slivers of garlic, ginger, and chili pepper.

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.

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

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

I began by preparing my pasta: my deft fingers forming the intricate shapes of rigatoni, ravioli, spiralli, spaghetti, cannelloni, and linguini. Then I would brew sauces of sardines, or anchovies or zucchini or sheep's cheeses, of saffron, pine nuts, currants, and fennel. These I would simmer in the huge iron cauldrons, which were constantly bubbling above the fire. My pasta dishes, I have to say, were famous throughout the province, and the scent of my sauces carried by the breeze was sufficient to fill a poor man's stomach. I also kneaded bread and produced the finest pane rimacinato, the most delicious ciabatta and focaccia that had ever been tasted in the region. Sometimes I would add wild thyme to the dough, or fragrant rosemary; plucked fresh from the hedgerow, with the dew still on the leaves.

His bread was lofty, light. If she didn’t hold on to the sandwich tightly, she thought it might float away.

I ask him to pull the buttermilk sourdough; I'd taken several of my wet starters, fed them vigorously yesterday, and created three different dough variations early this morning, giving them time to rise. "The green bowl." "Yeah, okay," he grumbles. "And I'll take care of the onions," Xavier says. "Why do you need them?" "Ciabatta," Jude says. "Dough." I point to the door. He goes and I show Xavier the container of goat cheese. "I need something splashy. I thought a caramelized onion and Chèvre ciabatta." "Using the buttermilk starter as a base?" "I consistently get the biggest rooms with it." "You need a third ingredient, I think. Apricots?" I nod toward the other table. "Scott's going sweet already. I'll stay savory for contrast. Sun-dried tomato?" "Meh. Expected.

If there should be but one at his Table mourning for sin, loving his salvation, & unfeignedly desirous to promote his praise, He will appreciate such sincerity amid abounding dissimulation & be known to that communicant in the breaking of Bread. The Secret of the Lord is with them that fear him; and he will show 'them His covenant.' Christ loved me and gave himself for me! From the abasement of Christ, faith rises to His Exaltation. The eye that looks up to the cross of Christ, looks up to the Heavens, and sees, in these heavens, the glory of God & Jesus standing at the right hand of God. -- David King, 'The Lord's Supper

I'd rather teach you how to make BREAD than give you a SLICE from my BREAD.

I grab the nonstick skillet, put it on the stove, and fetch four slices of bread from the breadbox. I've been playing with a new bread recipe, a cross between sourdough and English muffin, baked in a sliceable loaf. Makes fantastic toast, and I've been craving grilled cheese with it since I brought it home yesterday. I literally butter all four slices all the way to each edge, place them butter-side down in the skillet, and top each with a thick slice of American cheese. That way, as the pan slowly heats up, the cheese starts to melt, and by the time the outsides are crunchy and crispy, the cheese is a goo-fest, and nothing gets burnt. And I always make two, because one grilled cheese sandwich is never enough.

I know you mean well, but you have to remember that things don't always work out like they do in your storybooks.

I looked down at the loaves on the baking stone, which, just as before, carried in their crusts the overwhelming illusion of dark eyes, upturned noses, fissured mouths. Upon closer inspection, these faces were different from the last loaf's. They were disturbing. Their eyes squinted merrily and their mouths curled into ragged, jack-o'-lantern grins. The bread knife was the solution to all my problems. I sawed and sawed and sawed until the faces were no more.

I love the caraway seeds in the classic rye bread, but I wonder if the rich dough might not also hold up to other flavors. I jot down some notes. Aniseed. Fennel seed. Orange zest. Golden raisins. Coarse salt? Maybe if Herman doesn't come down when I am working on the dough, I can use a small batch for a little experiment. I'm thinking rolls, not loaves. The kind of rolls you want to smear with cold sweet butter at dinner, or split and toast and spread with cream cheese for breakfast. Savory and sweet. Maybe semolina on the bottom instead of the coarser cornmeal we use for the regular rye loaves.

In a day a man needs only his daily bread.

In all jazz, and especially the blues, there is something tart and ironic, authoritative and double-edged. White Americans seem to feel that happy songs are happy and sad songs are sad, and that, God help us, is exactly the way most white Americans sing them—sounding, in both cases, so helplessly, defenselessly fatuous that one dare not speculate on the temperature of the deep freeze from which issue their brave and sexless little voices. Only people who have been “down the line,” as the song puts it, know what this music is about…. White Americans do not understand the depths out of which such an ironic tenacity comes, but they suspect that the force is sensual, and they are terrified of sensuality, and do not any longer understand it. The word “sensual” is not intended to bring to mind quivering dusky maidens or priapic black studs. I am referring to something much simpler and much less fanciful. To be sensual, I think, is to respect and rejoice in the force of life, of life itself, and to be present in all that one does, from the effort of loving to the breaking of bread. It will be a great day for America, incidentally, when we begin to eat bread again, instead of the blasphemous and tasteless foam rubber that we have substituted for it. And I am not being frivolous here, either.

In order to have bread (a symbol of prosperity ) you have to first learn how to plough the land

It's 10:00 a.m., time for the second round of baking of the day. After feeding the fire with chunks of maple, he loads the bread and pastries according to cooking time: first the fat country rounds, then long, skinny loaves dense with nuts and dried fruit, and finally a dozen purple crescent moons: raspberry croissants pocked with chunks of white chocolate.

It was not a pretty sight, all these pale, gangly, pimpled youths, in a frenzy of hunger and sexual frustration, shredding bread.

I was so thin I could slice bread with my shoulderblades, only I seldom had bread

Merriem goes to the kitchen and quickly returns with a wooden tray piled high with thickly sliced bread and brightly patterned dishes of olive oil and dark vinegar. The bread is vivid yellow. It crumbles in my mouth and tastes sweet, honeyed. "Dandelions," Merriem says to me. Papa is staring at his half-eaten piece. "I thought dandelion was a weed?" "It is," Merriem replies with a grin. "Isn't it marvelous?" "Yes, it's very nice," Papa says, still looking a little puzzled. "Dad and I call it sunshine bread, eh, Dad?" Huia says.

My mother is my friend Who shares with me her bread All my hopelessness cured! Her company makes me secured!

My name is Mr Bread." He began writing his name neatly on the board. "But you can call me Peter." Suddenly there was quiet, as thirty little brains whirred. "Pita Bread!" proclaimed a ginger-haired boy from the back.

O God give us our daily bread.

Our senses inform us of the colour, weight, and consistence of bread; but neither sense nor reason can ever inform us of those qualities which fit it for the nourishment and support of a human body.

Since many are confronted with an eerie void, lacking essential qualities in their daily repertoire and suffering from missing out on a second or third dimension in their lives, they feel disjointed and disgruntled, unconsciously struggling to find out a kind of strategy to “construct” or to "reconstruct" their living. (“Bread and Satellite”)

The baker’s skill in managing fermentation, not the type of oven used, is what makes good bread.

Then his singing paused, and he stood for a moment to cry out softly in the vernacular of the region: 'Blest be Adonoi Elohim, King of All, who maketh bread to spring forth from the earth,' in a sort of nasal bleat. The bleat being finished, he sat again, and commenced eating. The wanderer had come a long way indeed, thought Brother Francis, who knew of no adjacent realm governed by a monarch with such an unfamiliar name and such strange pretensions.

There is more food in a pennyworth of bread than in a gallon of ale.

There were the subtle malts and brans of the crust and the pallid no-taste of good old Florentine bread. The snaking sour-sweet of the beef, like a slab of porphyry shot through with crystalline onion sugars, salt and soil-rolled toffee carrots; sparks of bitter thyme and mint oils; the velvet honeycomb of fat;

The sensor did not seem to be restricted to my mother's food, and there was so much to sort through, a torrent of information, but with George there, sitting in the fading warmth of the filtered afternoon springtime sun spilling through the kitchen windows, making me buttered toast which I ate happily, light and good with his concentration and gentle focus, I could begin to think about the layers. The bread distributor, the bread factory, the wheat, the farmer. The butter, which had a dreary tang to it. When I checked the package, I read that it came from a big farm in Wisconsin. The cream held a thinness, a kind of metallic bumper aftertaste. The milk- weary. All of those parts distant, crowded, like the far-off sound of an airplane, or a car parking, all hovering in the background, foregrounded by the state of the maker of the food.

Three scents accompany my memories of this place: cut wood, poppy-seed bread, and the soft, crisp smell of snow.

Wallowing on the smooth surface of their self-satisfaction, many are merely counting the shadows on the wall of their ennui, adding up the numerous illusions and indulging in the comforting lies and ignoring the unpleasant truths. (“Bread and Satellite”)

We need four things to survive life: bread, water, oxygen, and dreams!

What must you break apart in order to bring a family close together? Bread, of course.

When it comes to things such as sugar and rice, most people believe that brown is superior to white. But when it comes to human beings, they believe that the opposite is true.

If bread - the staff of life - feeds the body; stories nourish the soul.

If you really want to make a friend, go round someone's house with a freshly baked loaf of sourdough bread!

I like bread, and I like butter - but I like bread with butter best.

I needed a more interesting life. I could start by learning something. I could start with the starter.

I remember our childhood days when life was easy and math problems hard. Mom would help us with our homework and dad was not at home but at work. After our chores, we’d go to the old fort museum with clips in our hair and pure joy in our hearts. You, sister, wore the bangles that you, brother, got as a prize from the Dentist. “Why the bangles?” the Dentist asked, surprised, for boys picked the stickers of cars instead. “They’re for my sisters,” you said. Mom would treat us to a bottle of Coke, a few sips each. Then, we’d buy the sweet smelling bread from the same white van and hand-in-hand, we’d walk to our small flat above the restaurant. I remember our childhood days. Do you remember them too?

I was nineteen at the time, and like any other besotted teenage girl, I was desperately eager to please the object of my affections. I didn’t argue the point, but set to work producing the desired loaf. The result was barely chewable when it emerged hot from the oven. By the time it cooled, it seemed significantly more resistant to fire, flood, or earthquakes than my dormitory’s concrete walls. After a brief discussion, Gabriel and I both decided that this rye-brick was more appropriate food for crows than for humans. I carried the slab to the balcony of my eighth-floor dormitory apartment, expecting that a fall from that height would smash it to crumbs. I peered over the edge to make sure no one was below me; I didn’t want to drop the hardened mass onto someone’s head and make a murderess of myself. After verifying that the concrete walkway below was clear, I dropped the rye-brick over the side of the balcony. Down, down, it plummeted—past the seventh floor, the sixth, the fifth … Nearly a hundred feet below, and traveling somewhere around eighty feet per second, the rye-brick finally hit the ground—and didn’t break. Despite an eight-story drop onto concrete, the rye-brick maintained its integrity. One of my roommates inspected the situation and expressed surprise that the stones of the walkway itself remained unscathed. I didn’t try making any wheat-free loaves for a while after that.

Mrs. Cohen cooked, too- beef stew that had simmered all day, pancakes that weren't pancakes but a combination of potatoes and onions and warmth that floated through the apartment and snuck into the pockets of his coat. And something she called a kugel, its name as playful as the smell of vanilla and sugar and cinnamon that came from the oven. But Al's favorite thing about being with Mrs. Cohen was Friday night. When he arrived, the apartment would be filled with the fragrance of chicken soup and there was always fresh-baked bread, its surface brown and glistening, lying in a fancy braid across the counter.

My husband's disappeared. He got in from work, propped his briefcase against the wall and asked me if I'd bought any bread. It must have been around half past seven.

Our physical body knows it cannot function without physical water. So, too, our spiritual life should realize that it can't function without the "living water" of Gods Word.

Perhaps this war will make it simpler for us to go back to some of the old ways we knew before we came over to this land and made the Big Money. Perhaps, even, we will remember how to make good bread again. It does not cost much. It is pleasant: one of those almost hypnotic businesses, like a dance from some ancient ceremony. It leaves you filled with peace, and the house filled with one of the world's sweetest smells. But it takes a lot of time. If you can find that, the rest is easy. And if you cannot rightly find it, make it, for probably there is no chiropractic treatment, no Yoga exercise, no hour of meditation in a music-throbbing chapel, that will leave you emptier of bad thoughts than this homely ceremony of making bread.

Silverware was marching like little soldiers down the long length of the table toward Belle. Pieces of china were shoving each other precariously out of the way, vying to be in the single place setting in front of her. Little pots of mustard and chutney and other condiments hopped one after another off the shelves lining the room, landing surprisingly intact on silver trays. Too many things were moving around the room- things that shouldn't have been moving at all. It was dizzying, and more than a little ominous. "Really, this isn't necessary..." Belle said, getting ready to bolt. A fresh boule, the cracks in its crust emitting amazing-smelling steam, was carried to her by a spidery basket with alarming silver legs.

The dream of control is seductive but it leads to monoculture in the field and fortified white bread in the supermarket.

The Hebrews come into the bread eaters' land with no bread of their own. It's famine, and Jacob's sons travel to Egypt in hopes of finding something to save their families. They find not only grain but forgiveness. Joseph is there, whom God takes from them so he can later deliver them. They find a new home. And they, too, find the miracle of yeast. Surely the descendants of Abraham bake their grains, mixing flour and oil and kneading it to dough. But this is 'uggah'- a flat cake baked on hot stones or in the ashes, the same given to the Lord by Abraham when he visits and pronounces Isaac's birth. Nomads have no time for fermentation, for waiting for dough to ripen. They have enough to carry from place to place. And they have no ovens, probably have never conceived of such a thing. Again, too heavy to move. So what must it have been like for them to see these risen loaves come from strange Egyptian baking containers? It becomes part of them, the first thing they cry out for in the wilderness, not any bread but that of those who enslaved them. The Hebrews have freedom. Instead, they want food, their bellies filled with the earthly comfort they know. And God, the heavenly Comforter, sends bread of a different kind. 'What is it?' They call it 'manna'. And it's given 'to' the wandering children of Israel, but not only 'for' them. For us. For all who brush away the veil and will one day lay eyes on the true manna, a child they do not yet know will be born in Beth-lehem, the house of bread.