Bake With Passion Quotes

To my babies, Merry Christmas. I'm sorry if these letters have caught you both by surprise. There is just so much more I have to say. I know you thought I was done giving advice, but I couldn't leave without reiterating a few things in writing. You may not relate to these things now, but someday you will. I wasn't able to be around forever, but I hope that my words can be. -Don't stop making basagna. Basagna is good. Wait until a day when there is no bad news, and bake a damn basagna. -Find a balance between head and heart. Hopefully you've found that Lake, and you can help Kel sort it out when he gets to that point. -Push your boundaries, that's what they're there for. -I'm stealing this snippet from your favorite band, Lake. "Always remember there is nothing worth sharing, like the love that let us share our name." -Don't take life too seriously. Punch it in the face when it needs a good hit. Laugh at it. -And Laugh a lot. Never go a day without laughing at least once. -Never judge others. You both know good and well how unexpected events can change who a person is. Always keep that in mind. You never know what someone else is experiencing within their own life. -Question everything. Your love, your religion, your passions. If you don't have questions, you'll never find answers. -Be accepting. Of everything. People's differences, their similarities, their choices, their personalities. Sometimes it takes a variety to make a good collection. The same goes for people. -Choose your battles, but don't choose very many. -Keep an open mind; it's the only way new things can get in. -And last but not least, not the tiniest bit least. Never regret. Thank you both for giving me the best years of my life. Especially the last one. Love, Mom

Who doesn't have a friend who worships her lover with a passion that seems baffling to everyone that knows them? Before you met him for the first time, she'd talked him up like he was a cross between Indiana Jones, Barack Obama and The Doctor. When you finally meet him, he's a quiet little thing who looks like a baked bean in glasses, and actually says 'harumph' as spelt.

Just don't fall into a tanning bed. These machines are for vapid, narcissistic, idiots who have barren vacuums where their thoughts, fears, and passions should be. Spending time in a tanning bed will only earn you the appearance and intellect of an inbred baked potato. Don't be a baked potato. Be a person.

Don't each of us own a Pandora's Box? Full of lust, lies, deceit and the likes of these? Thoughts that are wicked Words unfelt Passions half-baked And feelings that perhaps make us hate ourselves.

(on fading passion) Sex was like the can of baking powder she kept on a high shelf in her pantry, something she didn’t need right now but that she knew she could get her hands on without too much trouble.

Merrill Hartweiss scales a rocky incline toward Renna. The noon sun bakes the hillside as Merrill's boots dig into the broiling sands. Yet another gypsy tune enters his head. It starts off slowly. A lone guitar, its strings strummed with the lustful passion of a young man brushing his fingertips softly against the breasts of his lover. Another guitar joins, like a second hand, exploring her hot flesh, stroking the side of her bare abdomen, and gradually moving upward toward her chest. Then, a female voice joins the guitars; it is slightly raspy, yet sultry; filled with a fiery allure. The guitars pick up in intensity and tempo. There is a rhythmic clapping now, in synchronization with the strumming. The man has entered his lover. Sweat begins to form on Merrill's forehead, then quickly turns to vapor, dissipating into the blistering heat from the sunlight reflecting off the sands. Steady clapping, louder still. The tempo quickens, progressively and with a vigorous intensity. The man arches his back, cresting then falling; cresting, arching, rising and falling deeper again and again into his lover. The clapping, now faster, still rhythmic, but so much more intense. The guitars keep pace with increasing ferocity. In the woman's voice, short, quick breaths form words as she cries out her lover's name from deep within the throes of a forbidden love

Some parents in our neighborhood do everything they can to keep their children away from violent images. And then, when something terrible happens, like murder or rape or genocide - well, then a conversation has to be had with these young innocents to explain that, yes, goodness is sometimes a fiction, like Santa Claus, and that humanity is, underneath all the cookie baking and song singing, a shameful and secret nastiness. Me, I'm going to raise my son differently. What he will be made to know is that there is violence in everything - even in goodness, if you're passionate about it.

The mighty Toyota Company was born from the ashes of a failed weaving business. And perhaps you have heard of Wrigley’s gum? William Wrigley started off his company trying to sell baking soda and soap, but he never turned a profit, and so he turned to making and selling chewing gum instead. These men share one thing in common—they were open to change and they listened to their intuition. Sometimes we hear a whisper in the air that guides us positively. This whisper we hear, it is not passive—it is a response to our own enthusiasm, passion, and commitment. We put in the effort and we get back a divine message. Call it inspiration if you want. Call it an entrepreneurial muse. But it feels and sounds like a whisper in your soul. If you hear it, listen to it. You must be willing to change course when it tells you to.

There were a number of reasons for decreeing abstention from meat. In ancient times meat was thought to inflame the passions (thereby distracting the mind from higher thoughts) whereas fish (or rather, creatures that lived in the water, which included whales and 'porpuses') were seen as cooling. It was also believed that the characteristics or habits of everything in the natural world would be transmitted to the eater, so the fact that fish did not have an obvious sex life added to its suitability for days of religious observance.

My passion for cooking grew as my mother taught me how to make her chewy cranberry bread, Dijon mustard vinaigrette, and Nantucket quahog chowder thickened with chopped clams, potatoes, and sweet onions. Then it reached new heights in college when I took a year off to study French cooking at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, where I learned to master a mean spinach soufflé, make a perfect sauce Bordelaise, and craft authentic shiny chocolate-topped éclairs. When I was hired as the sous-chef at Le Potiron (The Pumpkin), a Parisian restaurant near Les Halles, I used my newfound skills to transform tough cuts of beef into tender stews, improvise with sweetbreads, and bake cakes from memory.

In her younger years, Ginger had dressed in ordinary, drab clothing so she wouldn't call attention to herself. She'd even tried to hide her bright pink hair with a scarf. Her goal in those days had been to blend in and not be recognized as the daughter of the Candy Witch, because even a whispered mention of the word "witch" made people unnerved. But now, as a student at Ever After High, she'd come to realize that she was more than her legacy. She was her own person, and her passion was baking scrumptious treats, not wicked treats as her mother did. She began to dress the way that pleased her, adorning herself with cheerful colors, candy accents, and swirls, as if decorating a cake or cookie.

This is an art I can enjoy. There is a kind of sorcery in all cooking; in the choosing of ingredients, the process of mixing, grating, melting, infusing, and flavoring, the recipes taken from ancient books, the traditional utensils- the pestle and mortar with which my mother made her incense turned to a more homely purpose, her spices and aromatics giving up their subtleties to a baser, more sensual magic. And it is partly the transience of it delights me; so much loving preparation, so much art and experience, put into a pleasure that can last only a moment, and which only a few will ever fully appreciate. My mother always viewed my interest with indulgent contempt. To her, food was no pleasure but a tiresome necessity to be worried over, a tax on the price of our freedom. I stole menus from restaurants and looked longingly into patisserie windows. I must have been ten years old- maybe older- before I first tasted real chocolate. But still the fascination endured. I carried recipes in my head like maps. All kinds of recipes: torn from abandoned magazines in busy railway stations, wheedled from people on the road, strange marriages of my own confection. Mother with her cards, her divinations, directed our mad course across Europe. Cookery cards anchored us, placed landmarks on the bleak borders. Paris smells of baking bread and croissants; Marseille of bouillabaisse and grilled garlic. Berlin was Eisbrei with sauerkraut and Kartoffelsalat, Rome was the ice cream I ate without paying in a tiny restaurant beside the river.

My mother is finally rolling out her kulebiaka dough, maneuvering intently on a dime size oasis of kitchen counter. I inhale the sweetish tang of fermented yeast once again and try to plumb my unconscious for some collective historical taste memory. No dice. There's no yeast in my DNA. No heirloom pie recipes passed down by generations of women in the yellowing pages of family notebooks, scribbled in pre-revolutionary Russian orthography. My two grandmothers were emaciated New Soviet women, meaning they barely baked, wouldn't be caught dead cooking 'czarist.' Curious and passionate about food all her life, Mom herself only became serious about baking after we emigrated. In the USSR she relied on a dough called na skoruyu ruku ('flick of a hand'), a version involving little kneading and no rising. It was a recipe she'd had to teach her mother. My paternal babushka, Alla, simply wasn't interested.

It may be that at some far distant day greater insight will show them that they must look for comfort and encouragement in their own souls. I myself think that the need to worship is no more than the survival of an old remembrance of cruel gods that had to be propitiated. I believe that God is within me or nowhere. If that's so, whom or what am I to worship-myself? Men are on different levels of spiritual development, and so the imagination of India has evolved the manifestations of the Absolute that are known as Brahma, Vishnu, Siva, and by a hundred other names. The Absolute is in Isvara, the creator and ruler of the world, and it is in the humble fetish before which the peasant in his sun-baked field places the offering of a flower. The multitudinous gods of India are but expedients to lead to the realization that the self is one with the supreme self.' I looked at Larry reflectively. 'I wonder just what it was that attracted you to this austere faith,' I said. 'I think I can tell you. I've always felt that there was something pathetic in the founders of religion who made it a condition of salvation that you should believe in them. It's as though they needed your faith to have faith in themselves. They remind you of those old pagan gods who grew wan and faint if they were not sustained by the burnt offerings of the devout. Advaita doesn't ask you to take anything on trust; it asks only that you should have a passionate craving to know Reality; it states that you can experience God as surely as you can experience joy or pain. And there are men in India today - hundreds of them for all I know - who have the certitude that they have done so. I found something wonderfully satisfying in the notion that you can attain Reality by knowledge. In later ages the sages of India in recognition of human infirmity admitted that salvation may be won by the way of love and the way of works, but they never denied that the noblest way, though the hardest, is the way of knowledge, for its instrument is the most precious faculty of man, his reason.

It was my father who called the city the Mansion on the River. He was talking about Charleston, South Carolina, and he was a native son, peacock proud of a town so pretty it makes your eyes ache with pleasure just to walk down its spellbinding, narrow streets. Charleston was my father’s ministry, his hobbyhorse, his quiet obsession, and the great love of his life. His bloodstream lit up my own with a passion for the city that I’ve never lost nor ever will. I’m Charleston-born, and bred. The city’s two rivers, the Ashley and the Cooper, have flooded and shaped all the days of my life on this storied peninsula. I carry the delicate porcelain beauty of Charleston like the hinged shell of some soft-tissued mollusk. My soul is peninsula-shaped and sun-hardened and river-swollen. The high tides of the city flood my consciousness each day, subject to the whims and harmonies of full moons rising out of the Atlantic. I grow calm when I see the ranks of palmetto trees pulling guard duty on the banks of Colonial Lake or hear the bells of St. Michael’s calling cadence in the cicada-filled trees along Meeting Street. Deep in my bones, I knew early that I was one of those incorrigible creatures known as Charlestonians. It comes to me as a surprising form of knowledge that my time in the city is more vocation than gift; it is my destiny, not my choice. I consider it a high privilege to be a native of one of the loveliest American cities, not a high-kicking, glossy, or lipsticked city, not a city with bells on its fingers or brightly painted toenails, but a ruffled, low-slung city, understated and tolerant of nothing mismade or ostentatious. Though Charleston feels a seersuckered, tuxedoed view of itself, it approves of restraint far more than vainglory. As a boy, in my own backyard I could catch a basket of blue crabs, a string of flounder, a dozen redfish, or a net full of white shrimp. All this I could do in a city enchanting enough to charm cobras out of baskets, one so corniced and filigreed and elaborate that it leaves strangers awed and natives self-satisfied. In its shadows you can find metalwork as delicate as lace and spiral staircases as elaborate as yachts. In the secrecy of its gardens you can discover jasmine and camellias and hundreds of other plants that look embroidered and stolen from the Garden of Eden for the sheer love of richness and the joy of stealing from the gods. In its kitchens, the stoves are lit up in happiness as the lamb is marinating in red wine sauce, vinaigrette is prepared for the salad, crabmeat is anointed with sherry, custards are baked in the oven, and buttermilk biscuits cool on the counter.

Quickly she shredded the cabbage on the chopping block and tossed it along with the onion and tomatoes in a blue Pyrex bowl. Then she slid the lamb chops, encrusted with fresh rosemary, into the oven. While the lamb baked, she brushed her hair in the washroom and pinned it back again. Then she zipped on a silk floral dress she'd purchased in Bristol and retrieved her grandmother's rhinestone necklace, one of the few family heirlooms her mother packed for her, to clasp around her neck. At the foot of the bed was the antique trunk she'd brought from her childhood home in Balham more than a decade ago. Opening the trunk, she removed her wedding album along with her treasured copy of 'The Secret Garden' and the tubes of watercolors her father had sent with her and her brother. Her father hoped she would spend time painting on the coast, but Maggie hadn't inherited his talent or passion for art. Sometimes she wondered if Edmund would have become an artist. Carefully she took out her newest treasures- pieces of crystal she and Walter hd received as wedding presents, protected by pages and pages of her husband's newspaper. She unwrapped the crystal and two silver candlesticks, then set them on the white-cloaked dining table. She arranged the candlesticks alongside a small silver bowl filled with mint jelly and a basket with sliced whole-meal bread from the bakery. After placing white, tapered candles into the candlesticks, she lit them and stepped back to admire her handiwork. Satisfied, she blew them out. Once she heard Walter at the door, she'd quickly relight the candles. When the timer chimed, she removed the lamb chops and turned off the oven, placing the pan on her stovetop and covering it with foil. She'd learned a lot about housekeeping in the past decade, and now she was determined to learn how to be the best wife to Walter. And a doting mother to their children. If only she could avoid the whispers from her aunt's friends.

Look at that ship. That clipper cost me a queen’s ransom, even with the Kestrel thrown in the bargain. But it was the fastest ship to be had.” He took her hands in his. “Forget money. Forget society. Forget expectations. We’ve no talent for following rules, remember? We have to follow our hearts. You taught me that.” He gathered her to him, drawing her hands to his chest. “God, sweet, don’t you know? You’ve had my heart in your pocket since the day we met. Following my heart means following you. I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth if I have to.” He shot an amused glance at the captain. “Though I’d expect your good captain would prefer I didn’t. In fact, I think he’d gladly marry us today, just to be rid of me.” “Today? But we couldn’t.” His eyebrows lifted. “Oh, but we could.” He pulled her to the other side of the ship, slightly away from the gaping crowd. Wrapping his arms around her, he leaned close to whisper in her ear, “Happy birthday, love.” Sophia melted in his embrace. It was her birthday, wasn’t it? The day she’d been anticipating for months, and here she’d forgotten it completely. Until Gray had appeared on the horizon, she hadn’t been looking forward to anything. But now she did. She looked forward to marriage, and children, and love and grand adventure. Real life and true passion. All of it with this man. “Oh, Gray.” “Please say yes,” he whispered. “Sophia.” The name was a caress against her ear. “I love you.” He kissed her cheek and pulled away. “I’ve been remiss in not telling you. You can’t know how I’ve regretted it. But I love you, Sophia Jane Hathaway. I love you as no man ever loved a woman. I love you so much, I fear I’ll burst with it. In fact, I think I shall burst if I go another minute without kissing you, so if you’ve any mind to say yes, I’d thank you to-“ Sophia flung her arms around his neck and kissed him. Hard at first, to quiet the fool man; then gently, to savor him. oh, how she loved the taste of him, like freshly baked bread and rum. Warm and wholesome and comforting, with just a hint of spice and danger. “Yes,” she sighed against his lips. She pulled back and looked into his eyes. “Yes, I will marry you.” His arms tightened about her waist. “Today?” “Today. But you must let me change my gown first.” Smiling, she stroked his smooth cheek. “You even shaved.” “Every day since we left Tortola.” He gave her a rueful smile. “I’ve a few new scars to show for it.” “Good.” She kissed him. “I’m glad. And I don’t care if society casts us out for the pirates we are, just as long as I’m with you.” “Oh, I don’t know that we’ll be cast out, exactly. We’re definitely not pirates. After your stirring testimony”-he chucked her under the chin-“Fitzhugh decided to make the best of an untenable situation. Or an unhangable pirate, as it were. If he couldn’t advance on his career by convicting me, he figured he’d advance it by commending me. Awarded me the Kestrel as salvage and recommended me to the governor for a special citation of valor. There’s talk of knighthood.” He grinned. “Can you believe it? Me, a hero.” “Of course I believe it.” She laced her fingers at the back of his neck. “I’ve always known it, although I should curse that judge and his ‘citation of valor.’ As if you needed a fresh supply of arrogance. Just remember, whatever they deem you-gentleman or scoundrel, hero or pirate-you are mine.” “So I am.” He kissed her soundly, passionately. “And which would you prefer tonight?” At the seductive grown in his voice, shivers of arousal swept down to her toes. “Your gentleman? Your scoundrel? Your hero or your pirate?” She laughed. “I imagine I’ll enjoy all four on occasion. But tonight, I believe I shall find tremendous joy in simply calling you my husband.” He rested his forehead against hers. “My love.” “That, too.

We also ate well in the kitchen, and I found that I had inherited my father's palate and appreciation of good food. Our cuisine at home always been rather basic, even in the days when we had a cook, and I became fascinated with the process of creating such wonderful flavors. "Show me how you made that parsley sauce, those meringues, that oyster stew," I'd say to Mrs Robbins, the cook. And if she had a minute to spare, she would show me. After a while, seeing my willingness as well as my obvious aptitude for cooking, she suggested to Mrs Tilley that her old legs were not up to standing for hours any more and that she needed an assistant cook. And she requested me. Mrs Tilley agreed, but only if she didn't have to pay me more money and I should still be available to do my party piece whenever she entertained. And so I went to work in the kitchen. Mrs Robbins found me a willing pupil. After lugging coal scuttles up all those stairs, it felt like heaven to be standing at a table preparing food. We had a scullery maid who did all the most menial of jobs, like chopping the onions and peeling the potatoes, but I had to do the most basic of tasks- mashing the potatoes with lots of butter and cream until there wasn't a single lump, basting the roast so that the fat was evenly crisp. I didn't mind. I loved being amongst the rich aromas. I loved the look of a well-baked pie. The satisfaction when Mrs Robbins nodded with approval at something I had prepared. And of course I loved the taste of what I had created. Now when I went home to Daddy and Louisa, I could say, "I roasted that pheasant. I made that apple tart." And it gave me a great rush of satisfaction to say the words. "You've a good feel of it, I'll say that for you," Mrs Robbins told me, and after a while she even sought my opinion. "Does this casserole need a touch more salt, do you think? Or maybe some thyme?" The part I loved the best was the baking. She showed me how to make pastry, meringues that were light as air, all sorts of delicate biscuits and rich cakes.

Every New Year's Day, my parents had a big party, and their friends came over and bet on the Rose Bowl and argued about which of the players on either team were Jewish, and my mother served her famous lox and onions and eggs, which took her the entire first half to make. It took her so long, in fact, that I really don't have time to give you the recipe, because it takes up a lot of space to explain how slowly and painstakingly she did everything, sautéing the onions over a tiny flame so none of them would burn, throwing more and more butter into the pan, cooking the eggs so slowly that my father was always sure they wouldn't be ready until the game was completely over and everyone had gone home. We should have known my mother was crazy years before we did just because of the maniacal passion she brought to her lox and onions and eggs, but we didn't. Another thing my mother was famous for serving was a big ham along with her casserole of lima beans and pears. A couple of years ago, I was in Los Angeles promoting Uncle Seymour's Beef Borscht and a woman said to me at a party, "Wasn't your mother Bebe Samstat?" and when I said yes, she said, "I have her recipe for lima beans and pears. " I like to think it would have amused my mother to know that there is someone in Hollywood who remembers her only for her lima beans and pears, but it probably wouldn't have. Anyway, here's how you make it: Take 6 cups defrosted lima beans, 6 pears peeled and cut into slices, 1/2 cup molasses, 1/2 cup chicken stock, 1/2 onion chopped, put into a heavy casserole, cover and bake 12 hours at 200*. That's the sort of food she loved to serve, something that looked like plain old baked beans and then turned out to have pears up its sleeve. She also made a bouillabaisse with Swiss chard in it. Later on, she got too serious about food- started making egg rolls from scratch, things like that- and one night she resigned from the kitchen permanently over a lobster Cantonese that didn't work out, and that was the beginning of the end.

I'd love to cook," she says, "but who has the time? I can't afford to spend two days baking a cake." The implication, of course, is that only unimportant people have that kind of time. Unimportant people like me. I wait for Adam to jump in and save me, but instead he shoves a forkful of lamb into his mouth and feigns deep interest in the contents of his dinner plate. For someone with Adam's political ambitions and penchant for friendly debate, I'm always amazed at the lengths he goes to avoid confrontation with his parents. "I have a full-time job," I say, offering Sandy a labored smile, "and somehow I manage." Sandy delicately places her fork on the table and interlaces her fingers. "I beg your pardon?" My cheeks flush, and all the champagne and wine rush to my head at once. "All I'm saying is... we make time for the things we actually want to do. That's all." Sandy purses her lips and sweeps her hair away from her face with the back of her hand. "Hannah, dear, I am very busy. I am on the board of three charities and am hosting two galas this year. It's not a matter of wanting to cook. I simply have more important things to do." For a woman so different from my own mother- the frosted, well-groomed socialite to my mother's mousy, rumpled academic- she and my mother share a remarkably similar view of the role of cooking in a modern woman's life. For them, cooking is an irrelevant hobby, an amusement for women who lack the brains for more high-powered pursuits or the money to pay someone to perform such a humdrum chore. Sandy Prescott and my mother would agree on very little, but as women who have been liberated from the perfunctory task of cooking a nightly dinner, they would see eye to eye on my intense interest in the culinary arts. Were I a stronger person, someone more in control of her faculties who has not drunk multiple glasses of champagne, I would probably let Sandy's remark go without commenting any further. But I cannot be that person. At least not tonight. Not when Sandy is suggesting, as it seems everyone does, that cooking isn't a priority worthy of a serious person's time. "You would make the time if you wanted to," I say. "But obviously you don't.

Allow us to introduce Nirvani Sabess, a passionate HR specialist and baking enthusiast. With over 8 years of experience, she shines in employee development and talent acquisition. Her dedication to inclusivity is deeply rooted in her travels across Italy, Switzerland, Croatia, and other destinations. Much like her delectable confections, Nirvani values the blend of diverse talents for success.

Brownies in Ernakulam One of Ernakulam's best bakeries, Rising Loaf, provides handcrafted premium made-to-order baked treats that are free of preservatives and additives. Custom cakes, delicacies, and gourmet sweets are available. Our blends are one-of-a-kind because they mix a great deal of skill and expertise with natural baking ingredients to provide you with the best sweetness and taste. We take pride in giving every one of our clients, big and small, an amazing experience. Brownies in Ernakulam is committed to making high-quality bread devoid of artificial preservatives, colours, or flavours. All of our bread loaves, cakes, cookies, doughnuts and muffins, and cupcakes are lovingly created in Ernakulam's cleanest environment. The fullness of our clients' grins when they try our exquisite items and return for more is how we define success at Rising Loaf. They're the cherry on top of our cake, the driving force behind our efforts to improve our baking and customer service. To maintain the authentic taste and fresh flavours, we are captivated by using only high-quality and fresh ingredients in our confectioneries. The fullness of our clients' grins when they try our exquisite items and return for more is how we define success at Rising Loaf. They're the cherry on top of our cake, the driving force behind our efforts to improve our baking and customer service. Rising Loaf, one of Ernakulam's best bakeries, was created by friends with a passion for baking with the purpose of making handcrafted premium baked products that are completely free of harmful food preservatives and additives and delivering them to your door.

i started to feel less embarrassed about all the weird things i did, like suddenly singing songs with absolutely no context, and my bottomless database of random encyclopaedic facts and that one time i started a four-hour-long text conversation about why cheese was a food. i kept teasing him for having such long hair until he said one day, quite decisively, that he actually wanted it to be long, so i stopped teasing him after that. we played video games or board games or watched youtube videos or films or tv shows, we baked cakes and biscuits and ordered takeaway. we could only do stuff at his house when his mum wasn’t in, so we were at my house most of the time. he’d sit through me screaming along to moulin rouge and i'd sit through him reciting every line from back to the future. i tried to learn the guitar using his guitar, but gave up because i was shit. he helped me paint a night-time cityscape mural on my bedroom wall. we watched four seasons of the office. we sat in each other’s rooms with our laptops on our legs; he kept falling asleep at random times of the day; i kept persuading him that just dance sessions were a good idea; we discovered that we were both very passionate about monopoly. i didn’t do any homework when i was with him. he didn’t do any uni reading when he was with me. but at the heart of it was universe city. 

i started to feel less embarrassed about all the weird things i did, like suddenly singing songs with absolutely no context, and my bottomless database of random encyclopaedic facts and that one time i started a four-hour-long text conversation about why cheese was a food. i kept teasing him for having such long hair until he said one day, quite decisively, that he actually wanted it to be long, so i stopped teasing him after that. we played video games or board games or watched youtube videos or films or tv shows, we baked cakes and biscuits and ordered takeaway. we could only do stuff at his house when his mum wasn’t in, so we were at my house most of the time. he’d sit through me screaming along to moulin rouge and i'd sit through him reciting every line from back to the future. i tried to learn the guitar using his guitar, but gave up because i was shit. he helped me paint a night-time cityscape mural on my bedroom wall. we watched four seasons of the office. we sat in each other’s rooms with our laptops on our legs; he kept falling asleep at random times of the day; i kept persuading him that just dance sessions were a good idea; we discovered that we were both very passionate about monopoly. i didn’t do any homework when i was with him. he didn’t do any uni reading when he was with me. but at the heart of it was universe city. 

Chicago's Isabelle Innocenti is an accomplished violinist from Oberlin Conservatory, adept in modern and baroque violin. As a trained hypnotherapist and Suzuki Association member, she teaches at her North Shore studio. Isabelle has 500 hours of yoga training, loves baking, tennis, and yoga, and is passionate about environmental conservation.

Once upon a time, there lived a man who had a terrible passion for baked beans. He loved them, but they always had an embarrassing and somewhat lively reaction on him. One day he met a girl and fell in love. When it was apparent that they would marry, he thought to himself 'She'll never go for me carrying on like that,' so he made the supreme sacrifice and gave up beans, and shortly after that they got married.      A few months later, on the way home from work, his car broke down and since they lived in the country, he called his wife and told her he would be late because he had to walk. On his way home, he passed a small cafe and the wonderful aroma of baked beans overwhelmed him. Since he still had several miles to walk he figured he could walk off any ill affects before he got home. So he went in and ordered, and before leaving had three extra-large helpings of baked beans. All the way home he farted. He 'putted' down one hill and 'putt-putted' up the next. By the time he arrived home he felt reasonably safe.      His wife met him at the door and seemed somewhat excited. She exclaimed, 'Darling, I have the most wonderful surprise for you for dinner tonight!' She put a blindfold on him, and led him to his chair at the head of the table and made him promise not to peek. At this point he was beginning to feel another one coming on. Just as she was about to remove the blindfold, the telephone rang. She again made him promise not to peek until she returned, and she went to answer the phone.       While she was gone, he seized the opportunity. He shifted his weight to one leg and let go. It was not only loud, but *ripe* as a rotten egg.        He had a hard time breathing, so he felt for his napkin and fanned the air about him. He had just started to feel better, when another urge came on. He raised his leg and 'rrriiiipppp!' It sounded like a diesel engine revving, and smelled worse. To keep from gagging, he tried fanning his arms a while, hoping the smell would dissipate. Things had just about returned to normal when he felt another urge coming. He shifted his weight to his other leg and let go. This was a real blue ribbon winner; the windows rattled, the dishes on the table shook and a minute later the flowers on the table were dead. While keeping an ear tuned in on the conversation in the hallway, and keeping his promise of staying blindfolded, he carried on like this for the next ten minutes, farting and fanning them each time with his napkin.      When he heard the 'phone farewells' (indicating the end of his loneliness and freedom) he neatly laid his napkin on his lap and folded his hands on top of it. Smiling contentedly, he was the picture of innocence when his wife walked in. Apologizing for taking so long, she asked if he had peeked at the dinner. After assuring her he had not, she removed the blindfold and yelled, 'Surprise!'      To his shock and horror, there were twelve dinner guests seated around the table for his surprise birthday party.

She designed the cakes and I worked out the recipes. The first year we each created a signature cake. Genie's was called the Goddess: really tall, all white on the outside, wrapped in mountains of coconut and whipped cream, with a passion-fruit heart." "And yours was called the Shrinking Violet. Unassuming on the outside but pretty special once you worked your way in." She reached over and squeezed my wrist. "Wish I'd thought of that. You'd understand if you knew my sister." By now I was a little drunk. "One year Genie came up with Melting Cakes. You know, like flourless chocolate, the kind that are melted in the middle? They were gorgeous neon colors, and I made the flavors intense- blood orange, blueberry, lime, hibiscus, and caramel.

She let him kiss her, let all the sensations he brought with his kiss course through her freshly relaxed body. His mouth was warm, strong, and he tasted sweet and spicy, partly from the ginger-laced cupcakes they'd been baking and testing, and partly because she knew that's just how he tasted. Under his continued exploration, she relaxed further, opened her mouth to him, took him in... and sighed as he filled her so perfectly. She groaned softly, or maybe it was him, as he took the kiss deeper, and it slowly turned more ardent. She realized she'd dug her nails into his shirt, pressing her knuckles into him as she clutched the linen in her fists in her urgent need to get closer to him. "Wow," she gasped against the skin of his jaw as he left her mouth to kiss the corners of her lips, then her cheek, her temple, and dropped his head down to nuzzle at the tender side of her neck. It was the sweetest seduction and a primal rush, all at the same time. She rose up on her toes, wanting more heat, more contact, more... Baxter. "How can this not be the right thing, Leilani," he whispered gruffly against the sensitive skin below her ear.

Cosima lines up all her little jars of dried herbs and flowers, then carefully picks the ones she needs. "Acacia, for secret love. Celandine, for joys to come. Bluebell," she whispers, "for constancy. Bougainvillea, for passion. And chrysanthemum, for truth." She finds her special ceramic baking bowl and begins to add the usual ingredients: flour, sugar, butter, and eggs. "And the only flavor strong enough to mask the flowers." Cosima opens the cupboard above her head and takes down two bars of the finest dark chocolate she's ever tasted. "Ninety-nine percent. Perfect." After she's grated a beetroot, for moisture, and added vanilla pods, for extra flavor, Cosima pours the dark, thick mixture into a small baking tin and slips it into the oven. An hour later, she cools the cake, then glazes its black (with a tint of purple) surface with a chocolate icing seasoned with a little dust of daffodil, passionflower, and cosmos: new beginnings, faith, joy in love and life.

She put so much love and magic into her baking. I bet you all had your favorite-" Kat tries to swallow her tears but she can't. "Pistachio cream croissants!" Noa shouts out. Kat blinks, scanning the crowd for the perpetrator and sees Noa looking up at her, grinning. Kat nods. "My favorite too." She looks out at the congregation again, blinking back her tears. "Zucchini and caramelized onion pizza!" someone else shouts. Kat sniffs, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "Tiramisu cheesecake!" "Vanilla and elderflower brownies!" "Cinnamon and nutmeg biscuits!" "Spiced chocolate cake!" Kat starts to smile. She looks out at the congregation, at their happy, memory-filled faces, the taste of Cosima's baking still on their tongues, and feels her heart begin to lift. "Passion fruit and pear cannoli!" "Chocolate and pistachio cream cupcakes!" shouts Amandine. "Dough twists dipped in Nutella!" Heloise calls out.

As it turned out, Cosima had quite a flair for flavor. She created things that shocked Kat, who had only ever followed her mother's more mundane recipes. One Saturday, Cosima made rosemary, stilton, and walnut bread and their father ran up and down the street after breakfast, telling his neighbors he was training for a marathon. Another Saturday her bacon and brie bread caused Peter Rubens to quit his sales job and revisit a great passion for pottery and carpentry that he'd long before abandoned. Kat personally puts her father's remarriage down to the chocolate and chili bread Cosima made when she was six, Kat liked her stepmother and loved that she was finally free to leave her father and little sister and go out into the world to live her own life.

To my babies, Merry Christmas. I’m sorry if these letters have caught you both by surprise. There is just so much more I have to say. I know you thought I was done giving advice, but I couldn’t leave without reiterating a few things in writing. You may not relate to these things now, but someday you will. I wasn’t able to be around forever, but I hope that my words can be. —Don’t stop making basagna. Basagna is good. Wait until a day when there is no bad news, and bake a damn basagna. —Find a balance between head and heart. Hopefully you’ve found that, Lake, and you can help Kel sort it out when he gets to that point. —Push your boundaries, that’s what they’re there for. —I’m stealing this snippet from your favorite band, Lake. “Always remember there is nothing worth sharing like the love that let us share our name.” —Don’t take life too seriously. Punch it in the face when it needs a good hit. Laugh at it. —And laugh a lot. Never go a day without laughing at least once. —Never judge others. You both know good and well how unexpected events can change who a person is. Always keep that in mind. You never know what someone else is experiencing within their own life. —Question everything. Your love, your religion, your passions. If you don’t have questions, you’ll never find answers. —Be accepting. Of everything. People’s differences, their similarities, their choices, their personalities. Sometimes it takes a variety to make a good collection. The same goes for people. —Choose your battles, but don’t choose very many. —Keep an open mind; it’s the only way new things can get in. —And last but not least, not the tiniest bit least. Never regret. Thank you both for giving me the best years of my life. Especially the last one. Love, Mom acknowledgments To Abigail Ehn with Poetry Slam, Inc. for answering all of my questions with lightning speed.

Draw a line in the sand As you get going, keep in mind why you’re doing what you’re doing. Great businesses have a point of view, not just a product or service. You have to believe in something. You need to have a backbone. You need to know what you’re willing to fight for. And then you need to show the world. A strong stand is how you attract superfans. They point to you and defend you. And they spread the word further, wider, and more passionately than any advertising could. Strong opinions aren’t free. You’ll turn some people off. They’ll accuse you of being arrogant and aloof. That’s life. For everyone who loves you, there will be others who hate you. If no one’s upset by what you’re saying, you’re probably not pushing hard enough. (And you’re probably boring, too.) Lots of people hate us because our products do less than the competition’s. They’re insulted when we refuse to include their pet feature. But we’re just as proud of what our products don’t do as we are of what they do. We design them to be simple because we believe most software is too complex: too many features, too many buttons, too much confusion. So we build software that’s the opposite of that. If what we make isn’t right for everyone, that’s OK. We’re willing to lose some customers if it means that others love our products intensely. That’s our line in the sand. When you don’t know what you believe, everything becomes an argument. Everything is debatable. But when you stand for something, decisions are obvious. For example, Whole Foods stands for selling the highest quality natural and organic products available. They don’t waste time deciding over and over again what’s appropriate. No one asks, “Should we sell this product that has artificial flavors?” There’s no debate. The answer is clear. That’s why you can’t buy a Coke or a Snickers there. This belief means the food is more expensive at Whole Foods. Some haters even call it Whole Paycheck and make fun of those who shop there. But so what? Whole Foods is doing pretty damn well. Another example is Vinnie’s Sub Shop, just down the street from our office in Chicago. They put this homemade basil oil on subs that’s just perfect. You better show up on time, though. Ask when they close and the woman behind the counter will respond, “We close when the bread runs out.” Really? “Yeah. We get our bread from the bakery down the street early in the morning, when it’s the freshest. Once we run out (usually around two or three p.m.), we close up shop. We could get more bread later in the day, but it’s not as good as the fresh-baked bread in the morning. There’s no point in selling a few more sandwiches if the bread isn’t good. A few bucks isn’t going to make up for selling food we can’t be proud of.” Wouldn’t you rather eat at a place like that instead of some generic sandwich chain?

Gertrudis could knit five sweaters in three days, ride horseback for hours, bake pastries for all the charity bazaars, take a painting class, dance flamenco, sing rancheras, feed lunch to seventy invited guests on a Sunday, and fall in love with total impunity with three different men every Monday.

Muffin Batter ½  cup canola oil ½  cup unsalted butter, melted 1½  cups sugar 2     tablespoons honey 3     large eggs 1     tablespoon pure vanilla extract ¼  teaspoon orange oil, optional* 1     tablespoon finely minced lemon zest 1     tablespoon finely minced orange zest 2½  teaspoons ground cinnamon 1⁄3  cup buttermilk 3     cups, or a bit more, all-purpose flour 2½  teaspoons baking powder ½  teaspoon baking soda ½  teaspoon salt ½  cup finely chopped dates, optional ¾  cup golden raisins, plumped and dried (see here) ½  cup well-drained crushed pineapple 2     cups washed unpeeled shredded zucchini Orange-Lemon Glaze 2     cups confectioners’ sugar 1     tablespoon fresh lemon juice Orange juice concentrate or juice, as required, about 3 to 6 tablespoons

The director said wonderful things about you, that you're very talented," I say, and then smell the cardamom Garrance had given me, and I'm instantly put into a trance from green, earthy, and perfumed aromas. It's like all my troubles are gone. I'm in India, envisioning dances and beautiful saris and delicious naan bread baked on hot coals. Charles taps me on the shoulder. "Kate, where did you go?" I wobble. "I think I was in Mumbai for a second. Maybe Chennai? I don't know. I've never been to India. I've just seen pictures in magazines." He places his hands on my shoulders. "Spices transport you?" "Yes," I say, still a little bit out of it. "Hers do." He grips my shoulders, pulls me in closer. I smell his vanilla scent, and my knees turn to butter. "And I now know why my mother likes you. It makes perfect sense. She was right." "About what?" I ask, breathing him. "Working together and letting go of the bad energy. I know we can do this." His eyes spark with a passionate fire, and he smiles, his dimple puckering. I might melt like fondue. "Let's create a meal for her---the best one she's ever had." He leans against the stove, his sexy, smoldering hazel eyes meeting mine. My neck goes hot. I race over to the prep station and pick up the bag of cardamom, breathe it in---earthy, sweet, smoky, and nutty. Big mistake. Because I'm now licking his muscled chest in one of my deranged fantasies, which is so wrong. I throw the bag down, and the grains scatter on the countertop. Charles saunters over and places a hand on my shoulder. "Kate, everything okay?" "Cool, cool, cool," I say. I shrug off his touch, dip around his shoulder, noticing how V-shaped he is. "I was thinking we add this into the peanut sauce for the satay." "Good idea," he says. "Grind it. Nice and fine." Stop. Stop talking with your lilting English accent. Stop smiling. I'm staring at his hands, his lips, his eyelashes. My mind, my thoughts, and my body are about to explode. "Kate, can you pass me the chilis? My mother likes things spicy." "So do I," I say, reaching for it. Our hands touch as I hand him the spice. I shiver. "Me too," he says with a teasing growl. "And I know you added more pepper into my dish the other day. Good thing I can handle the heat." I can't. It's getting way too hot in here.

Jessica Licheri is a passionate advocate for healthy indulgence through her gluten-free baking business, "Jessica Licheri Gluten-Free Bakes." Diagnosed with gluten sensitivity in her early twenties, she was motivated to recreate her favorite baked goods using healthier, gluten-free ingredients. Through years of dedication and trial-and-error, Jessica developed recipes that delighted both the health-conscious and dessert lovers. Her commitment to rich flavor and texture has made her brand a favorite among gluten-free and non-gluten-free audiences alike. Jessica continues to inspire others by showing that dietary restrictions don’t mean sacrificing joy—or great taste—in food.

Blake missed the primitive lifestyle. Celeste baked bread in soup cans, and together they baked the bread of passionate love every night to the sounds of the forest. That was sustenance.

Sanna measured the apple juice into a large glass beaker and added it to the carboy, swirling a cheery red- like Santa's suit. She wrote down the amount in her notebook and did the same with the next juice, this one a bold sapphire blue, which mixed with the red into a vivid purple. When it came to cider, colors and flavors blended together for her. She knew she had the right blend when it matched the color she had envisioned. It wasn't scientific- and it didn't happen with anything else Sanna tasted- but here, with her beloved trees, it worked. She carefully tracked the blends in her journal. The sun streamed through the window, lighting up the colors in the carboy like Christmas lights. She was close- one more juice should do it. She closed her eyes, calling to mind all the juices in the barn's cooler and their corresponding colors. Every juice she tasted from their apples had a slightly different hue, differing among individual varieties, but even varying slightly from tree to tree. When she was twenty-four, she had stood at the tall kitchen counter tasting freshly pressed juices she had made for the first time with the press she had unearthed from the old barn. Her plan had originally been to sell them in the farm stand, but she wanted to pick the best. As she sipped each one, an unmistakable color came to mind- different for each juice- and she finally understood the watercolor apple portraits above the fireplace. They were proof she wasn't the only family member who could see the colors. After she explained it to her dad, he smiled. "I thought you might have the gift." "You knew about this?" "It's family legend. My dad said Grandpa could taste colors in the apples, but no one in my lifetime has been able to, so I thought it might be myth. When you returned home after college- the way you were drawn to Idun's- I thought you might have it." He had put his hands on the side of her face. "This means something good, Sanna." "Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't I know before?" "Would you have believed me?" "I've had apple juice from the Rundstroms a thousand times. Why can't I see that with theirs?" "I think it has something to do with apples from our land. We're connected to it, and it to us." Sanna had always appreciated the sanctuary of the orchard, and this revelation bonded Sanna like another root digging into the soil, finding nourishment. She'd never leave. After a few years of making and selling apple juice, Sanna strolled through the Looms wondering how these older trees still produced apples, even though they couldn't sell them. They didn't make for good eating or baking- Einars called them spitters. Over the years, the family had stopped paying attention to the sprawling trees since no one would buy their fruit- customers only wanted attractive, sweet produce. Other than the art above the mantel, they had lost track of what varieties they had, but with a bit of research and a lot of comparing and contrasting to the watercolors and online photos, Sanna discovered they had a treasure trove of cider-making apples- Kingston Black, Ashton Bitter, Medaille d'Or, Foxwhelp, her favorite Rambo tree, and so many more. The first Lunds had brought these trees to make cider, but had to stop during Prohibition, packing away the equipment in the back of their barn for Sanna to find so many years later. She spent years experimenting with small batches, understanding the colors, using their existing press and carboys to ferment. Then, last year, Einars surprised her with plans to rebuild the barn, complete with huge fermentation tanks and modern mills and presses. Sanna could use her talent and passion to help move their orchard into a new phase... or so they had hoped.

Dew dampened the grass and shimmered on the apples. From a distance, the blueberry bushes glistened as if encased in frost, and the trees looked as if they had been cloaked in ice. Walking through the orchards was comforting to Sam, nearly as comforting as baking. There was a precision in both endeavors, which brought a sense of order to the world, and yet each was filled with new surprises and revelations every day. The trees lined up like hunchback sentinels, seeming to protect the women as they walked the land. The paths between the trees were grassy but worn, showing where tourists and U-Pickers had trod in straight lines before veering left or right. Every so often, the earth had been upended by moles, muddy earthquakes left in the wake of their own underground walks. "Grandpa hated moles, didn't he?" Sam asked out of the blue. "With a passion," Willo said, touched that Sam remembered an innocuous fact about her grandfather from long ago. It was even cooler as the three went deeper into the heart of the orchards, mist dancing in between the rows of trees and the lake glistening beyond like a mirage. It was magical, mysterious, a lost world. I always feel like I've been transported to the world depicted in Lord of the Rings, Sam thought.

What would you do if you could snap your fingers and make it all different?" Melody didn't even hesitate. "Open my own place. French-inspired, most likely, with all those amazing pastries I fell in love with in Paris. Maybe light lunch fare. Hearty bread, the way it's supposed to be done- heirloom wheat baguettes baked bien cuit, that point just before burnt where the crust gets rich and caramelly.

know that I was once someone who loved to dance in the kitchen whilst I baked,” I say, my voice catching. “I was once someone who laughed at stupid jokes until her belly ached and tears poured from her eyes. I was once a girl who liked to walk in the rain, who loved to watch the sun set, who collected china dolls, who found pleasure in the simple things life offered. I was someone who loved tulips and strawberry cheesecake, who would like to go on picnics and drink red wine, and eat smelly cheese, who would sing badly in the shower, who’d wear the clothes she loved, not the ones I was forced to wear. I was once a woman who had passion in her heart and fire in her soul. Now look at me.

Their names may have been the same, but as they liked to reiterate in interviews, the Ruperts had their own distinct personalities. Rupert P.’s likes and passions began and ended with juggling. Rupert X. was the pretty boy/rebel. Rupert L. couldn’t tell time. And Rupert K. was … well, he was a life ruiner. Rupert K. was beautiful. He had ruddy cheeks, but the cute kind that looked like he’d always just come from running a marathon out in the cold. He’d had braces when he was twelve, so his teeth were straight and perfect. He had brown hair that he liked to keep short and that he was always pushing back off his forehead, especially when he didn’t want to answer a television interviewer’s question. He loved fantasy video games, folk music, and baking thumbprint cookies with his grandma. When he smiled, sometimes he would bite the inside of his right cheek. He had a beauty mark on the nape of his neck, right where his heartbeat pulsed on his carotid artery. It was the shape of California and the size of a pinkie nail. Recently, he’d taken to wearing porkpie hats on the crown of his head, something his fans were now copying. He wore sunglasses a lot because his pale green eyes were super sensitive to the sun. He had a tiny scar beneath his lower lip that he got when he fell off the jungle gym when he was six. And he seemed to take pleasure in ruining my life with how perfect he was. Like I said. He was a life ruiner. All of the aforementioned things would’ve been enough to have me melting over him, but what really put Rupert K. into the man-of-my-wildest-dreams category was something he’d said in one of the first interviews he’d done.

Personal SWOT SWOT, a common business strategy practice, flushes out the strengths, weaknesses, opportunities, and threats of a particular business. Applying this common business strategy to yourself will fine-tune your self-understanding. The strengths you identified in the last section can go under your strengths, but what about your weaknesses? Just as important as knowing what you’re good at and what you enjoy is knowing what type of activities you should avoid. What areas, tasks, and even possible industries are off-limits for you? What activities just absolutely do not interest you? What assignments do you drag your feet on? These should be identified so you can concentrate on working within your sweet spot and focus on what you do best. Get it all down on paper: the good, the bad, and the ugly. Once you’ve examined where you thrive and what to avoid, it’s time to build your resume. The exercise of putting it together is an important part of looking inward. Record your relevant work experience and what your role was in each position. Be sure to use action verbs to frame your accomplishments; quantify the specific results you achieved. This helps to emphasize what really stands out in your career, where your interests lie, and where and how you get the best results. It also serves to identify what your role should be moving forward. Do you excel in marketing, sales, process implementation, or accounting? What areas are you comfortable growing into and which ones do you want to hire assistance for. One of the most fatal mistakes an entrepreneur can make is assuming that just because they understand the technical work of the business does not mean they can successfully run a business that does the technical work. As Michael Gerber describes at length in his book The E-Myth: Why Most Small Businesses Don’t Work and What to Do About It, staffing, marketing, and cash flow management have nothing to do with baking pies, but everything to do with running and growing a pie business. Spend time reflecting on yourself. The exercise will drive interest in opportunities that may have otherwise not appeared interesting. For the purpose of true self-discovery, ignore your passions and interests for a moment. Simply focus on the activities and functions you are well-equipped to execute. This is about getting in tune with what you’re good at and doing a deep dive into your skillset. At the end of this section, you should have a personal SWOT analysis and a resume written out for your review.

【V信83113305】：Kobe Pastry & Confectionery School stands as a premier institution for aspiring pâtissiers from around the globe. Located in the city renowned for its refined culinary culture, the school offers an immersive curriculum that masterfully blends French techniques with Japanese precision and artistry. Under the guidance of expert instructors, students engage in rigorous hands-on training, learning everything from fundamental baking skills to the intricate art of sugar sculpture and chocolate work. The program emphasizes not only technical excellence but also creativity and innovation, preparing graduates for successful careers in the world's top kitchens and patisseries. It is a place where passion for pastry is honed into professional expertise.，Kobe Confectionery School神户糕点专门学校颁发典礼学术荣誉颁奖感受博士生的光荣时刻, 神户糕点专门学校毕业证办理周期和加急方法, 办神户糕点专门学校毕业证-Diploma, 神戸製菓専門学校神户糕点专门学校毕业证办理流程, 一流Kobe Confectionery School神户糕点专门学校学历精仿高质, 网络办理神戸製菓専門学校神户糕点专门学校毕业证官方成绩单学历认证, 日本大学文凭定制专业服务认证, Offer(神戸製菓専門学校成绩单)神戸製菓専門学校神户糕点专门学校如何办理?, 原版定制神戸製菓専門学校神户糕点专门学校毕业证书

【V信83113305】：Sadler's Bakery College in the United States is a unique institution dedicated entirely to the art and science of baking. It offers aspiring bakers a comprehensive curriculum that blends foundational techniques with advanced pastry arts. Students gain hands-on experience in state-of-the-art kitchens, learning everything from bread fermentation to intricate sugar work. The college emphasizes both traditional methods and modern innovation, preparing graduates for successful careers in bakeries, restaurants, and hospitality worldwide. More than just a school, it's a community for those passionate about craftsmanship, fostering creativity and excellence in the culinary field.，【V信83113305】最佳办理萨德尔巴克学院毕业证方式,优质渠道办理萨德尔巴克学院毕业证成绩单学历认证,原版定制萨德尔巴克学院毕业证书案例,原版萨德尔巴克学院毕业证办理流程和价钱,萨德尔巴克学院毕业证书,萨德尔巴克学院毕业证办理周期和加急方法,萨德尔巴克学院毕业证办理流程和安全放心渠道,萨德尔巴克学院毕业证成绩单学历认证最快多久,萨德尔巴克学院毕业证最稳最快办理方式,网上购买假学历萨德尔巴克学院毕业证书

【V信83113305】：Yamato Patisserie School in Japan is a premier institution dedicated to the art of French and European pastry-making. Located in Tokyo, it offers a rigorous curriculum that blends traditional techniques with modern innovation. Students receive hands-on training from master pâtissiers, learning everything from fundamental baking skills to advanced decorative work. The school’s philosophy emphasizes precision, creativity, and a deep respect for ingredients. Graduates are highly sought after, often securing positions in top patisseries, hotels, and restaurants worldwide. For anyone passionate about confectionery arts, Yamato provides an exceptional foundation for a successful career in the global pastry industry.，高端山手調理製菓専門学校山手料理糕点专门学校毕业证办理流程, 办理日本山手料理糕点专门学校毕业证Yamate Culinary and Confectionery School文凭版本, 山手料理糕点专门学校毕业证书, 办理日本Yamate Culinary and Confectionery School本科学历, 山手料理糕点专门学校原版购买, 山手料理糕点专门学校毕业证成绩单原版定制, 挂科办理Yamate Culinary and Confectionery School山手料理糕点专门学校毕业证文凭, 如何获取山手料理糕点专门学校山手調理製菓専門学校毕业证本科学位证书, 最安全购买山手料理糕点专门学校毕业证方法

【V信83113305】：Kobe Pastry & Confectionery School stands as a premier institution for aspiring pâtissiers. Located in the culinary-rich city of Kobe, Japan, it offers a comprehensive curriculum that masterfully blends traditional French techniques with distinct Japanese aesthetics and precision. Under the guidance of seasoned professionals, students engage in rigorous, hands-on training, learning everything from fundamental baking skills to advanced artistic decoration. The school’s philosophy emphasizes not only technical excellence but also creativity and innovation, preparing graduates for successful careers in the global pastry arts. It is a place where passion for confectionery is honed into world-class expertise.，神戸製菓専門学校学位证书办理打开职业机遇之门, Kobe Confectionery School毕业证成绩单专业服务学历认证, 神戸製菓専門学校神户糕点专门学校毕业证学校原版一样吗, 原版神户糕点专门学校毕业证最佳办理流程, offer神户糕点专门学校在读证明, 毕业证文凭神户糕点专门学校毕业证, 神户糕点专门学校毕业证学历认证, Kobe Confectionery School文凭毕业证丢失怎么购买, 原版定制神戸製菓専門学校神户糕点专门学校毕业证书

【V信83113305】：Japan's Tsuji Culinary Institute is renowned for its prestigious pastry and baking program, attracting aspiring chefs worldwide. Located in Osaka, the school offers rigorous training in traditional French and Japanese confectionery techniques, blending precision with creativity. Students master everything from delicate wagashi to intricate European pastries under expert guidance. The curriculum emphasizes hands-on experience, using premium ingredients and state-of-the-art facilities. Graduates often excel in top patisseries globally, a testament to Tsuji’s excellence. Beyond skills, the institute fosters discipline and artistry, embodying Japan’s dedication to culinary perfection. For those passionate about pastry, Tsuji represents a gateway to mastering the sweet science of desserts.，辻糕点制作专门学校电子版毕业证与日本辻製菓専門学校学位证书纸质版价格, 辻糕点制作专门学校学位证书快速办理, 原价-辻製菓専門学校毕业证官方成绩单学历认证, 辻糕点制作专门学校电子版毕业证与日本辻製菓専門学校学位证书纸质版价格, 出售辻製菓専門学校辻糕点制作专门学校研究生学历文凭, 辻製菓専門学校文凭制作, 办理辻糕点制作专门学校毕业证辻製菓専門学校毕业证书毕业证, 专业办理辻製菓専門学校辻糕点制作专门学校成绩单高质学位证书服务

【V信83113305】：Nestled in the heart of Japan, the Yamate Culinary and Confectionery School is a prestigious institution dedicated to the art of Japanese and Western pastry craftsmanship. Renowned for its rigorous curriculum, the school blends traditional techniques with modern innovation, offering students hands-on training in wagashi (Japanese sweets), French patisserie, and baking. With state-of-the-art facilities and master instructors, it cultivates both technical precision and creative flair. The school’s emphasis on seasonal ingredients and cultural heritage ensures graduates excel in global pastry arts. Located in Tokyo, it attracts aspiring chefs worldwide, fostering a vibrant community passionate about elevating dessert craftsmanship. Yamate’s alumni often grace top kitchens, making it a cornerstone of culinary excellence in Japan.，最佳办理山手調理製菓専門学校毕业证方式, 修改山手調理製菓専門学校山手料理糕点专门学校成绩单电子版gpa让学历更出色, 100%满意-山手調理製菓専門学校毕业证山手料理糕点专门学校学位证, 定做山手料理糕点专门学校毕业证山手調理製菓専門学校毕业证书毕业证, 快速办理山手調理製菓専門学校山手料理糕点专门学校毕业证如何放心, 原版山手調理製菓専門学校毕业证办理流程和价钱, fake-山手調理製菓専門学校-degree

【V信83113305】：Tokyo Pastry School is a renowned institution in Japan dedicated to the art of pastry and confectionery. Located in the heart of Tokyo, it offers world-class training for aspiring bakers and pastry chefs. The school combines traditional Japanese techniques with French and European methods, creating a unique learning experience. Students master skills like chocolate tempering, cake decorating, and bread baking under the guidance of expert instructors. With state-of-the-art facilities and hands-on classes, the curriculum covers everything from basic fundamentals to advanced creations. Many graduates go on to work in top patisseries, hotels, or open their own bakeries. The school also emphasizes creativity and precision, reflecting Japan’s meticulous culinary culture. Whether for professionals or hobbyists, Tokyo Pastry School is a dream destination for anyone passionate about sweets.，办理東京製菓学校大学毕业证东京糕点制作学校, 挂科办理东京糕点制作学校学历学位证, 办理日本東京製菓学校东京糕点制作学校毕业证東京製菓学校文凭版本, 東京製菓学校文凭制作服务您学历的展现, 东京糕点制作学校留学本科毕业证, 東京製菓学校东京糕点制作学校学位证书快速办理, 一比一办理-東京製菓学校毕业证东京糕点制作学校毕业证, 100%安全办理东京糕点制作学校毕业证, 快速办理東京製菓学校毕业证如何放心

【V信83113305】：Founded in 1917, Tsuji Culinary Institute in Japan is one of the most prestigious culinary schools globally, renowned for its rigorous training in both Japanese and Western cuisine. Located in Osaka, the institute offers specialized programs in pastry and baking, attracting aspiring chefs from around the world. With a curriculum blending tradition and innovation, students master techniques ranging from classic French patisserie to modern dessert artistry. The school’s state-of-the-art facilities and experienced instructors ensure hands-on learning, while its strong industry connections provide valuable internship opportunities. Graduates often excel in top restaurants and bakeries, upholding Tsuji’s legacy of excellence. For those passionate about pastry arts, Tsuji Culinary Institute remains a gateway to culinary mastery and global success.，出售证书-哪里能购买毕业证, 如何办理辻学园烹饪糕点专门学校学历学位证, 辻学园烹饪糕点专门学校毕业证购买, 网上制作辻学园烹饪糕点专门学校毕业证-辻学園調理・製菓専門学校毕业证书-留信学历认证, fake 辻学園調理・製菓専門学校 degree, 日本文凭办理, 办理日本辻学園調理・製菓専門学校本科学历

【V信83113305】：Japan's Anabuki College of Confectionery and Welfare is a specialized institution dedicated to nurturing skilled professionals in pastry arts and social welfare. Located in Takamatsu, Kagawa Prefecture, the school offers hands-on training in confectionery, baking, and welfare care, blending creativity with practical expertise. Its pastry program emphasizes traditional and modern techniques, while the welfare course focuses on compassionate care for the elderly and disabled. With small class sizes and industry-experienced instructors, students gain real-world readiness. The college also fosters international exchange, welcoming learners worldwide. Graduates often excel in patisseries, bakeries, or welfare institutions, contributing to Japan's service industries. Anabuki’s dual focus on craftsmanship and empathy makes it a unique educational hub for those passionate about sweets and social care.，日本留学本科毕业证, Offer(専門学校穴吹パティシエ福祉カレッジ成绩单)穴吹西点福祉学院专门学校如何办理?, 専門学校穴吹パティシエ福祉カレッジdiploma専門学校穴吹パティシエ福祉カレッジ穴吹西点福祉学院专门学校挂科处理解决方案, 一流穴吹西点福祉学院专门学校学历精仿高质, 専門学校穴吹パティシエ福祉カレッジ毕业证定制, 挂科办理穴吹西点福祉学院专门学校毕业证文凭, 専門学校穴吹パティシエ福祉カレッジ穴吹西点福祉学院专门学校电子版毕业证与日本専門学校穴吹パティシエ福祉カレッジ学位证书纸质版价格, 挂科办理専門学校穴吹パティシエ福祉カレッジ穴吹西点福祉学院专门学校毕业证本科学位证书, 専門学校穴吹パティシエ福祉カレッジ毕业证学历认证

【V信83113305】：Japan's Tsuji Culinary Institute is renowned for its prestigious pastry and baking programs, attracting aspiring chefs worldwide. Located in Osaka, the school offers rigorous training in traditional French and Japanese confectionery techniques, blending precision with creativity. Students master everything from delicate wagashi (Japanese sweets) to intricate European pastries under expert guidance. The curriculum emphasizes hands-on practice, using high-quality ingredients and professional equipment. Graduates often excel in top patisseries, hotels, or even launch their own bakeries. With a legacy of excellence since 1960, Tsuji’s global reputation stems from its commitment to craftsmanship and innovation. For those passionate about pastry arts, this institution represents a golden ticket to culinary mastery and cultural immersion in Japan’s vibrant food scene.，原版定制辻糕点制作专门学校毕业证-辻製菓専門学校毕业证书-一比一制作, 如何获取辻糕点制作专门学校-辻製菓専門学校-毕业证本科学位证书, 辻製菓専門学校毕业证成绩单专业服务学历认证, 如何获取辻糕点制作专门学校--毕业证本科学位证书, 辻糕点制作专门学校成绩单复刻, 原版复刻日本辻糕点制作专门学校毕业证办理成绩单修改, 辻糕点制作专门学校毕业证认证

【V信83113305】：Tokyo Pastry School is a renowned institution in Japan dedicated to the art of pastry making. Located in the heart of Tokyo, it offers world-class training for aspiring bakers and pastry chefs. The school combines traditional Japanese techniques with modern French pastry methods, creating a unique learning experience. Students can enroll in courses ranging from basic baking skills to advanced dessert design, all taught by expert instructors. The curriculum emphasizes hands-on practice, allowing students to master everything from delicate macarons to intricate wedding cakes. With state-of-the-art facilities and high-quality ingredients, the school ensures a professional environment. Graduates often find opportunities in top patisseries, hotels, or even start their own businesses. Tokyo Pastry School is the perfect place for anyone passionate about turning sugar, flour, and creativity into edible masterpieces.，挂科办理东京糕点制作学校毕业证文凭, 定做东京糕点制作学校毕业证-東京製菓学校毕业证书-毕业证, 日本留学成绩单毕业证, 办理東京製菓学校东京糕点制作学校毕业证文凭, 东京糕点制作学校-多少钱, 学历证书!Tokyo Confectionery School学历证书东京糕点制作学校学历证书Tokyo Confectionery School假文凭, 办理真实Tokyo Confectionery School毕业证成绩单留信网认证, 出售東京製菓学校东京糕点制作学校研究生学历文凭

See the pyramids of dishes arrive; the steaming succession of red-hot chops, with their brown, frizzling, caudal appendages sobbing hot tears of passionate fat. See the serene kidneys unsubdued, though grilled, smiling though cooked, weltering proudly in their noble gravy, like warriors who have fallen upon the field of honour. See the hot yellow lava of the Welsh rabbit stream over and engulf the timid toast. Sniff the fragrant vapour of the corpulent sausage. Mark how the russet leathern baked potato at first defies the knife, then gratefully cedes, and through a lengthened gash yields its farinaceous effervescence of butter and catsup.