Bologna Sandwich Quotes

The sandwich he made was bologna and cheese, his favorite. All the sandwiches he made were his favorites; that was one of the advantages of being single.

The dog approached again, cautiously. I found the bologna sandwich, ripped off a chunk, wiped the cheap watery mustard off, then placed it on the sidewalk. The dog walked up to the bit of sandwich, put his nose to it, sniffed, then turned and walked off. This time he didn't look back. He accelerated down the street. No wonder I had been depressed all my life. I wasn't getting proper nourishment.

I’ll have an Irish banquet waiting for you — a bottle of Guinness and a bologna sandwich.

A lot of us are living like this, right? Taking cabs and ordering takeout Thai on payday, then walking the three blocks to work from the train with a bologna sandwich in our bags a week or so later? How does anyone do anything? Or, better than that, how does anyone do both the shit

My Uncle Jimbo never challenged a man to a duel to defend his honor, but he did win a $20 bet by eating a bologna sandwich while sitting on a dead mule. My grandmother prayed a tornado away, and punched a city woman in the eye.

Cosell and Walden drank a lot of Coke to keep themselves going; Crowther never touched the stuff. He was a notoriously finicky eater (anything beyond the culinary level of a plain bologna sandwich was a risk), making him an impossible dinner guest or dining companion.

Give me a sandwich and think you saved the world? It don't work like that! God sent you to give me two pieces of bread with a slice of cheese and a flimsy circle of bologna and cheap bright yellow mustard and that's suppose to make for ten years living in a cardboard box? God loves me because you gave me a half-assed sandwich? I'm homeless- not crazy!'....' That ain't good enough' the bum said. 'I gotta few things you can tell your god the next time you pray in your warm house with a toilet in it and a whole refridgerator of food that you'd never give to bums like me because it costs too much and it ain't no bum food. I bet you got a dog that eats better than me.

When we would visit, the ritual was the same. My grandfather would put out a spread on the kitchen table: six or eight kinds of lunch meat, including Pennsylvania esoterics like Lebanon bologna and souse; white and rye bread; pickles; two mustards; and mayonnaise. We would all sit around that kitchen table and construct our sandwiches and then eat those sandwiches in silence, because that is how white people show affection.

He pulled her closer and she felt the bulge in his jeans. "I never knew books were so sexy." "You got turned on today by a bologna sandwich, too." She wrapped her arms around his waist. "I don't think it's the books." "You're right. Maybe it's not the books or the bologna." He leaned lower. "Maybe it's not." She rose up on her tiptoes, closer to his tempting mouth. He groaned and closed the small distance between them, backing her up against the shelves as his lips covered hers.

It is not that what is is not enough, for it is; it is that what is had been disarranged and is crying out to be put in place. Perhaps the artist longs to sleep well every night, to eat anything without indigestion, to feel no moral qualms, to turn off the television news and make a bologna sandwich after seeing the devastation and death caused by famine and drought and earthquake and flood. But the artist cannot manage this normalcy. Vision keeps breaking through and must find means of expression.

Can't we all simmer down a bit? Let the teachers teach, the parents parent, and the kids do the learning. Our children will be fine, just as we were. They will figure it out, just as we did. They don't need every advantage skewed their way and every discomfort fluffed with pillows. I bet they don't even need sandwich dolphins. I am a product of bologna, red Kool-Aid, and home perms, and I turned out okay.

Jarryd pushed his stomach out and patted his pregnant-like belly from across the table.  “He speaks the truth.  I can’t run worth a crap.” Greyson nodded knowingly.  “We know.  We’ve seen you.” Jarryd shrugged.  “Some girls like a little Buddha belly.  A little girth, you know.” Chase choked on his sandwich and a piece of bologna flew to his tray.  “Girth?  Ya think ya have girth?  Ya haven’t seen nuthin’.  Everything’s bigger in Texas, includin’ people.

Chapter 1 Death on the Doorstep LIVY HINGE’S AUNT lay dying in the back yard, which Aunt Neala thought was darned inconvenient. “Nebula!” she called, hoping her weakened voice would reach the barn where that lazy cat was no doubt taking a nap. If Neala had the energy to get up and tap her foot she would. If only that wretched elf hadn’t attacked her, she’d have made her delivery by now. Instead she lay dying. She willed her heart to take its time spreading the poison. Her heart, being just as stubborn as its owner, ignored her and raced on. A cat with a swirling orange pattern on its back ran straight to Neala and nuzzled her face. “Nebula!” She was relieved the cat had overcome its tendency to do the exact opposite of whatever was most wanted of it. Reaching into her bag, Neala pulled out a delicate leaf made of silver. She fought to keep one eye cracked open to make sure the cat knew what to do. The cat took the leaf in its teeth and ran back toward the barn. It was important that Neala stay alive long enough for the cat to hide the leaf. The moment Neala gave up the ghost, the cat would vanish from this world and return to her master. Satisfied, Neala turned her aching head toward the farmhouse where her brother’s family was nestled securely inside. Smoke curled carelessly from the old chimney in blissful ignorance of the peril that lay just beyond the yard. The shimmershield Neala had created around the property was the only thing keeping her dear ones safe. A sheet hung limply from a branch of the tree that stood sentinel in the back of the house. It was Halloween and the sheet was meant to be a ghost, but without the wind it only managed to look like old laundry. Neala’s eyes followed the sturdy branch to Livy’s bedroom window. She knew what her failure to deliver the leaf meant. The elves would try again. This time, they would choose someone young enough to be at the peak of their day dreaming powers. A druid of the Hinge bloodline, about Livy’s age. Poor Livy, who had no idea what she was. Well, that would change soon enough. Neala could do nothing about that now. Her willful eyes finally closed. In the wake of her last breath a storm rose up, bringing with it frightful wind and lightning. The sheet tore free from the branch and flew away. The kitchen door banged open. Livy Hinge, who had been told to secure the barn against the storm, found her lifeless aunt at the edge of the yard. ☐☐☐ A year later, Livy still couldn’t think about Aunt Neala without feeling the memories bite at her, as though they only wanted to be left alone. Thankfully, Livy wasn’t concerned about her aunt at the moment. Right now, Rudus Brutemel was going to get what was coming to him. Hugh, Livy’s twin, sat next to her on the bus. His nose was buried in a spelling book. The bus lurched dangerously close to their stop. If they waited any longer, they’d miss their chance. She looked over her shoulder to make sure Rudus was watching. Opening her backpack, she made a show of removing a bologna sandwich with thick slices of soft homemade bread. Hugh studied the book like it was the last thing he might ever see. Livy nudged him. He tore his eyes from his book and delivered his lines as though he were reading them. “Hey, can I have some? I’m starving.” At least he could make his stomach growl on demand.

Is that for us?” Extreme hunger had temporarily impaired my ability to listen. After puking up my coffee before our interview with Cobb, I’d managed to down half of a stale bologna sandwich from a vending machine at the Williamsport Airport. And now that my gut wasn’t twisted into a million knots, I could see how inadequate my energy reserves had become

When I started sixth grade, the other kids made fun of Brian and me because we were so skinny. They called me spider legs, skeleton girl, pipe cleaner, two-by-four, bony butt, stick woman, bean pole, and giraffe, and they said I could stay dry in the rain by standing under a telephone wire. At lunchtime, when other kids unwrapped their sandwiches or bought their hot meals, Brian and I would get out books and read. Brian told everyone he had to keep his weight down because he wanted to join the wrestling team when he got to high school. I told people that I had forgotten to bring my lunch. No one believed me, so I started hiding in the bathroom during lunch hour. I’d stay in one of the stalls with the door locked and my feet propped up so that no one would recognize my shoes. When other girls came in and threw away their lunch bags in the garbage pails, I’d go retrieve them. I couldn’t get over the way kids tossed out all this perfectly good food: apples, hard-boiled eggs, packages of peanut-butter crackers, sliced pickles, half-pint cartons of milk, cheese sandwiches with just one bite taken out because the kid didn’t like the pimentos in the cheese. I’d return to the stall and polish off my tasty finds. There was, at times, more food in the wastebasket than I could eat. The first time I found extra food—a bologna-and-cheese sandwich—I stuffed it into my purse to take home for Brian. Back in the classroom, I started worrying about how I’d explain to Brian where it came from. I was pretty sure he was rooting through the trash, too, but we never talked about it. As I sat there trying to come up with ways to justify it to Brian, I began smelling the bologna. It seemed to fill the whole room. I became terrified that the other kids could smell it, too, and that they’d turn and see my overstuffed purse, and since they all knew I never ate lunch, they’d figure out that I had pinched it from the trash. As soon as class was over, I ran to the bathroom and shoved the sandwich back in the garbage can.

Cooks find it hard to give up the way that meat and animal fat flavor things so intensely, but it’s so easy! An animal has transformed all the plants he ate into something with lots of complexity, and you need to learn a few tricks to get similar complexity with vegan dishes. But your palate will change, if you will only turn down the volume and listen. Living a plant-based life is like traveling light. Your system adjusts to foods that don’t weigh you down and take forever to digest. You may find that maintaining your weight gets easier, as long as you don’t hit vegan desserts too hard. The vegan mainstream has food manufacturers taking notice: Vegan-friendly packaged foods multiply daily. While that makes it easier to eat vegan, don’t become a junk-food vegan. The upside? Options in dairy-free milks, ice creams, and vegan-friendly sweeteners are growing. The downside? You can construct a vegan diet out of pudding cups, fake bologna, and white bread, but you will not be all that healthy doing it. You still have to seek balance and listen to your body. It will tell you how things are going, if you just pay attention. In the years I have spent cooking for vegans, it seems to me that what they craved most was special food—food for celebrations and shared dinners; food that really tastes great. It’s not that difficult to put together a big salad or sandwich on your own. Restaurants will happily strip down dishes and leave off the cheese. You can eat vegan and survive, but it’s the special foods that you crave. After going to the same sandwich shop a few times and having a sandwich with just veggies and no cheese, vegans want recipes for genuinely interesting food. A virtual world exists on the Internet, where vegans swap sources for marshmallow crème and recipes for mock cheese sauces. This book is my best effort for plant-based diners who want food that rocks. Why Vegan?

Hand to his chest, the nice one says, “I’m Eli Hornsby. That’s Silas Taters, the owner of the house and your gracious host. On the couch is Halsey Holmes. I doubt you’ll have any interaction with him at all. He keeps to himself. Over there with the big smile, that’s Levi Posey. He likes bologna sandwiches. And then at the kitchen bar is Pacey Lawes. His first name has nothing to do with the show Dawson’s Creek. Just a coincidence. He likes to let everyone know this.

Those who had light bread and bologna sandwiches tried to eat where everyone could see them. The ham and biscuit crowd ate as far from everyone else as they

Bologna sandwiches on white bread with one slice of American cheese and doused with mustard will stop any thought of additional food for a good six hours, and what is a meal for if not that?

Alain gives my shoulder a squeeze. "Atta girl. Now, let's do it exactly the same way again. Only hotter." Right. Of course. We're talking about a scene that involves my shooting an overweight man in the head while he stands in his kitchen making a bologna sandwich. I can see how that could be 'hotter'.

As assistant director of programs, Anne was struggling with how to get more food out where it was needed. "Donors love pictures of cute little kids having snacks at school," she said. "And they support meal programs for seniors. But nobody's lining up to say, Gee, I want to put food in the cupboard for really poor black mothers who use drugs; I want to buy groceries for everyone living in the projects. Very few donors trust poor people enough to just give away food without conditions." Anne held a dim view of charity kitchens that kept poor people waiting in line two or three times a day just to get a meal ladled out. "They're convenient for staff," she said, "but they take away people's dignity, and they reinforce dependency. They're about control." In addition, she said, institutional meal programs, such as those in school lunchrooms, tended to provide unhealthy food that was fast to make—bologna sandwiches on white bread, instant mashed potatoes, canned fruit cocktail.

When they broke for lunch—eating bologna sandwiches and pork rinds on the tailgate of Red’s truck, parked in the shade of an enormous oak tree—Red shook his head and said, “I’m drawing a blank so far.” “Me, too,” Billy Don said. “Wait a sec,” Red said. “You don’t even know what I’m talking about.” “I guess that’s why I’m drawing a blank,” Billy Don said.

I didn’t say I wanted a bologna sandwich,” she whines. “I said I wanted an abalone sandwich!

Dameon. “You are the greatest!” He ate Joy’s lunch, an old bologna sandwich and a dried-up carrot.

I'm sending you to Los Angeles, California. They haven't had a superhero there since Kareem Abdul-Jabbar retired." "What about Shaquille O'Neal?" Melvin asked. "He's not a superhero. He's just very tall.

Your sandwich was the centerpiece, and there were strict guidelines. It almost goes without saying that store-bought white bread was the only acceptable bread. There were no exceptions. If your mother made the white bread for your sandwich, you could only hope that no one would notice. You certainly did not brag about it, any more than you would brag that she also made headcheese. And there were only a few things that your parents could put in between the two pieces of bread. Bologna was fine, salami and unaggressive cheese were

But here I am, about to eat a bologna sandwich, sharing my snacks, and getting wrapped up into this once-in-a-lifetime situation where I’m trapped in a cabin with a bunch of professional hockey players.

was reaching for another when his cell phone rang. He checked the ID, saw that it was Belinda, and ignored it. He wasn’t ready to start another job for a few days. He wanted to hole up in his tiny trailer, drink a few beers, eat bologna sandwiches, and watch old reruns on television with Sassy beside him. When he got ready to work, he’d call her. This was a holiday, by damn, and he deserved a little time off. He looked around at the tiny travel trailer and imagined Melanie in the kitchen, like she had been that last night they were together. They’d spent every weekend they could get out of the big city camping out at the lake—doing some fishing, having a few beers, and planning their future. He blinked back the tears. He’d lost her, all over a quart of milk. She’d needed it for breakfast the next morning and insisted on driving into town while he fished for their supper. After the auto accident that killed her, he drowned his grief in

Because for all my massive appetite, I cannot cook to save my life. When Grant came to my old house for the first time, he became almost apoplectic at the contents of my fridge and cupboards. I ate like a deranged college frat boy midfinals. My fridge was full of packages of bologna and Budding luncheon meats, plastic-wrapped processed cheese slices, and little tubs of pudding. My cabinets held such bounty as cases of chicken-flavored instant ramen noodles, ten kinds of sugary cereals, Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, and cheap canned tuna. My freezer was well stocked with frozen dinners, heavy on the Stouffer's lasagna and bags of chicken tenders. My garbage can was a wasteland of take-out containers and pizza boxes. In my defense, there was also always really good beer and a couple of bottles of decent wine. My eating habits have done a pretty solid turnaround since we moved in together three years ago. Grant always leaved me something set up for breakfast: a parfait of Greek yogurt and homemade granola with fresh berries, oatmeal that just needs a quick reheat and a drizzle of cinnamon honey butter, baked French toast lingering in a warm oven. He almost always brings me leftovers from the restaurant's family meal for me to take for lunch the next day. I still indulge in greasy takeout when I'm on a job site, as much for the camaraderie with the guys as the food itself; doesn't look good to be noshing on slow-roasted pork shoulder and caramelized root vegetables when everyone else is elbow-deep in a two-pound brick of Ricobene's breaded steak sandwich dripping marinara.

The bulls and the bears, they survive. The pigs they get slaughtered. Ok? Always go for a bologna sandwich. Ok? You know?....If you got five bologna sandwiches, you're eating pretty good.

They ate bologna-and-cheese sandwiches, barbecue potato chips, and Oreo cookies sitting on the library steps. Washing it down with Coca-Cola. Years later, Iris wouldn’t remember what they talked about as they ate, but she’d remember CathyMarie’s laughter, the shape and warmth of her calloused hands.

there would suddenly be a package of bologna to fry up, some thin slices of American cheese, or a jar of mayonnaise and a couple of pieces of bread, even though he had eaten his fill of mayonnaise sandwiches. Some Saturdays, he woke to Spam fried to golden beside scrambled eggs and a chunk of fresh Italian bread from the bakery in Ridgewood where he and his friends snuck to some nights, reaching beneath the half-closed grate to steal warm loaves off the cooling rack. He wondered, as his hand reached into the bakery’s darkness and clasped the bread, why the grate was left half-opened. Was there a science to the cooling? Or was this some small act of kindness from the Italian bakers—a gift to hungry brown children sneaking up to Ridgewood in the middle of the night. He

red meat that has been processed into bacon, bologna, hot dogs, sandwich meats, and other products with added salt is best avoided altogether.