Compliment For Good Food Quotes

Imagine you’re walking down the street eating a sandwich and someone says, Damn, that looks like a delicious sandwich, can I have a bite? You’d think, why would I ever let you eat this sandwich? This is my sandwich. So you’d walk on and continue eating, and they’d say, What? You’re not going to say anything? No need to get mad, I was just trying to compliment your sandwich. Let’s say this happened three times a day, strangers stopping you on the street, letting you know how good your food looks, asking if they can have some of it. What if people started yelling out of their cars about how much they wanted your sandwich. Let me have some! they’d exclaim, driving by with a honk. Were you supposed to say, I’m sorry, no thank you, every time? Would you feel obligated to explain over and over again that you don’t wish to share because it’s your lunch and you don’t know them? That you don’t owe them any of it? That it’s a little unreasonable that they’re asking in the first place? All you would want is to walk down the street eating your sandwich in peace. Maybe I am making this worse by comparing a woman’s body to a sandwich, but do you see what I mean?

Ildiko shuddered.  Her hope to never again see or eat the Kai’s most beloved and revolting delicacy had been in vain.  When Brishen informed her that the dish was one of Serovek’s favorites, she resigned herself to another culinary battle with her food and put the scarpatine on the menu.  She ordered roasted potatoes as well, much to the head cook’s disgust. When servants brought out the food and set it on the table, Brishen leaned close and whispered in her ear.  “Revenge, wife?” “Hardly,” she replied, keeping a wary eye on the pie closest to her.  The golden top crust, with its sprinkle of sparkling salt, pitched in a lazy undulation.  “But I’m starving, and I have no intention of filling up on that abomination.” Their guest of honor didn’t share their dislike of either food.  As deft as any Kai, Serovek made short work of the scarpatine and its whipping tail, cleaved open the shell with his knife and took a generous bite of the steaming gray meat. Ildiko’s stomach heaved.  She forgot her nausea when Serovek complimented her.  “An excellent choice to pair the scarpatine with the potato, Your Highness.  They are better together than apart.” Beside her, Brishen choked into his goblet.  He wiped his mouth with his sanap.  “What a waste of good scarpatine,” he muttered under his breath. What a waste of a nice potato, she thought.  However, the more she thought on Serovek’s remark, the more her amusement grew. “And what has you smiling so brightly?”  Brishen stared at her, his lambent eyes glowing nearly white in the hall’s torchlight. She glanced at Serovek, happily cleaning his plate and shooting the occasional glance at Anhuset nearby.  Brishen’s cousin refused to meet his gaze, but Ildiko had caught the woman watching the Beladine lord more than a few times during dinner. “That’s us, you know,” she said. “What is us?” “The scarpatine and the potato.  Better together than alone.  At least I think so.” One of Brishen’s eyebrows slid upward.  “I thought we were hag and dead eel.  I think I like those comparisons more.”  He shoved his barely-touched potato to the edge of his plate with his knife tip, upper lip curled in revulsion to reveal a gleaming white fang. Ildiko laughed and stabbed a piece of the potato off his plate.  She popped it into her mouth and chewed with gusto, eager to blunt the taste of scarpatine still lingering on her tongue.

That girl didn’t have a moment’s peace from the day Adriano Dardano set foot in Galway and started chasing her.” Sister Brannigan said, as she led them around the convent garden. “Nice of Francesca to stay still for him to catch her then wasn’t it?” Alessandro remarked dryly. “Mmph,” the nun responded. “My grandfather loved Francesca,” Alessandro insisted. “Far be it from me to speak ill of the dead. But let’s call a spade a spade, hmm? Your grandfather was a charmer. Now perhaps he didn’t realize just how naïve our Francesca was and how besotted with him she was.” “Mmm, very generous of you,” Alessandro grumbled. “I will say that on the times he brought some food he had made with Francesca up to the convent, it was clear he had a wonderful talent in the kitchen. Now mind ye, the Italian food was a bit rich for my taste but still, rather good.” “I’m sure my grandfather’s resting easier in his grave now that the holy sister has complimented his cooking,” Alessandro whispered in Bree’s ear making, her laugh out loud and Sister Brannigan turn to her in question.

YOU ARE THE BOSS. Hosting is not democratic, just like design isn’t. Structure helps good parties, like restrictions help good design. Introduce people to each other A LOT. But take your time with it. Be generous. Very generous with food, wine, and with compliments/introductions. If you have a reception before people sit, make sure there are some snacks so blood sugar level is kept high and people are happy. ALWAYS do placement. Always. Placement MUST be boy/girl/boy/girl, etc. And no, it does not matter if someone is gay. Seat people next to people who do different things but that those things might be complementary. Or make sure they have something else in common; a passion or something rare is best. And tell people what they have in common. Within each table, people should introduce themselves, but it must be short. Name, plus something they like or what they did on the weekend or maybe something that can relate to the gathering. For dessert, people can switch, but best to have it organized: tell every other person at the table to move to another seat.

macaroni and cheese. “Girl, this is good!” The compliment surprises me, and I think it surprises Raynell as well. “It’s my grandmother’s recipe. Cheddar cheese, heavy cream, and butter. How can you go wrong? And adding cream cheese makes it extra smooth.” “What’s this crispy stuff on top?” “Bacon and panko bread crumbs. Grandmommy used cracker crumbs, but I think the panko crumbs give it more of a crunch. That’s the only change I’ve made to the recipe. Back in the day, I helped my grandmother make it every weekend for Sunday dinner.

Dinner? Oooh. I do so love a man who likes to eat.” She winked. He fought a blush. Him. A blush. What the hell? “Shouldn’t you return to your friends?” Before he did something crazy like invite her back to his place for dessert. “They can wait while I have dinner with my Pookie. I mean, I wouldn’t want to be rude on our first date.” “This is not a date.” “And yet, there’s you, me, and food!” She clapped as she exclaimed the last word, probably because the server arrived bearing a massive platter laden with a ridiculously large steak and all the fixings. Before he’d finished saying thank you to Claude for being so prompt with his meal, she’d sawed off a piece of his porterhouse and popped it in her mouth. As she chewed, eyes closed, she made happy noises. Noises that should not be allowed in public. Noise she should make only while he touched her. Noises that made him snap, “Do you mind? This is my supper.” “Sorry, Pookie. That was so rude of me. Here, have a bite.” The next piece of steak she cut she offered on the tines of her fork, a fork that had touched her lips. Refuse. We don’t share. We— He devoured it, the bite an absolute delight. Juicy, a slight hint of salt and garlic, butter-soft to chew. His turn to sigh. “Damn, that’s good.” “Make that noise again,” she growled. He glanced at her and noticed she stared at his mouth, avidly. Hungrily… It was both flattering and disturbing. He needed to stop this. Right now. “If you don’t mind, I would prefer to eat alone.” “Alone?” “Yes, alone. While I am complimented by your interest in me, I’m afraid you’re mistaken about everything else. We are not on a date. We are not mates. We are nothing. Zilch. Nada.” No point in sugarcoating it. Best to lay it all out now before she got any further with this crazy idea they belonged together. But we do belong to her. Leo ignored his inner feline as he waited for her outburst. Women never took rejection well. Either they resorted to tears and wailing, or they resorted to screaming and ranting. But honesty was best. However, Meena didn’t react as expected. Her lips stretched into a full grin, her eyes sparkled, and she leaned forward— pressing her breasts together, causing her neckline to droop and give him a peek at the shadowy valley they created. “Resistance is futile. But cute. Think of me later when you’re masturbating, I know I’ll be thinking of you.” With a last stolen bite of his dinner, she popped up from her seat and sashayed to the bar. Don’t look. Don’t look. Pfft. He was a cat. Of course he looked, and admired the hypnotic swish of her ass.

The music had started, the couples had begun a promenade, but Mr. Nobley paused to hold Jane’s arm and whisper, “Jane Erstwhile, if I never had to speak with another human being but you, I would die a happy man. I would that these people, the music, the food and foolishness all disappeared and left us alone. I would never tire of looking at you or listening to you.” He took a breath. “There. That compliment was on purpose. I swear I will never idly compliment you again.” Jane’s mouth was dry. All she could think to say was, “But…but surely you wouldn’t banish all the food.” He considered, then nodded once. “Right. We will keep the food. We will have a picnic.” And he spun her into the middle of the dance. While the music played, they didn’t speak again. All his attention was on her, leading her through the motions, watching her with admiration. He danced with her as though they were evenly matched, no indication that she was the lone rider of the Precedence Caboose. She had never before felt so keenly that Mr. Nobley and Miss Erstwhile were a couple. But I’m not really Miss Erstwhile, thought Jane. Her heart was pinching her. She needed to get away, she was dizzy, she was hot, his eyes were arresting, he was too much to take in. What am I supposed to do, Aunt Caroline? she asked the ceiling. Everything’s headed for Worse Than Before. How do I get out of this alive? She spun and saw Martin, and kept her eyes on him as though he were the lone landmark in a complicated maze. Mr. Nobley noticed her attention skidding. His eyes were dark when he saw Martin. His recent smile turned down, his look became more intense. As soon as the second number ended, Jane curtsied, thanked her partner, and began to depart, anxious for a breath of cold November air. “A moment, Miss Erstwhile,” Mr. Nobley said. “I have already taken your hand for the last half hour, but now I would beg your ear. Might we…” “Mr. Nobley!” A woman with curls shaking around her face flurried his way. Had Mr. Nobley been making visits to other estates while he was supposed to be hunting? Or was this a repeat client who might’ve known the man from a past cast? “I’m so happy to find you! I insist on dancing every dance.” “Just now is not…” Jane took advantage of the interruption to slip away, searching above the tops of heads for Martin. He’d been just over there…a hand grabbed her arm. She turned right into Mr. Nobley, their faces close, and she was startled by the wildness in him now, a touch of Heathcliff in his eyes. “Miss Erstwhile, I beg you.” “Oh, Mr. Nobley!” said another lady behind him. He glanced back with a harried look and gripped Jane’s arm tighter. He walked her out of the ballroom and into the darkened library, only then releasing her arm, though he had the good grace to look embarrassed. “I apologize,” he said. “I guess you would.” He was blocking the escape, so she gave in and took a chair. He began to pace, rubbing his chin and occasionally daring to look at her. The candlelight form the hallway made of him a silhouette, the starlight from the window just touching his eyes, his mouth. It was as dark as a bedroom. “You see how agitated I am,” he said. She waited, and her heart set to thumping without her permission. He wildly combed his hair with his fingers. “I can’t bear to be out there with you right now, all those indifferent people watching you, admiring you, but not really caring. Not as I do.” Jane: (hopeful) Really? Jane: (practical) Oh, stop that. Mr. Nobley sat in the chair beside her and gripped its arm. Jane: (observant) This man is all about arm gripping.

The Connecticut River March 2, 1704 Temperature 10 degrees “My theory,” said Eben, “is that being a captive is an honor for the strong and the uncomplaining.” Sarah and Mercy considered this. “Then why is Ruth alive? She complains all day long,” said Sarah. “But she isn’t sobbing,” Mercy pointed out, “and she isn’t actually complaining. She’s calling them names. She attacked her own Indian this afternoon, did you see? She was going to stab him with his own knife.” They giggled. It was scary to watch Ruth, and impossible not to. Instead of a blow to the head, though, Ruth was usually given food. It wasn’t a method anybody else wanted to try. “But Eliza doesn’t fit your theory, Eben,” said Mercy. “She hasn’t spoken since they killed Andrew. If you let go her arm, she stops walking. Yet they’re patient with her.” “I admit Eliza isn’t brave,” said Eben. “She’s in a stupor. Maybe they respect her for caring about her husband so deeply.” Mercy had never liked thinking about Eliza marrying an Indian. But what was her own future now? Would she, would Sarah, would Ruth, end up marrying an Indian? The image of Ruth Catlin agreeing to obey an Indian as her lawfully wedded husband made Mercy laugh. “And they let Sally Burt live,” Sarah went on, “and she’s about to give birth right on the trail. They’re letting her husband walk with her, and he’s the only one they let do that.” Sally’s courage was inspiring. Eight months pregnant, big as a horse, and she bounded along like a twelve-year-old boy. She had even taken part in the snowball fight. “I’m having this baby,” she had said when Mercy complimented her. “It’s my first baby, I know it’s going to be a boy, I know he’ll be strong and healthy, and I know I will be a good mother. That’s that.” In Mercy’s opinion, Sally Burt was holding her husband up and not the other way around. If she could be half as brave as Sally Burt, she would be satisfied.

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So, what exactly did Ignita tell you about me?” he hissed, sounding decidedly peevish, even to his own ears. “All good?” “Besides that you are her favourite great-nephew by any measure under the suns –” wielding the foot-wide ladle with aplomb, she poured one last bucketful of dragonwort soup, a noted restorative, down his throat with a pleasant gurgle “– she said that you are honourable, faithful, creative, artistic, misunderstood, a Dragon whose heart lives in his poetry, which you have sadly neglected to admit to me; you are finicky to a fault, severely short-sighted and lacking in firepower.” Gnarr-rum-blasted-death! he swore unhappily. “Nice list. Thanks for sharing.” Blithely, the mite added, “Ignita is also furious that you did not come to her earlier with your eye problems.” Blitz said something even ruder. “She even claimed that I’m more stubborn than you, which I believe was meant to be a compliment. Now, hold still. The eye drops are next.” “She specifically said, ‘Lacking in fire power?’ ” He sighed moodily, unable to break the sense of being utterly defeated. This was not a happy place for a Dragon. His wings drooped as if they weighed a tonne each, and his food stomach churned with nausea. “She didn’t use words such as disabled, worthless, fireless lizard, witless fool, cold-hearted undraconic worm, a Dragon who is no Dragon at all, or –” “Blitz, stop.” “So, why don’t you just run back to Daddy, little Princess? Go on. Go home. Why be dragged down in the maelstrom of a worthless loser?” “Blitz! Shut your stupid fangs.” “Whinging being so charismatic in a Dragon …” Grinding her teeth furiously, the girl who was climbing his neck leaned over to his left upper ear canal and hissed, “Do you know what I would go back to, you thumping great moron? Let me give you the salient highlights. Since I was old enough to walk and my mother passed, it has been impressed upon me that my sole purpose in life is to get married to the richest fool I can charm into my bed, no matter how despicable he might be. I will not inherit. That privilege is for my brothers. Instead, I am merely an entry on my kingdom’s asset register – a very fat entry. I am commanded to be charming, accomplished and perfectly presented at all times. I go to balls to catch wealthy Princes. Can you imagine what it is like to be valued for your dark, beautiful skin, and nothing else? To only ever be seen skin-deep – I mean … you know?” Blitz groaned softly. “So aye, I don’t really want to go home, in case that was somehow unclear. I would rather live with an enormously unreasonable, complaining, crabby, haughty chunk of a Dragon, because among your many admirable qualities and your damnably beautiful honour, you have one gift I value above all others. Do you have any idea what I’m talking about?” He croaked, “Of course, aye … sort of … not a whole lot. Sorry.” Nonsensical, but true. Warm moisture dripped into his ear. Crying! Oh, by his wings, what had he done now? The Princess whispered, “You see me, and accept me, just as I am.

Good music is being released less and less. People need it less often. I’m not talking about the melody, the beat, but the lyrics. From my perspective, every song is a story performed by the artist. When was the last time you listened attentively to modern songs’ lyrics? People used to say that music is spiritual nourishment, it is like food for the soul, but if you look at our reality, you’ll see that people started focusing only on physical needs. Modern songs prioritize body over soul. It is because eighty percent of successful and influential labels release tracks that put parties, drugs, and sex as the main priorities of modern life. Seems like all the songs about love have already been sung and the greatest compliments that can be addressed to people are related to their physical characteristics. It feels like singers and songwriters are referring to some piece of meat, instead of a living person. The problem is that good, soulful songs are not to the taste of today's audience. Therefore, many genuinely talented artists are underrated and ignored because they are not following the rules that are dictated by commercial corporations, labels. I don’t know, maybe I’m too conservative.

Her smile was involuntary. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘What did you pack?’ ‘Surprises,’ he answered, and this time she noticed the way his smile always began at his mouth and then crept up into his eyes. ‘Good. I just hope one of them is mortadella.’ ‘Mortadella?’ he asked. ‘How did you know? I love it, but I never think anyone else does, so I never bring any. It’s such peasant food: I can’t imagine anyone like you eating it.’ ‘Oh, but I do,’ she said with real enthusiasm, ignoring his compliment, at least for the moment. ‘It’s true, isn’t it? no one feels comfortable eating it any more. They want, oh, I don’t know, caviare or lobster tails, or …’ ‘When what they’re really lusting for,’ he broke in, ‘is a panino with mortadella and so much mayonnaise it drips out of the sandwich and down their face.

I am happy when I eat fresh fruit, when I burst out laughing, when I discover a new song, when I finish a good book, when I wake up and feel relaxed. I’m glad to have friends, family, a home, food when I’m hungry, hot water when I shower. I love being able to live and see the seasons change, to have gifts at Christmas and at my birthday, to travel sometimes, to have a good education and a great access to culture. I’m flattered when people compliment me, when people smile at me, when people are polite to me. There are so many things that make life so simple and easy and I will always think about them more than all the bad things that will happen to me. I do not have time to be sad every day and ungrateful; I have every reason in the world to be happy.

Once I get over that flushed, heated embarrassment, I realize that things are worse now, not better. Blake is kind of perfect—drawing my mother out into the most animated version of herself, bringing my father into the conversation, even getting Mabel to talk about music and how she wishes she had her own saxophone. This, I remind myself, is media training in action. I have to stop lying to myself. It’s more than media training. Blake’s always been easygoing. Hell, I’ve seen his comments on scripts going back a full decade now. He was like this at eleven: complimentary, interested, kind without being weak. He’s probably been serving as his father’s foil his entire life. His father growls about manufacturing and secrecy; Blake learns Mandarin and compliments the factory owner on the side. His father says that an idea is shit; Blake comes back and points out the good in it. This is what he does: he smoothes things over. He’s so good that Mom doesn’t even notice that he’s eating only a fraction of the food on his plate. I wonder if it’s always like this for him, if he’s always fixing things while nobody notices him.

Mate, I’ve only been here for a few weeks, but I don’t think anyone even knows my name. I’ve already slipped three spots down the batting order. I’ve got no idea what the lyrics to the club song are. And every time I get a hit at training, I hear the faint sound of blokes whispering that one word under their breath: “Yuck.” What am I doing wrong?’ I began, nervously. Nuggsy paused, took a long swig of his Reschs schooner, and reclined languidly into his seat. He scratched his bald head for a moment, seemingly in deep thought, before embarking on the long-winded response that would indeed shape my cricketing future. ‘Listen, bud. You’re a grade cricketer now. And it’s time you learned a little bit about what that means. This isn’t club cricket, “Shires” cricket, or that stupid school shit that you wasted your time on for all those years. This is grade cricket: the highest level of amateur cricket in the world,’ he said with pride. Just for those who don’t already know, I should quickly provide a bit of background on the grade cricket competition. Grade cricket (or ‘Premier cricket’, as it is known in some states/territories) is the level directly below the state competition.  Despite this close proximity to the professional arena, it is nonetheless an amateur competition. Sure, one or two first graders might get paid a little bit under the table, but everyone else must pay a registration fee in order to play. Normally, each club has four to five grades — first grade being the strongest; fifth grade the weakest. Those in first grade enjoy a status that the fifth graders can only dream about. Being a first grader is like being a celebrity to 50 blokes whose names you’ll never know — or never even need to know — unless you end up playing with them after a severe run of poor form (or a serious disciplinary breach). The rest of the club — seconds, thirds, and fourth grade — is basically an assortment of talented youngsters and ageing desperates. The common denominator between the young and old brigade is that they were all once told they were ‘good enough to play for Australia’. In many cases, it was the first and last compliment they ever received — and the reason why they’re still playing. In all cases, it was the worst thing that could have ever happened to them. The ultimate grade cricketer, therefore, will possess the perfect balance of good and not good enough that will haunt them for all of their playing days. All this of course, is something that can only be learned with experience. At this early stage in my grade cricket career, I considered these young players to be ‘cool’ and the older players worthy of my respect. Nuggsy tilted his head to one side as he lit up a cigarette. He took a deep drag, holding it in for what seemed like hours, before launching his head back to expel a thick plume of smoke towards the ceiling. ‘Listen, great man,’ he began. ‘Success in grade cricket has nothing to do with skill, ability, or even results. It’s all about the social ladder, bud. You’ve got the big dogs up top, the peasants down the bottom, and everyone in between is just trying to stay relevant,’ he offered. In many ways, grade cricket social hierarchy bears great similarity to the feudal systems that first appeared in the Middle Ages in Europe — something I’d learned a bit about at high school. As I remembered, kings and monarchs sat at the top, enjoying their pick of the land, women and food. They were the ones who established the rules that everyone had to live under. The barons leased their land from the king; the knights leased their land from the barons; and the knights granted the lowly peasants their land.  The peasants were not allowed to marry, nor could they even leave the manor without permission. Basically, they were the fifth graders of the 8-12th Century.