Curry Funny Quotes

All I could determine was that it must have been a nice thing to see if it was a house you were thinking about moving into. But not so nice if it was the house you were moving out from. I could practically hear Mr Collins, who had taught my fifth-grade English class and was still the most intimidating teacher I'd ever had, yelling at me. "Amy Curry," I could still hear him intoning, "never end a sentence with a preposition!" Irked that after six hears he was still mentally correcting me, I told the Mr. Collins in my head to off fuck.

Amy Curry," I could still hear him intoning, "never end a sentence with a preposition!" Irked that after six years he was still mentally correcting me, I told the Mr. Collins in my head to off fuck.

Dry bread at home is better then curried prawns abroad.

Why are breakfast food breakfast foods?" I asked them. "Like, why don't we have curry for breakfast?" "Hazel, eat." "But why?" I asked. "I mean seriously: How did scrambled eggs get stuck with breakfast exclusivity? You can put bacon on a sandwich without anyone freaking out. But the moment your sandwich has an egg, boom, it's a breakfast sandwich." Dad answered with his mouth full. "When you come back, we'll have breakfast for dinner deal?" "I don't want to have breakfast for dinner." I answered, crossing knife and fork over my mostly full plate, "I want to have scrambled eggs for dinner without this ridiculous construction that a scrambled egg inclusive meal is breakfast even when it occurs at dinner time." “You gotta pick your battles in this world Hazel.” My mom said, “But if this is the issue you want to champion, we will stand behind you.” “Quite a bit behind you.” My dad added, and mom laughed. Anyway, I knew it was stupid but I felt kind of bad for scrambled eggs.

Someone said to me," Make a book title digestible." I’ll start: Curry Potter and the Sorcerer's Sauce.

I thought the Vedas were a load of humbug and it didn’t matter which way you recited them. Some jobless Brahmin like my father, created them thousands of years ago. Instead of making themselves useful, the Brahmins prayed to the Gods they themselves invented for the rain, the sun, horses, cows and money and many other things. It must have been very cold, from whichever cursed places they came. Otherwise, why would they croak like frogs and appeal to the Gods after putting hundreds of assorted twigs into the fire? Perhaps I was prejudiced. I shouldn’t think that the work they were doing, as Yajnas, was useless. In fact, it served as a perfect tool to mint money and gain material favours. They were no fools-these Brahmins. They knew how to project even the mundane tasks of burning twigs as earth-shaking, scientific discoveries and claimed to tame the forces that controlled the world. And it was funny that the majority of people like the carpenters, masons and farmers who were doing something meaningful, had become supplicant to these jokers croaking under the warm sun, sweat pouring from their faces in front of a raging fire and chanting God knows what. They had a Yajna or a Puja for everything under the sun. If you had leprosy or a common cold, there was a God to whom you had to offer a special puja to appease him. You wanted your pestering wife to elope with your bothersome neighbour, there was a puja for that too. You wanted your cow to have a calf or your wife to have son, the Brahmin would help you. He would just conduct a Puja and a divine calf or son would be born. You curried favour with the Brahmins and your son would become the biggest pundit in the world by the age of sixteen. If not, he would perhaps become rowdy like me, who did not respect Brahmins or rituals. He would become a Rakshasa. I think there are many more Rakshasas among us now. Perhaps, it was because the ‘why?’ virus spread. Couldn’t the Brahmins conduct a puja so that our heads were cleared of sinful thoughts? This is something I have to ponder over when I have time.

Traditions, Commander Roberts mused silently, were funny things. They started when you least expected them and endured through everything the universe could throw at them.

Yeah, but Archangels are slightly more humble than most fighter pilots.” Most of the men around the table seemed to think that was quite funny. The Archangels were willing to settle for being God’s right hand rather than the Big Guy himself.

Her parents had always been blind to the things that plagued their children: being teased at school for the color of their skin or for the funny things their mother occasionally put into their lunch boxes, potato curry sandwiches that tinted Wonderbread green. What could there possibly be to be unhappy about? her parents would have thought. "Depression" was a foreign word to them, an American thing. In their opinion their children were immune from the hardships and injustices they had left behind in India, as if the inoculations the pediatrician had given Sudha and Rahul when they were babies guaranteed them an existence free of suffering.

I laugh. None of this is funny, but seeing my parents trying to be brave even when they’re scared is hilarious. It’s just one more thing about being an adult I’m not looking forward to. If I have kids someday and they tell me there’s a monster under their bed or in their closet, we’ll probably just have to move.

They had a good time eating the Every-Flavour Beans. Harry got toast, coconut, baked bean, strawberry, curry, grass, coffee, sardine and was even brave enough to nibble the end off a funny grey one Ron wouldn’t touch, which turned out to be pepper.

London returns in damp, fragmented flurries when I should be doing something else. A scrap of song, a pink scarf, and I’m back to curries and pub food, long, wet walks without a map, bouts of bronchitis, a case of the flu, my halfhearted studies, and brooding thoughts and scanning faces in every bar for you. Those months come down to moments or small plots, like the bum on the Tube, enraged that no one spoke, who raved and spat, the whole car thick with dread, only to ask, won’t someone tell a joke? and this mouse of a woman offered, What’s big and red and sits in the corner? A naughty bus. Not funny, I know. But neither’s the story of us.

They Just Don’t Do That Anymore He used to wake me, oh so often. He’d had a bad dream, or a cough, or something felt funny inside. I would grumble, or be patient, depending on the night and how tired I was. Back to his room and tuck him in. Rinse and repeat, through many moons. But he doesn’t do that anymore. He used to be our pickiest eater. Though we’d always fed all three the same, he turned up his nose more frequently. I would grumble about this, or be patient, depending on the day and all that had happened up until that point. Trying not to make it worse, we encouraged him to taste new flavors. We also honored his preferences and didn’t force it. Now he gobbles down chili, curry, many of his former not-favorites. He doesn’t do that anymore. They used to argue every day: shout, bite, whine, hit. Clamoring for position and power, each in his or her own way. I would grumble about this, or be patient, depending on the state of my heart and energy level. These days plenty of disagreements occur, but so do apologies, ones I don’t always have to oversee or manage. They don’t do that anymore. The tantrums, oh dear Lord, the tantrums. “Don’t give in and they’ll soon learn that tantrums don’t work.” Ha. I never gave in, but that didn’t stop these daily events that pushed me to my limit and beyond. For years. I would grumble about this, or be patient, depending on how many times we’d been down this road in the past twenty-four hours. At times I found myself sitting through the screaming, my own tears of helplessness running like rivers. Too drained to even wipe them away. Convinced I must be doing everything wrong. But they don’t do that anymore. Some mamas are reading this after multiple times up in the night. Or you’ve stumbled across these words soon after yet another shouting match. Or maybe the dinner you poured weary energy into met with a resounding lack of applause. I don’t want to minimize the stage you’re in. Don’t want to tell you, “Enjoy these days, they go by so fast.” I’m not here to patronize you. Instead let me pour a little encouragement your way: Go ahead and grumble, or be patient. You don’t have to handle all the issues perfectly. Go ahead and cry, and wonder if it’s even worth it. Go ahead and pray, for strength to make it through the next five minutes. Because one day, often when you least expect it, often when you’ve come to peace with the imperfections and decided to be happy anyway, you’ll wake up, look around in amazement and realize: They just don’t do that anymore.

When they reached the meeting place on the tenth floor, they found her waiting. She sat on the ground, eating some curry and bread. “Where did you get that?” Rlain asked. “Fused,” she said, gesturing. “Funny. They need to eat. Suppose that means they poop, right?” “I suppose,” Rlain said, sounding disapproving. “Ain’t that a kick in the bits?” Lift asked. “You get made immortal; you can live through the centuries. You can fly, or walk through rock, or something like that. But you still gotta piss like everyone else.

When they say every flavor, they mean every flavor- you know, you get all the ordinary ones like chocolate and peppermint and marmalade, but then you can get spinach and liver and tripe. George reckons he had a booger-flavored one once." Ron picked up a green bean, looked at it carefully, and bit into a corner. "Bleaaargh- see? Sprouts?" They had a good time eating the Every Flavor Beans. Harry got toast, coconut, baked bean, strawberry, curry, grass, coffee, sardine, and was even brave enough to nibble the end off a funny gray one Ron wouldn't touch, which turned out to be pepper.