Delight In Every Bite Quotes

I wished upon the moon one night, bewitched by how it shone so white. While staring up with some excite my eyes beheld a wondrous sight!  The moon so lustrous and white transformed into an armored knight who caused me just a moments fright when he jumped down from such a height.  No more a soft, celestial light, he was my lover, day and night.   This caused the world a serious plight.  How harsh a sting and deep the bite inflicted on the world, alright, to lose their blackest-hour light.   And so I've come to set things right, to offer up without a fight my lover wished for one clear night.  I hold him close.  He hugs me tight, then climbs again to heaven's height to glow a bluer shade of bright.  I stare at my beloved knight, not wanting to be impolite, and in my heart with all my might I wish a wish that isn't right.   Now and then the world still spites a shadowless and moonless night when we steal softly out of sight to hold each other 'til daylight and share in lovers true delight.

For four hours, Andrew and I were presented with course after course of delightful creations, imaginative pairings, and, always, dramatic presentations. Little fillets of sturgeon arrived under a glass dome, after which it was lifted, applewood smoke billowed out across the table. Pretzel bread, cheese, and ale, meant to evoke a picnic in Central Park, was delivered in a picnic basket. But my favorite dish was the carrot tartare. The idea came, along with many of the menu's other courses, while researching reflecting upon New York's classic restaurants. From 21 Club to Four Seasons, once upon a time, every establishment offered a signature steak tartare. "What's our tartare?" Will and Daniel wondered. They kept playing with formulas and recipes and coming close to something special, but it never quite had the wow factor they were looking for. One day after Daniel returned from Paffenroth Gardens, a farm in the Hudson Valley with the rich muck soil that yields incredibly flavorful root vegetables, they had a moment. In his perfect Swiss accent, he said, "What if we used carrots?" Will remembers. And so carrot tartare, a sublime ode to the humble vegetable, was added to the Eleven Madison Park tasting course. "I love that moment when you clamp a meat grinder onto the table and people expect it to be meat, and it's not," Will gushes of the theatrical table side presentation. After the vibrant carrots are ground by the server, they're turned over to you along with a palette of ingredients with which to mix and play: pickled mustard seeds, quail egg yolk, pea mustard, smoked bluefish, spicy vinaigrette. It was one of the most enlightening yet simple dishes I've ever had. I didn't know exactly which combination of ingredients I mixed, adding a little of this and a little of that, but every bite I created was fresh, bright, and ringing with flavor. Carrots- who knew?

The tofu pocket is soaked with butter, every bite of it drenching the lips... ... sending rich waves gushing through the mouth. Just one taste is enough to seep both tongue and mind in a thick flood of butter! "The tofu pocket is so juicy it's nearly dripping, yet it hasn't drowned the filling at all. The rice is delectably fluffy and delicate, done in true pilaf style, with the grains separate, tender and not remotely sticky. Simmered in fragrant chicken broth, the prawns give it a delightful crunch, while ample salt and pepper boost both its flavor and aroma!" "The whole dish is strongly flavored, but it isn't the least bit heavy or sticky. The deliciousness of every ingredient, wrapped in a cloak of rich butter, wells up with each bite like a gushing, savory spring! How on earth did you manage to create this powerful a flavor?!" "Well, first I sautéed the rice for the pilaf without washing it- one of the major rules of pilafs! If you wash all the starch off the rice, the grains get crumbly and the whole thing can wind up tasting tacky instead of tender. Then I thoroughly rinsed the tofu pockets with hot water to wash off the extra oil so they'd soak up the seasonings better. But the biggest secret to the whole thing... ... was my specially made Mochi White Sauce! Normal white sauce is made with lots of milk, butter and flour, making it really thick and heavy. But I made mine using only soy milk and mochi, so it's still rich and creamy without the slightest hint of greasiness. In addition, I sprinkled a blend of several cheeses on top of everything when I put it in the oven to toast. They added some nice hints of mellow saltiness to the dish without making it too heavy! Basically, I shoved all the tasty things I could think of into my dish... ... pushing the rich, savory flavor as hard as I could until it was just shy of too much... and this is the result!" Some ingredients meld with the butter's richness into mellow deliciousness... ... while others, sautéed in butter, have become beautifully savory and aromatic. Into each of these little inari sushi pockets has gone an immense amount of work across uncountable steps and stages. Undaunted by Mr. Saito's brilliant dish, gleaming with the fierce goodness of seafood... each individual ingredient is loudly and proudly declaring its own unique deliciousness!

What they do not know is that this plain brown girl will build her nest stick by stick, make it her own inviolable world, and stand guard over its every plant, weed, and doily, even against him. In silence will she return the lamp to where she put it in the first place; remove the dishes from the table as soon as the last bite is taken; wipe the doorknob after a greasy hand has touched it. A sidelong look will be enough to tell him to smoke on the back porch. Children will sense instantly that they cannot come into her yard to retrieve a ball. But the men do not know these things. Nor do they know that she will give him her body sparingly and partially. He must enter her surreptitiously, lifting the hem of her nightgown only to her navel. He must rest his weight on his elbows when they make love, ostensibly to avoid hurting her breasts but actually to keep her from having to touch or feel too much of him. While he moves inside her, she will wonder why they didn’t put the necessary but private parts of the body in some more convenient place—like the armpit, for example, or the palm of the hand. Someplace one could get to easily, and quickly, without undressing. She stiffens when she feels one of her paper curlers coming undone from the activity of love; imprints in her mind which one it is that is coming loose so she can quickly secure it once he is through. She hopes he will not sweat—the damp may get into her hair; and that she will remain dry between her legs—she hates the glucking sound they make when she is moist. When she senses some spasm about to grip him, she will make rapid movements with her hips, press her fingernails into his back, suck in her breath, and pretend she is having an orgasm. She might wonder again, for the six hundredth time, what it would be like to have that feeling while her husband’s penis is inside her. The closest thing to it was the time she was walking down the street and her napkin slipped free of her sanitary belt. It moved gently between her legs as she walked. Gently, ever so gently. And then a slight and distinctly delicious sensation collected in her crotch. As the delight grew, she had to stop in the street, hold her thighs together to contain it. That must be what it is like, she thinks, but it never happens while he is inside her. When he withdraws, she pulls her nightgown down, slips out of the bed and into the bathroom with relief.

The bad guys aren’t supposed to be so damn handsome. They’re supposed to be scarred and ugly. Yet here this one is—scarred up something terrible—yet he is anything but ugly. “I’ve been looking for you, ángel.” I tilt my chin up and bite out my words. “Here I am. And I am not an angel.” This earns me a wide smile which reveals every pearly white tooth in his mouth. The smile makes his light brown eyes twinkle with delight. “I can see I’m going to have fun with you, mi diablita. So much fun.” “Touch me and you die,” I bite out, my voice slightly wobbling. He chuckles. “You Americans are so feisty. It makes Daddy Diego so fucking hard.” I snort and lift an eyebrow at him. “We Americans also make fun of assholes who talk about themselves in third person.

Sweetness, Always" Why such harsh machinery? Why, to write down the happenings and people of every day, must poems be dressed up in gold, in old and grim stone? I prefer verses of felt or feather which scarcely weigh, soft verses with the intimacy of beds where people have loved and dreamed. I prefer poems stained by hands and everydayness. Verses of pastry that melt into milk and sugar in the mouth, air and water to drink, the bites and kisses of love. I long for eatable sonnets, poems of flour and honey. Vanity keeps nudging us to lift ourselves skyward or to make deep and useless tunnels underground. So we forget the joyous love-needs of our bodies. We forget about pastries. We are not feeding the world. In Madras a long time since, I saw a sugary pyramid, a tower of confectionery— one level after another, and in the construction, rubies, and other blushing delights, medieval and yellow. Someone soiled his hands to cook up so much sweetness. Brother poets from here and there, from earth and sky, from Medellín, from Veracruz, Abyssinia, Antofagasta, do you know how to make a honeycomb? Let’s forget about all that stone. Let your poetry fill up the equinoctial pastry shop our mouths long to devour— the mouths of all the children and the poor adults also. Don’t go on without seeing, relishing, understanding so many hearts of sugar. Don’t be afraid of sweetness. With us or without us, sweetness will go on living and is infinitely alive, and forever being revived, for it’s in the mouth, whether singing or eating, that sweetness belongs. Pablo Neruda, Paris Review, Issue 57 Spring 1974

Chhappan Bhog in Delhi Embark on a culinary journey with Chhappan Bhog in Delhi, where every bite is a celebration of diverse flavors and textures. Our menu is a tribute to the art of sweet-making, offering a staggering variety of delicacies that cater to discerning palates. From traditional classics to innovative confections, Chhappan Bhog in Delhi promises a gastronomic adventure that showcases the rich tapestry of Indian sweets. Immerse yourself in the symphony of taste and quality, as we redefine the sweet experience, making every visit a delightful exploration of authentic indulgence.

Large fountain glasses arrived at our table, layered with sweet beans, caramelized saba bananas, jackfruit, palm fruit, nata de coco, and strips of macapuno topped with shaved ice, evaporated milk, a slice of leche flan, a healthy scoop of ube halaya, and a scattering of pinipig, the toasted glutinous rice adding a nice bit of crunch. This frosty rainbow confection raised my spirits every time I saw it, and both Sana and I pulled out our phones to take pictures of the dish. She laughed. "This is almost too pretty to eat, so I wanted to document its loveliness before digging in." "This is for the restaurant's social media pages. My grandmother only prepares this dish in the summer, so I need to remind our customers to come while it lasts." "How do we go about this?" Rob asked, looking at his rapidly melting treat in trepidation. "Up to you. You can mix everything together like the name says so that you get a bit of everything in each bite. Or you can tackle it layer by layer. I'm a mixing girl, but you better figure it out fast or you're going to be eating dessert soup." We all dug in, each snowy bite punishing my teeth making me shiver in delight. I loved the interplay of textures---the firmness of the beans versus the softness of the banana and jackfruit mingling with the chewiness of the palm fruit, nata de coco, and macapuno. The fluffy texture of the shaved ice soaked through with evaporated milk, with the silky smoothness of the leche flan matched against the creaminess of the ube halaya and crispiness of the pinipig. A texture eater's (and sweet tooth's) paradise. "This is so strange," Valerie said. "I never would've thought of putting all these things together, especially not in a dessert. But it works. I mean, I don't love the beans, but they're certainly interesting. And what are these yellow strips?" "Jackfruit. When ripe, they're yellow and very sweet and fragrant, so they make a nice addition to lots of Filipino desserts. They were also in the turon I brought to the meeting earlier. Unripe jackfruit is green and used in vegetarian recipes, usually.

Gulab Jamun Shops in Delhi Looking to satisfy your sweet tooth with delicious Gulab Jamun in Delhi? Discover a myriad of delightful options at various Gulab Jamun shops spread across the bustling streets of the capital. Indulge in these soft, syrup-soaked delicacies that melt in your mouth, offering a burst of sweetness with every bite. Whether you prefer them piping hot or chilled, these traditional Indian sweets are sure to delight your taste buds. Explore the rich flavors and varied preparations offered by the numerous Gulab Jamun shops in Delhi, each with its own unique twist on this beloved dessert. Dive into the sweetness today!

Aye, I feared as much,” muttered Mora as she sat down across from Bridget and took a hearty drink of cider. “That big fool. He hasnae completed the mating. Tisnae good. Nay, ’tisnae good at all. Especially if that bitch Edmee finds out.” “Mora, what are ye talking about? The marriage has been consummated. Quite thoroughly.” “Ah, lass, the laird obviously waits to be sure ye have fully accepted him, accepted him for what he is, all that he is. He hasnae given ye the bite yet.” Bridget frowned, not certain she liked the implications of that. “He does bite me.” “Love bites, wee nips, but nay the bite. Being that he is a halfling, mayhap he doesnae have to. I hadnae considered that. Halflings are always different in some way from Purebloods.” After taking a long drink of cider to calm her rising temper, Bridget said, “Tell me, Mora, what ye mean by the mating and the bite. Ye keep starting to tell me, then wander off the subject, and, weel, end up talking more to yourself than to me.” “Pardon. Tis nay widely kenned. Tis one of the MacNachtons’ most closely guarded secrets. I learned of it because, weel, a wee bit o’er twenty years ago I was in love with a Pureblood. Ye ken my son David, aye?” “David is the son of a Pureblood? But he has reddish hair. I have seen him about during the day as weel.” “Aye, he is more our kind than theirs, but the MacNachton blood is in him. He is a strong, healthy lad, always was. And, though he can go about in the daylight, he has to be most careful, avoiding the full heat of the day and such as that. Seems way back in his father’s line one of his ancestors mated with a halfling. The wee added bit of our blood is what has made my David so blessed. The laird has seen that my lad is educated and he will be verra important to the clan. Already is in many ways.” “Can ye tell me who his father is, or is that a secret?” “Jankyn.” Mora laughed briefly at Bridget’s obvious shock, then sighed. “Aye, Jankyn doesnae look a day older than our son, aye? But he is my age. And that was some of the problem. Oh, I did love that lad.” “Jankyn is easy to love, e’en when ye wish ye had a thick stick in hand to clout him o’er the head.” Mora grinned and nodded, then grew serious. “It was both wondrous and awful, heaven and hell. Twas a delight when I was with him and a pure torment when I thought on the years ahead. I could see it as it is now all too clearly, with me as I am and him still looking like a bonnie lad of twenty. Ah, but he said he wished to marry me, and I was sorely tempted. Was near to saying aye when he told me the secret about the mating, about the bite.” Mora nodded when Bridget touched her own neck. “Aye, for ones such as us, ’tisnae just a wee thing, is it? We cannae heal as they can. We arenae as strong. Mayhap I just didnae love him enough. I couldnae do it. My heart, my body, aye. My blood? To let him feed on me, e’en just a wee bit? Nay, I couldnae. E’en when I kenned I carried David, I couldnae, and, being a Pureblood, Jankyn couldnae swear that he wouldnae do it. He couldnae be sure he would be able to stop himself from completing the mating.” “It has to be the neck? He couldnae just take a wee sip from somewhere else?” “Nay, I dinnae think so. Tis like this—when ye are together as mon and wife, just as he spills his seed, he bites ye and has a wee taste.” “Every time?” Bridget asked in alarm, thinking of all the times Cathal had nipped at her neck while they made love. “Wheesht, nay. Just the once.” “Oh, thank God. If ’twas every time, I wouldnae last out the week.” She blushed when Mora laughed heartily. “Aye, the laird does have the fever for ye. Nay, lass, ’tis just the once. Tis done on the wedding night. As the mon gives ye his seed, gives ye a part of him as it were, he takes a wee bit from ye. Tis a blending and ’tis what binds him to ye as a mate.” Bridget

That is quite a long walk.” Her feet seemed to ache in protest. He tipped her chin up and leaned down. “I never said we were going to walk,” he whispered against her lips, pulling her into his arms. “Hold on to me tightly.” With a delighted sigh, she obeyed, savoring the feel of his hard form against her. Angelica’s belly flipped as they slowly rose into the air. She clung to him and fought to hold back a shriek. “You can fly?” she squeaked. “It is a rare talent among my kind.” His voice rumbled against her chest. “Though I confess I do not care to do it often.” “B-but what if someone sees us?” she asked, clinging to him tighter, unable to hide her worry. Ian laughed. “It is not a strong instinct in human nature to look up. Besides, I highly doubt anyone could spy us in this thick fog. And I suppose if anyone did catch a glimpse, they would say nothing in fear of being thought ready for Bedlam.” She peeked down the line of their bodies past their toes. They had risen much higher now. The city of London sprawled out below them, church spires rising from the fog and the light from the gas lamps twinkling like captive stars. The world below had turned into a fairy land right before her eyes, and her writer’s imagination longed to capture every second of this new and incredible experience. They

I did not allow myself a morsel until I had divided every food on my plate into meticulously carved small bites. Then I began, eating each bite as if it were my last and trying to savor the taste in an attempt to make the small quantity satisfying. I had cut the meat so fine that I had reduced it to tiny bundles of fibers. I ground them between my back teeth and let them linger in my mouth until the flavor faded. I ate the peas individually, squeezing the tender insides out of their tiny jackets and savoring the difference in texture. I chewed the bread endlessly, delighted to discover that each tiny square somehow became sweet when it lingered on my tongue.

Our take on a rhubarb and custard," Susan announces. "Rhubarb sorbet on the bottom, topped with whipped custard and a candied rhubarb sweet." It's served in small egg-shaped glasses, so you can see the layers: bright pink sorbet on the bottom, rich lemon-yellow custard, whipped to airy delicacy, topped with a wafer-thin, jewel-like disc of rhubarb that's been roasted, pressed flat, and encased in rhubarb-flavored praline. The chef takes two bites of it, then sits back, sighs, and looks at his plate for a while. Susan feels like melting into the floor. He hates it! What went wrong? Is it too simple? She worried about that. Maybe she should have done a tart or a mille-feuille. "This tastes of summer," the chef says at last. "Every bit of it is delightful and delicious- it's so light and airy and enjoyable." "I totally agree," says the presenter. "It's the perfect follow-up to something as heavy as those ribs, and the flavors remind me of rhubarb and custard sweets, which really takes me back." "Yeah, me too." The blogger nods. "Raiding the sweet shop after school.

Browsing among the stalls, the sisters feasted on hand-sized pork pies, leek pasties, apples and pears, and to the girls’ delight, “gingerbread husbands.” The gingerbread had been pressed into wooden man-shaped molds, baked and gilded. The baker at the stall assured them that every unmarried maiden must eat a gingerbread husband for luck, if she wanted to catch the real thing someday. A laughing mock argument sprang up between Amelia and the baker as she flatly refused one for herself, saying she had no wish to marry. “But of course you do!” the baker declared with a sly grin. “It’s what every woman hopes for.” Amelia smiled and passed the gingerbread men to her sisters. “How much for three, sir?” “A farthing each.” He attempted to hand her a fourth. “And this for no charge. It would be a sad waste for a lovely blue-eyed lady to go without a husband.” “Oh, I couldn’t,” Amelia protested. “Thank you, but I don’t—” A new voice came from behind her. “She’ll take it.” Discomfiture and pleasure seethed low in her body, and Amelia saw a dark masculine hand reaching out, dropping a silver piece into the baker’s upturned palm. Hearing her sisters’ giggling exclamations, Amelia turned and looked up into a pair of bright hazel eyes. “You need the luck,” Cam Rohan said, pushing the gingerbread husband into her reluctant hands. “Have some.” She obeyed, deliberately biting off the head, and he laughed.

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Moments like this were like eating a whole platter of honeyed butter pastries in one sitting, tasting the mouthwatering pleasure of every bite while feeling a little sick at the same time. Roxannah enjoyed the sweetness of her mother's appreciation. The delight of knowing herself useful to her family. But her mother's words also made her a little nauseous. She wished she did not have to carry the weight of their survival. The burden of it proved so heavy at times that it crushed even her ability to dream of better things, leaving behind merely the battle to endure.

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