Engagement Cake Quotes

You know what I think? I think that if a young woman doesn't engage in the act of occasionally wishing on a star or a flower or a birthday cake full of candles, then we're forfeiting one of the sweetest whimsies of our youth.

Hey there.' I cleared my throat. 'How are you?' I'm engaged!' Incidentally, this is an unacceptable answer to that question.

He has a fiancée, Emma. Not even just a girlfriend. A fiancée. Who knows how long he’s even been engaged? Engaged. To get married.” “I’ll crash the wedding,” Emma suggested. “I’ll jump out of the cake, but not in a sexy way. Like, with grenades.

tradition has sometimes told us that only certain kinds of people should study certain subjects, or engage in certain sports, or play in an orchestra, or what have you, but tradition is only about what people have or have not done; it’s not about what they are capable of doing. And it’s not about what they will be doing in the future.

This way, when I do have something like special-occasion engagement cake, I can enjoy the whole damn thing without a twinge of remorse. I

She makes several references to Paul making her "burn," almost like she's conjugating verbs. I burn for him. He burns for me. We burn for each other. One cannot help but suspect VD as a factor in their engagement. This comes up again when King defines a "hapahali" as "two people jumping around in the same skin," an image which, like the burning, is disgusting.

But I know that to me words are things, almost immaterial but actual and real things, and that I like them. I like their most material aspect: the sound of them, heard in the mind or spoken by the voice. And right along with that, inseparably, I like the dances of meaning words do with one another, the endless changes and complexities of their interrelationships in sentence or text, by which imaginary worlds are built and shared. Writing engages me in both these aspects of words, in an inexhaustible playing, which is my lifework. Words are my matter—my stuff. Words are my skein of yarn, my lump of wet clay, my block of uncarved wood. Words are my magic, antiproverbial cake. I eat it, and I still have it.

The thought occurred to me, but I noticed that he did not run in the direction of the river, but plunged into the meaner streets of the neighbourhood in which we had been walking. And I reflected also that there is no example in literary history of an author committing suicide while engaged on the composition of a literary work. Whatever his tribulations, he is unwilling to leave to posterity an uncompleted opus.

She saw the beginning of puzzlement cross his face, and then there was an explosion and the door of the room blew open in a shower of splinters. Magnus strode in, looking hectic, his black hair sticking up and his clothes rumpled. Jace leaned away from Clary, but only slightly. His eyes were narrowed. “I would say ‘Don’t you knock?’ but it seems evident you don’t,” he said. “We are, however, busy.” Magnus waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve walked in on your ancestors doing worse,” he said. “Besides, it’s an emergency.” “Magnus,” said Clary, “this better not be about the flowers. Or the cake.” Magnus scoffed. “I said an emergency. This is an engagement party, not the Battle of Normandy.” “The battle of what?” said Jace, who was not up on his mundane history.

I did not of course realize it then, but I know now that there was a disarming frankness in her manner that put one at one’s ease. She talked with a kind of eagerness, like a child bubbling over with the zest of life, and her eyes were lit all the time by her engaging smile. I did not know why I liked it. I should say it was a little sly, if slyness were not a displeasing quality; it was too innocent to be sly. It was mischievous rather, like that of a child who has done something that he thinks funny, but is quite well aware that you will think rather naughty; he knows all the same that you won’t be really cross and if you don’t find out about it quickly he’ll come and tell you himself. But of course then I only knew that her smile made me feel at home.

Dismissed as a philistine, a boor, a drunk, and an incompetent, Grant has been subjected to pernicious stereotypes that grossly impede our understanding of the man. As a contemporary newspaper sniffed, Grant was “an ignorant soldier, coarse in his taste and blunt in his perceptions, fond of money and material enjoyment and of low company.”14 In fact, Grant was a sensitive, complex, and misunderstood man with a shrewd mind, a wry wit, a rich fund of anecdotes, wide knowledge, and penetrating insights. Many acquaintances remembered the “silent” Grant as the most engaging raconteur they ever met. His weather-beaten appearance during the war, when he wore simple military dress, often caked with mud, could be misleading, for an inner fineness and delicacy lay beneath the rough-hewn exterior. At the same time, Grant could be surprisingly naive and artless in business and politics.

When Florence Allen took a bite of her dessert the expression on her face changed completely. She looked puzzled at first, as if she wasn't at all sure it was cake that she was eating. She cut herself another bite and then held up her fork and looked at it for a minute before slipping it into her mouth. She chewed slowly, as if she were a scientist engaged in an important experiment. She lifted up her plate and held it up to the light, studied it from different angles. Then she dipped down her nose and inhaled the cake. "This is sweet potato." I dabbed at my eyes again and told her that it was. "Sweet potatoes and raisins and... rum? That's a spiked glaze?" I nodded. She took another bite and this time she ate it like a person who knew what she was getting into. She closed her eyes. She savored. "This is," she said. "This is..." "Easy," I said. "I can give you the recipe." She opened up her eyes. She had lovely dark eyes. "This is brilliant. This is a brilliant piece of cake." In my family people tended to work against the cake. They wished it wasn't there even as they were enjoying it. But Florence Allen's reaction was one I rarely saw in an adult: She gave in to the cake. She allowed herself to love the cake. It wasn't that she surrendered her regrets (Oh well, I'll just have to go to the gym tomorrow, or, I won't have any dinner this week). She had no regrets. She lived in the moment. She took complete pleasure in the act of eating cake. "I'm glad you like it," I said, but that didn't come close to what I meant. "Oh, I don't just like it. I think this is-" But she didn't say it. Instead she stopped and had another bite. I could have watched her eat the whole thing, slice by slice, but no one likes to be stared at. Instead I ate my own cake. It was good, really. Every raisin bitten gave a sweet exhalation of rum. It was one of those cakes that most people say should be made for Thanksgiving, that it was by its nature a holiday cake, but why be confined? I was always one to bake whatever struck me on any given day. Florence Allen pressed her fork down several times until she had taken up every last crumb. Her plate was clean enough to be returned to the cupboard directly. "I've made sweet potato pies," she said. "I've baked them and put them in casseroles, but in a cake? That never crossed my mind." "It isn't logical. They're so dense. I think of it as the banana bread principle.

What’ll it be?” Steve asked me, just days after our wedding. “Do we go on the honeymoon we’ve got planned, or do you want to go catch crocs?” My head was still spinning from the ceremony, the celebration, and the fact that I could now use the two words “my husband” and have them mean something real. The four months between February 2, 1992--the day Steve asked me to marry him--and our wedding day on June 4 had been a blur. Steve’s mother threw us an engagement party for Queensland friends and family, and I encountered a very common theme: “We never thought Steve would get married.” Everyone said it--relatives, old friends, and schoolmates. I’d smile and nod, but my inner response was, Well, we’ve got that in common. And something else: Wait until I get home and tell everybody I am moving to Australia. I knew what I’d have to explain. Being with Steve, running the zoo, and helping the crocs was exactly the right thing to do. I knew with all my heart and soul that this was the path I was meant to travel. My American friends--the best, closest ones--understood this perfectly. I trusted Steve with my life and loved him desperately. One of the first challenges was how to bring as many Australian friends and family as possible over to the United States for the wedding. None of us had a lot of money. Eleven people wound up making the trip from Australia, and we held the ceremony in the big Methodist church my grandmother attended. It was more than a wedding, it was saying good-bye to everyone I’d ever known. I invited everybody, even people who may not have been intimate friends. I even invited my dentist. The whole network of wildlife rehabilitators came too--four hundred people in all. The ceremony began at eight p.m., with coffee and cake afterward. I wore the same dress that my older sister Bonnie had worn at her wedding twenty-seven years earlier, and my sister Tricia wore at her wedding six years after that. The wedding cake had white frosting, but it was decorated with real flowers instead of icing ones. Steve had picked out a simple ring for me, a quarter carat, exactly what I wanted. He didn’t have a wedding ring. We were just going to borrow one for the service, but we couldn’t find anybody with fingers that were big enough. It turned out that my dad’s wedding ring fitted him, and that’s the one we used. Steve’s mother, Lyn, gave me a silk horseshoe to put around my wrist, a symbol of good luck. On our wedding day, June 4, 1992, it had been eight months since Steve and I first met. As the minister started reading the vows, I could see that Steve was nervous. His tuxedo looked like it was strangling him. For a man who was used to working in the tropics, he sure looked hot. The church was air-conditioned, but sweat drops formed on the ends of his fingers. Poor Steve, I thought. He’d never been up in front of such a big crowd before. “The scariest situation I’ve ever been in,” Steve would say later of the ceremony. This from a man who wrangled crocodiles! When the minister invited the groom to kiss the bride, I could feel all Steve’s energy, passion, and love. I realized without a doubt we were doing the right thing.

Then came Dani’s turn to read a question. “‘Who’s in charge in the bedroom?’” Much to the group’s amusement, none of them got a match, and Sean didn’t think they would either as he held up his notepad. “‘I am, since I carry the big stick.’” Emma read hers with a remarkably straight face. “‘Sean, because he has a magic penis.’” “Wow. Um…so Sean and Emma have a point,” Dani said as the men nearly pissed themselves laughing. No way in hell was he leaving that unpunished, and he winked at Emma when Kevin read the next question. “‘Where’s the kinkiest place you’ve had sex?’” The fact that Joe and Keri had done the dirty deed on the back of his ATV led to a few questions about the logistics of that, but then it was Emma’s turn. “‘In bed, because Sean has no imagination.’” Roger threw an embarrassed wince his way, but his cousins weren’t shy about laughing their asses off. Sean just shrugged and held up his notepad. “In the car in the mall parking lot. Emma’s lying because she doesn’t want anybody to know being watched turns her on.” Her jaw dropped, but she recovered quickly and gave him a sweet smile that didn’t jibe with the “you are so going to get it” look in her eyes. Beth asked the next question. “‘Women, where does your man secretly dream of having sex?’” Keri knew Joe wanted to have sex in the reportedly very haunted Stanley Hotel, from King’s The Shining. Dani claimed Roger wanted to do the deed on a Caribbean beach, but he said that was her fantasy and that his was to have sex in an igloo. No amount of heckling would get him to say why. And when it came to Kevin, even Sean knew he dreamed of getting laid on the pitcher’s mound at Fenway Park. Then, God help him, it was Emma’s turn to show her answer. “‘In a Burger King bathroom.’” The room felt silent until Dani said, “Ew. Really?” “No, not really,” Sean growled. “Really,” Emma said over him. “He knows that’s the only way he can slip me a whopper.” As the room erupted in laughter, Sean knew humor was the only way they’d get through the evening with their secret intact, but he didn’t find that one very funny, himself. It was the final answer that really did him in, though. The question: “If your sex had a motto, what would it be?” Joe and Keri’s was, not surprisingly, Don’t wake the baby Kevin and Beth wrote, Better than chocolate cake, whatever that was supposed to mean. Dani wrote, Gets better with time, like fine wine, and Roger wrote, Like cheese, the older you get, the better it is, which led to a powwow about whether or not to give them a point. They probably would have gotten it if they weren’t tied with Keri and Joe, who took competitive to a cutthroat level. When they all looked at Sean, he groaned and turned his paper around. They’d lost any chance of winning way back, but he was already dreading what the smart-ass he wasn’t really engaged to had written down. “‘She’s the boss.’” The look Emma gave him as she slowly turned the notepad around gave him advance warning she was about to lay down the royal flush in this little game they’d been playing. “Size really doesn’t matter,” she said in what sounded to him like a really loud voice. Before he could say anything—and he had no idea what was going to come out of his mouth, but he had to say something--Cat appeared at the top of the stairs. “I hate to break up the party,” she said, “but it’s getting late, so we’re calling it a night.” Maybe Cat was, but Sean was just getting started.

The irrational is the impossible; it is that which contradicts the facts of reality; facts cannot be altered by a wish, but they can destroy the wisher. If a man desires and pursues contradictions–if he wants to have his cake and eat it, too–he disintegrates his consciousness; he turns his inner life into civil war of blind forces engaged in dark, incoherent, pointless, meaningles conflicts.

The irrational is the impossible; it is that which contradicts the facts of reality; facts cannot be altered by a wish, but they can destroy the wisher. If a man desires and pursues contradictions–if he wants to have his cake and eat it, too–he disintegrates his consciousness; he turns his inner life into civil war of blind forces engaged in dark, incoherent, pointless, meaningless conflicts.

After ten minutes with no young people in gray coveralls with weapons entering, Shonda tried to blend in more, as if she were shopping. She wandered down the aisles trying to look indecisive for almost an hour. She found the extreme heights of cakes and breads possible at such a low gravity engaging for a few minutes. Several unmarked bins full of strange produce that could have been grains or nuts kept her attention for a few more.

Margaret: Volunteered to help with assets Showing more incentive and engagement Increased participation effort 04.02.FR Cancel yoga Kim: Get birthday cake Celiac: Needs to be gluten-free The party’s on Thursday

Take it from me, local government offices are mostly about flexi-time and cake. Cake comes in for birthdays, for house moves, for news of engagements, births, weddings, christenings, driving tests, kids making the cross-country team or passing grade one piano. There is no news too small that it can’t be celebrated with chocolate brownies for the whole office.

This is a bride’s book, from bride to bride. If you’re not a bride, you’re reading Weddiculous because:            •  You’ve entertained the idea of engagement and plan to leave this book out so your partner sees it and gets a motherfucking clue.            •  You never want to plan a wedding, or had one and hated it, and want to laugh at my pain.            •  There’s cake on the cover, and you like cake.

Hayley makes this to celebrate Sam and her mother’s engagement and upcoming wedding. It’s a sheet cake, so it serves a crowd. But it’s stunning, especially if you make it during strawberry season. Ingredients for the strawberry cake 1 cup butter, softened 2 cups sugar

While Nigel helped her rearrange the contents of the basket, the door to the drawing room opened and Lord Broadmore came charging out. “Amelia, I must insist that you remain with me in the drawing room. You’re making a cake of yourself and I don’t like it one blasted bit.” Nigel’s eyes narrowed in warning as he took a step forward. Amelia shot out a hand to stop him. “I do not appreciate your tone of voice, my lord, nor your ungenerous implication,” she said. “I have my aunt’s approval. I certainly do not need yours.” Broadmore drew himself up to his full, outraged height. For once, Amelia didn’t care if she offended him. She was tired of his rudeness and resented his assumption that they were already engaged. “Amelia,” Broadmore said through clenched teeth, “I will not countenance this sort of behavior from the woman I expect to marry. Everyone will think you prefer Dash’s company to mine, which is bloody ridiculous. Even you can’t be that much of a birdwit.” Amelia sucked in a harsh breath, dumbfounded by the vile insult. She darted a quick glance at Nigel, expecting to find a seething male. Nigel’s blue eyes had gone so cold and flinty it made her shiver, but instead of ripping up at Broadmore he seemed to be waiting for her to respond. His eyebrows arched in polite inquiry as if to say to her, well, what are you going to do about that? It took Amelia a few moments to realize Nigel was deferring to her judgment instead of simply assuming the right to defend her regardless of her feelings. Good for you, dear Mr. Dash. She handed Nigel the sweets basket, then faced Broadmore. “My lord, I have had quite enough of your outrageously rude behavior. Rest assured that I will be escorting Mr. Dash upstairs to see my sister, and you are not to say another word about it.” Then, giving into an impulse that had been building within her for a long time, she jabbed Broadmore sharply in the chest with her index finger. “Please go back into the drawing room and do not dare to pass judgment on my behavior to anyone. In fact, if you say another word about this I will never speak to you again.” Then she whirled around, her anger propelling her like a cannonball up the staircase. Nigel caught up to her outside the nursery. “Well done, Miss Easton.” It sounded like he was choking back laughter. “You routed the enemy with commendable aplomb.” Amelia let her forehead thunk against the thick oak panel of the door. Now that her anger was cooling, her display of temper mortified her. “You must think me completely mad, Mr. Dash. I apologize for acting so disgracefully.” When he leaned in to whisper in her ear, she shivered at the exhalation of his breath on her neck. “Actually, I thought you quite splendid, Miss Easton. I was hard-pressed not to give a resounding cheer.” She tilted her head sideways to look at him. His eyes, tender and amused, smiled back at her. “Shall we?” he asked. Reaching around her, he opened the door. Amelia

Why the double standard of counting dignitary harm (in addition to material harms) against conscience claims, but not at all against speech? This is a challenge to which progressives have no response” (p. 172). I have two responses, both of which show that there is no double standard. First, Anderson and Girgis get the relevant distinction wrong. It is not between freedom of speech and freedom of conscience/religion but between freedom of speech and freedom of action. The Kleins of Sweet Cakes engaged in both, and both were an expression of religious conscience. It was their refusal of service, however—their action, not their speech—that triggered government sanction. The right question to ask, then, is why count dignitary harm against freedom of action (religious or otherwise) but not against freedom of speech (religious or otherwise)? The answer to that question is that in general, actions pose greater risks than speech.

The décor was the perfect contrast to the club's existing dark wood walls and coffered ceilings. Cedric's team used accents of gold to tie in with the space, but lightened things up with oodles of ivory and blush flowers. They highlighted the massive arched window overlooking the twinkling lights of downtown by flanking it with two equally massive blooming dogwood trees. Where he found blooming dogwoods this time of year in Dallas was a mystery, but that was all part of his magic. Dining tables were draped in champagne-colored velvet linen, and atop every table was an ivory urn overflowing with blush antique garden roses. They reminded me of the roses that grew in our garden at home, which was certainly on purpose. Twinkling candles in glass sleeves covered every surface, and next to the bar stood a sparkling tower of champagne glasses.

I can't believe you told Nana that you made this cake," Violet admonishes him. He shrugs, not caring in the least. "Well, I made the money that I bought it with, so that's almost the same thing. And it's good.

into his face, inches from my own. “What did you have in mind?” His lips curved, and the bell rang over the front door as someone entered. “What do you think you’re doing? Who is that?” The voice from across the room was all too familiar. I almost dropped the paint roller, but Shawn kept his hand tightly wrapped around mine even as he straightened, shifting his torso a few inches away from mine. I didn’t have to look at the intruder. I’d know Bronson’s voice anywhere. What was he doing in Silver Springs? It’s not like it was only an afternoon drive from Chicago. I turned to face him. As usual, he was decked out in his suit and carrying his laptop bag. As mad and hurt as I was over what happened, I still sucked in a little breath when I saw how terrific he looked. Then I clenched my jaw—I was not going there again. Shawn released my hand, but not my waist, nor did he move away. “Bronson, what are you doing here?” I stared at him. He approached, his actions indicating he thought he had a right to intrude. “I came to talk some sense into you. What is he doing here?” He gestured to Shawn. “He came to help me paint. There’s a lot to do before I can open this place for business.” The warmth of Shawn’s hand on my waist grew scalding, but I didn’t shake him off. It felt good having someone behind me, supporting me as I faced down Bronson. And I was amazed he hadn’t stepped forward to interfere. No way would Bronson have let me handle a confrontation without thinking he had to be the big tough man in charge. “Who’s the suit?” Shawn asked. “I’m her fiancé, Bronson DeMille the third.” As always, his introduction was self-important. Usually his attitude just made me roll my eyes, even if only on the inside, but right now I found it more than a minor irritation. Shawn let go and moved away from me, as if I were suddenly contagious. “You’re engaged?” “No, he’s my ex-fiancé, who became my ex when I caught him cheating on me.” I missed having Shawn’s hand on my hip, but decided it was as well. I turned my attention back to the jerk I once thought I would marry. “What do you want, Bronson?” Shawn’s defection seemed to give Bronson courage and he walked over, taking my free hand. “Sweetheart, that was all a misunderstanding. You know how much I love you.” Okay, this was an approach I hadn’t anticipated. But I hadn’t expected to see him at all, so I supposed I shouldn’t have expectations about how he would act. “Really? So I find you sucking face with Karen—made all the worse by the fact that I hate her—and I’m supposed to know that it’s not important, that you still love me? After all, it’s just one of those things that sometimes happens before a guy gets married.” I let the sarcasm ooze and drip. He took the paint roller and set it in the tray, then moved to take my other hand. I snatched both hands out of his reach and stepped back, closer to Shawn. Bronson looked hurt. “Tess, it was a mistake—a major one—but I promise it won’t happen again. You belong in Chicago, not in this backwater town making cupcakes and brownies for school children.” There was more than a little sneer in his voice. “Gourmet cupcakes and brownies, and it won’t only be for children. I’m going to enjoy what I do here, having my own space, doing things my way.” Even if I am terrified of the paperwork and taxes and balancing the books. “I already have a few clients and am working out an agreement to do wedding cakes for the new hotel in town.

The second my mother lays eyes on you, she’ll be plotting our engagement. If you can’t handle that, speak now or forever hold your peace.

Engaging in the physical world; learning how to build or make or do something in the physical world, where the results aren't negotiable; you can't claim that you did it if you didn't; you either summited, or the cake is edible, or the eggplant grew, or the table is made - whatever it is, doing something that is a physical manifestation in the world will create strength and ability. [And that physical experience is important because unless you have experience you may have inaccurate ideas about things.] Experience reveals your biases. And it reveals the holes in your thinking. And it informs you and enables you to become a much more complete and frankly, compassionate human being.

Potato Bake or Party Potatoes Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position   This is another recipe from Vera Olsen (“Hot Stuff”) who’s engaged to marry Andrew Westcott (“Silver Fox.”)   1/3 cup flour ½ teaspoon baking powder 2 teaspoons salt 1 teaspoon pepper ½ teaspoon garlic powder ½ teaspoon onion powder ½ teaspoon paprika 4 eggs 1 large grated onion ½ cup melted butter (1 stick, ¼ pound) 5 cups frozen hash browns or frozen Potatoes O’Brien 2 cups grated cheese (any kind will do)   Spray a 9-inch by 13-inch cake pan with Pam or other non-stick spray. Mix flour, baking powder, salt, pepper, and seasonings in a large bowl with a fork. Add the eggs and whisk it all up. Stir in the onion, melted butter, grated cheese and potatoes. Dump the mixture into the cake pan, cover it with foil, and bake at 350 degrees F. for one hour. Remove foil, turn the oven up to 400 degrees F., and bake for an additional 15 to 30 minutes, or until the top is crusty and golden brown. If you want to make this into what Vera Olsen calls “Party Potatoes,” take the potatoes out of the oven, let them cool for about ten minutes so that the eggs and cheese hold them together, cut them into serving-size squares, (you can get about 12 from a pan,) transfer the squares to a platter, and top each one with a generous dollop of sour cream and a sprinkling of caviar (or crumbled bacon for those who don’t like caviar.)