Grape Stomping Quotes

I've heard that men are like fine wine. They begin as grapes, and it's up to women to stomp the shit out of them until they turn into something acceptable to have dinner with.

Spend any time in the real Italy, however, and you quickly realize that Italians don’t really pick grapes much anymore, and they certainly don’t stomp them either. They don’t pick tomatoes—or olives—and they don’t shear their sheep. Their tomatoes and olives are picked largely by underpaid Africans and Eastern Europeans, seasonal hires, brought in for that purpose—who are then demonized and complained about for the rest of the year. (Except when blowing motorists in the offseason—as can be readily observed on the outskirts of even the smallest Italian communities these days.)

Men are like fine wine. They start out as grapes and it is up to women to stomp the juice out of them until they turn into something acceptable to have dinner with.

I think we all men are like fine wine. We start out as grapes, and it's up to women to stomp the crap out of us until we are turned into something acceptable to have dinner with...

Just because life gave her sour grapes didn't mean she had to stomp them into wine and get drunk.

I’ve heard that men are like fine wine. They begin as grapes, and it’s up to women to stomp the shit out of them until they turn into something acceptable to have dinner with. Me, I just want to do the stomping.

In addition to a stack of small white plates, a basket of rolled cloth napkins, and a pile of polished silver forks, there is baked Brie in puff pastry, caviar with blinis (caviar!), a shallow bowl of beautiful purple grapes with a sterling silver pair of scissors placed beside it, poached shrimp with cocktail sauce, and a pale pink mold in the shape of a fish with crackers surrounding it, thin lemon slices and capers on top. "That's not the salmon mousse from the Silver Palate, is it?" I ask. The salmon mousse from the Silver Palate is perhaps my favorite thing to eat in the world. "Oh shoot," she says, and I can all but imagine her stomping her little foot. "You found me out. Is it just so tacky I brought in food from the city? I did press the mousse into the fish mold myself, and I also fixed the Brie. That is, I put some apricot jam on it and wrapped it in Pepperidge Farm puff pastry dough.

The enticing odor of French onion soup, only implied in her room, rose full force from the stove and embraced her in a warm hug. Grape reached for the ladle, desperate for a taste. “Do you mind going to get him?” Ugh. She put the ladle down and trudged back upstairs. If it was her brother’s sole mission in life to spoil even the little joys Grape had left, then he was succeeding. “Try not stomping on every step,” her mother called, her voice as pleasant as pumpkin pie. Grape rolled her eyes. She stomped harder on the next step to emphasize her independence and then tread softly up the staircase, because she was no fool.

I’ve heard that men are like fine wine. They begin as grapes, and it’s up to women to stomp the shit out of them until they turn into something acceptable to have dinner with.

He felt like someone was using steel-toed boots to stomp grapes inside his stomach.