Honey And Milk Book Quotes

my heart woke me crying last night how can i help i begged my heart said write the book

This is what love does and continues to do. It tastes like honey to adults and milk to children.

Like your mouth has the gift of reading and I'm your favorite book. Find your favorite page in the soft spot between my legs and read it carefully. Fluently. Vividly. Don't you dare leave a single word untouched. And I swear my ending will be so good.

I'm so fucking tired of black women always being described by their skin tones! Honey-colored this! Dark-chocolate that! My paternal grandmother was mocha-tinged, café-au-lait, graham-fucking-cracker brown! How come they never describe the white characters in relation to foodstuffs and hot liquids? Why aren't there any yogurt-colored, egg-shell-toned, string-cheese-skinned, low-fat-milk white protagonists in these racist, no-third-act-having books? That's why black literature sucks!

our backs tell stories no books have the spine to carry - women of color

Our backs tell stories no books have the spine to carry

When reading the history of the Jewish people, of their flight from slavery to death, of their exchange of tyrants, I must confess that my sympathies are all aroused in their behalf. They were cheated, deceived and abused. Their god was quick-tempered unreasonable, cruel, revengeful and dishonest. He was always promising but never performed. He wasted time in ceremony and childish detail, and in the exaggeration of what he had done. It is impossible for me to conceive of a character more utterly detestable than that of the Hebrew god. He had solemnly promised the Jews that he would take them from Egypt to a land flowing with milk and honey. He had led them to believe that in a little while their troubles would be over, and that they would soon in the land of Canaan, surrounded by their wives and little ones, forget the stripes and tears of Egypt. After promising the poor wanderers again and again that he would lead them in safety to the promised land of joy and plenty, this God, forgetting every promise, said to the wretches in his power:—'Your carcasses shall fall in this wilderness and your children shall wander until your carcasses be wasted.' This curse was the conclusion of the whole matter. Into this dust of death and night faded all the promises of God. Into this rottenness of wandering despair fell all the dreams of liberty and home. Millions of corpses were left to rot in the desert, and each one certified to the dishonesty of Jehovah. I cannot believe these things. They are so cruel and heartless, that my blood is chilled and my sense of justice shocked. A book that is equally abhorrent to my head and heart, cannot be accepted as a revelation from God. When we think of the poor Jews, destroyed, murdered, bitten by serpents, visited by plagues, decimated by famine, butchered by each, other, swallowed by the earth, frightened, cursed, starved, deceived, robbed and outraged, how thankful we should be that we are not the chosen people of God. No wonder that they longed for the slavery of Egypt, and remembered with sorrow the unhappy day when they exchanged masters. Compared with Jehovah, Pharaoh was a benefactor, and the tyranny of Egypt was freedom to those who suffered the liberty of God. While reading the Pentateuch, I am filled with indignation, pity and horror. Nothing can be sadder than the history of the starved and frightened wretches who wandered over the desolate crags and sands of wilderness and desert, the prey of famine, sword, and plague. Ignorant and superstitious to the last degree, governed by falsehood, plundered by hypocrisy, they were the sport of priests, and the food of fear. God was their greatest enemy, and death their only friend. It is impossible to conceive of a more thoroughly despicable, hateful, and arrogant being, than the Jewish god. He is without a redeeming feature. In the mythology of the world he has no parallel. He, only, is never touched by agony and tears. He delights only in blood and pain. Human affections are naught to him. He cares neither for love nor music, beauty nor joy. A false friend, an unjust judge, a braggart, hypocrite, and tyrant, sincere in hatred, jealous, vain, and revengeful, false in promise, honest in curse, suspicious, ignorant, and changeable, infamous and hideous:—such is the God of the Pentateuch.

On Sunday, we slathered brioche with cultured butter, dolloped crème fraîche on daubes, and spooned a pudding of Aida's creation. The interior was so creamy it recalled the molten center of the earth. If the land of milk and honey produced no further milk, this meal proclaimed, then we would sup of the last like kings and queens.

Employing the oldest trick in the hosting book, I topped off the old woman’s glass.

our backs tell stories no books have the spine to carry -women of color

For you, a thousand times over." "Children aren't coloring books. You don't get to fill them with your favorite colors." "...attention shifted to him like sunflowers turning to the sun." "But even when he wasn't around, he was." "When you kill a man, you steal a life. You steal a wife's right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone's right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness. There is no act more wretched than stealing." "...she had a voice that made me think of warm milk and honey." "My heart stuttered at the thought of her." "...and I would walk by, pretending not to know her, but dying to." "It turned out that, like satan, cancer had many names." "Every woman needed a husband, even if he did silence the song in her." "The first time I saw the Pacific, I almost cried." "Proud. His eyes gleamed when he said that and I liked being on the receiving end of that look." "Make morning into a key and throw it into the well, Go slowly, my lovely moon, go slowly. Let the morning sun forget to rise in the East, Go slowly, lovely moon, go slowly." "Men are easy,... a man's plumbing is like his mind: simple, very few surprises. You ladies, on the other hand... well, God put a lot of thought into making you." "All my life, I'd been around men. That night, I discovered the tenderness of a woman." "And I could almost feel the emptiness in [her] womb, like it was a living, breathing thing. It had seeped into our marriage, that emptiness, into our laughs, and our lovemaking. And late at night, in the darkness of our room, I'd feel it rising from [her] and settling between us. Sleeping between us. Like a newborn child." "America was a river, roaring along unmindful of the past. I could wade into this river, let my sins drown to the bottom, let the waters carry me someplace far. Someplace with no ghosts, no memories, and no sins. If for nothing else, for that I embraced America." "...and every day I thank [God] that I am alive, not because I fear death, but because my wife has a husband and my son is not an orphan." "...lifting him from the certainty of turmoil and dropping him in a turmoil of uncertainty." "...sometimes the dead are luckier." "He walked like he was afraid to leave behind footprints. He moved as if not to stir the air around him." "...and when she locked her arms around my neck, when I smelled apples in her hair, I realized how much I had missed her. 'You're still the morning sun to me...' I whispered." "...there is a God, there always has been. I see him here, in the eys of the people in this [hospital] corridor of desperation. This is the real house of God, this is where those who have lost God will find Him... there is a God, there has to be, and now I will pray, I will pray that He will forgive that I have neglected Him all of these years, forgive that I have betrayed, lied, and sinned with impunity only to turn to Him now in my hour of need. I pray that He is as merciful, benevolent, and gracious as His book says He is.

The cake was not the one I'd baked as an afterthought. This was a foot high, silky yellow, sighing under the knife. Like nothing I'd tasted before. Part air, part kiss of milk and honey. It's a soufflé cheesecake, Aida told a guest. Very popular in Asia.

Follow the ideal doing, grind the beans just before brewing. Use spring water, for softened water, makes a horror. A parley perfect, between the coffee, and the milk, with some, brown sugar thick.” (Poem: An apology of a coffee lunatic, Book: Ginger and Honey)

Children have two basic needs, writes Erich Fromm in The Art of Loving: they need both milk and honey from their parents. Milk symbolizes the care given to physical needs: brush your teeth, drink your orange juice, eat your vegetables, get enough sleep. Honey symbolizes the sweetness of life, that special quality that makes life sing with enjoyment for all it holds. Fromm says, “Most parents are capable of giving milk, but only a minority of giving honey, too.” To give honey, one must love honey and have it to give. Good books are rich in honey, and hence the title of this book.

like your mouth has the gift of reading and i’m your favorite book. find your favorite page in the soft spot between my legs and read it carefully. fluently. vividly. don’t you dare leave a single word untouched. and i swear my ending will be so good. the last few words will come. running to your mouth. and when you’re done. take a seat. cause it’s my turn to make music with my knees pressed to the ground.

It shouldn't be here. This sedge grass is decorative bullshit he imported from Northern Asia. The lab spent two years modifying it to slot into our ecosystem, all so that the mountain would literally smell of honey. Terra di latte e miele, she said, mockingly. Thank god my father went into business, not poetry. He's far too much of a romantic. I laughed, incredulous at this portrait of my stiff employer, and Aida reddened. It is romantic, if you think about it. He planted the grass for my mother. She's one of those Catholic Koreans, painfully devout. You know. The promised land, Canaan, found after forty years of wandering the desert. The land of milk and honey.

Upon it rested a slender crystal glass filled with a thick blue liquid: shade of the evening, the wine of warlocks. “Take and drink,” urged Pyat Pree. “Will it turn my lips blue?” “One draught will serve only to unstop your ears and dissolve the caul from off your eyes, so that you may hear and see the truths that will be laid before you.” Dany raised the glass to her lips. The first sip tasted like ink and spoiled meat, foul, but when she swallowed it seemed to come to life within her. She could feel tendrils spreading through her chest, like fingers of fire coiling around her heart, and on her tongue was a taste like honey and anise and cream, like mother’s milk and Drogo’s seed,

It reminds him of a tale the elder monks told him once, when he was a youngster: the Last Ride of the Tiger Tickler. There was, according to fiction, a man who came upon an untended tiger cub. He took it home and raised it, and, when it was fully grown, he took to riding into town on its back. He steered the beast with a silk handkerchief: he’d lean forward and flick the tiger’s left or right ear to make it turn, or brush its nose to make it start or stop. Of course, the tiger, brought up on milk and honey lapped from a bowl held in the kind man’s hands, didn’t know any better, so he went along with it. Disregarding the tiresome details of the tale, when the Tiger Tickler mistakenly rides into town on a different tiger, who despite similar build and markings has a radically different opinion as to the rightful place of mankind (namely in, not on), everybody gets eaten up.

A misty vision of Francesca gazed down at me from a corner of the window. She gave me her wicked-sweet smile and the stars sparked in her pale hair. I wanted to call to her, but I had no voice. I smelled the mixed scents of her, and I imagined the lush, tropical feast I'd prepare for her on our wedding night. I'd slip raw oysters between her lips. We'd share ripe figs and plump, dewy cherries. I'd offer her sweetmeats and honeyed milk, blood oranges peeled and ready, salty artichokes stripped down to the heart. I'd pry open a lobster shell and feed her tender morsels of meat, slowly, slowly. The flavors would mingle and mount and burst inside us like soft explosions. I wanted to believe it would all be possible. I imagined her staring into my eyes while she dragged a buttered artichoke leaf between her teeth and sucked on the flesh. It was good. I rode through the long, lovely night on wave upon wave of pleasure, smelling her, tasting her, touching her... I heard myself moan, and in that fierce embrace, I believed.

AROUND 1271 OR 1272, MARCO POLO, THE RENOWNED VENETIAN merchant adventurer, was on his way through Persia en route for Cathay when he came upon a story told by travellers in that region. Twenty-five years later he recounted it in his book II Milione, better known today as The Travels of Marco Polo. The story concerned a remote area ruled by one they called the Old Man of the Mountains, whose followers were notorious for their ruthlessness. According to Marco Polo, they had been in existence since the middle of the eleventh century and there was not an Arab leader who did not go in mortal dread of them. The disciples of this leader were kept loyal to their master by the promise that, were they to die whilst in his service, they would assuredly go to Paradise. To strengthen their resolve, the Old Man of the Mountains gave initiates to his following a preview of what it would be like in Paradise by maintaining a fabulous garden within his mountain stronghold. In this pleasure ground, exquisitely beautiful houris wandered ready to fulfil any desire, the fountains ran with milk and honey and the flowers were beyond compare. However, it was said, to enter this fabled place the would-be acolyte was first given a powerful drug and, only when unconscious, allowed in: before leaving, he was again drugged. After their induction, the initiates were given a solid Islamic education but were also taught the arts of murder, killing anyone whom their master commanded be put to death. Before going into battle, they apparently partook of the same drug to increase their courage. The drug was hashish. The veracity of Marco Polo’s writings has long been suspect, yet the story has stuck, enhanced and exaggerated as the centuries have passed. The legend of the Old Man of the Mountains has become nothing short of unassailable fact and his followers, notorious as much for their merciless cruelty as their gargantuan appetites for hashish, have become a byword for brutality. Even the name by which they came to be known derived from the drug it was alleged they took: they were called the Hashshashin. They are now known as the Assassins.

I cry, beg and plead for my freedom but as long as I refuse to educate myself, I'll never enter the Promised Land that was promised to Abraham. Jesus is the Passover Lamb, sacrificing himself to help us pass over the oppression of this slavery. It's a throwback story in the books of Exodus and Deuteronomy. My people listen to me; the Lord keeps his promises pass a thousand generations to eternity. Metaphysical theology, give Yahweh what's His to enter the land flowing with milk and honey. Righteousness is what makes He which is Him in me and I am as He is as we are one, it's a double edged sword, it's supreme knowledge for those who call out to the Lord.

my heart woke me crying last night how can i help i begged my heart said write the book

As an eagle stirs her nest and flutters over her young, as she takes them up and bears them upon her wings, 32:11 so did Yahweh alone lead Jacob. There was no other god with him. 32:12 He brought him to the mounts and valleys of earth, that he might eat the crops of the fields. He gave him honey from rock, and oil from flint. 32:13 He gave you butter of cows, and milk of sheep, and fat of lambs, and rams of the breed of Bashan, and goats, and kernels of wheat, and you drank the pure blood of the grape.

I was a voracious reader, but after Hannah’s death I grew insatiable. Books became my milk and honey. I made myself feel better by reciting jejune statements like “Books are the air I breathe,” or, worse, “Life is meaningless without literature,” all in a weak attempt to avoid the fact that I found the world inexplicable and impenetrable. Compared to the complexity of understanding grief, reading Foucault or Blanchot is like perusing a children’s picture book.

Moses, Moses.” And Moses said, “Here I am.” 3:4 The Lord said, “Do not come any closer. Take off your shoes. Where you stand is holy ground.” 3:5 Then the Lord said, “I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.” And Moses hid his face, for he was afraid to look upon the Lord. 3:6 The Lord said, “I have seen the affliction of the Israelites in Egypt. I have heard their cry under their masters, and I know their sorrows. 3:7 I have come to deliver them from the Egyptians, and to bring them out of that land into a good land, a large land flowing with milk and honey, a place where the Canaanites, and the Hittites, and the Amorites, and the Perizzites, and the Hivites, and the Jebusites all dwell.

Recipe Hello from Honey Hollow! Lottie here! I hope you’re in the mood for something devilishly delicious. My famous, or rather infamous devil’s food cake is well—to die for. If you have a serious hankering for chocolate, you will not regret this. But be warned, your entire home will hold the scent of warm, tempting chocolate. It is rather hard to resist. Happy baking! From the kitchen of the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery Devil’s Food Cake 1½ cup of softened butter ¾ cup unsweetened baking coco 2 cups sugar 3 eggs 3 cups sifted all-purpose flour ¼ tsp salt 1 ½ tsp baking soda ¾ cup milk 1 cup hot water 1 tsp white distilled vinegar 1 tablespoon vanilla extract Instructions Preheat oven 350° Grease and dust with coco powder or flour, two 9 inch round pans or a 9x13 pan. *I prefer to use a stand mixer. Although mixing by hand works well, too. Mix and cream together coco, sugar, butter, milk and eggs. Slowly mix in one cup of hot water. Add flour, salt, baking soda, vinegar and vanilla extract. Pour into two pans evenly, or a single prepared pan. Bake at 350° for 30 minutes or until a toothpick inserted into the middle, comes out clean. Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery’s Go-to Chocolate Frosting Recipe 6 tablespoons softened butter ¾ cup unsweetened baking coco Pinch of salt 3 tablespoons hot water 1 ¾ cup of powdered sugar In a mixing bowl, cream butter, coco, salt, and water. Stir until it reaches a smooth finish. Slowly add in powdered sugar. Make sure it reaches your desired consistency. If it’s too thick, add a touch more water. If it’s too thin, add in a touch more powdered sugar. Frost your cooled devil’s food cake and enjoy!

Are you all right, Alex?” Dave asked. “I’ve just been thinking,” said Alex. “Do you think if a cow and a bee had a baby, you could get honey-flavored milk?” Spidroth rolled her eyes. “I’m surrounded by morons.

Are you all right, Alex?” Dave asked. “I’ve just been thinking,” said Alex. “Do you think if a cow and a bee had a baby, you could get honey-flavored milk?” Spidroth rolled her eyes. “I’m surrounded by morons.” “I think it’s a good question, Alex,” said Carl. “Maybe I could breed a baked potato with a cow and get baked potato flavored milk.

I was a voracious reader, but after Hannah's death I grew insatiable. Books became my milk and honey. I made myself feel better by reciting jejune statements like 'Books are the air I breathe,' or, worse, 'Life is meaningless without literature,' all in a weak attempt to avoid the fact that I found the world inexplicable and impenetrable. Compared to the complexity of understanding grief, reading Foucault or Blanchot is like perusing a children's picture book.

Don’t settle for manna when God has promised milk and honey.

our backs tell stories no books have the spine to carry - women of color

Moshe had few friends. Most of Pottstown’s Jews had left Chicken Hill by then. Nate was a friend, but he was a Negro, so there was that space between them. But with Malachi, there was no space. They were fellow escapees who, having endured the landing at Ellis Island and escaped the grinding sweatshops and vicious crime of the vermin-infested Lower East Side, had arrived by hook or crook in the land of opportunity that was Pennsylvania, home to Quakers, Mormons, and Presbyterians. Who cared that life was lonely, that jobs were thankless drudgery, that the romance of the proud American state was myth, that the rules of life were laid carefully in neat books and laws written by stern Europeans who stalked the town and state like the grim reaper, with their righteous churches spouting that Jews murdered their precious Jesus Christ? Their fellow Pennsylvanians knew nothing about the shattered shtetls and destroyed synagogues of the old country; they had not set eyes on the stunned elderly immigrants starving in tenements in New York, the old ones who came alone, who spoke Yiddish only, whose children died or left them to live in charity homes, the women frightened until the end, the men consigned to a life of selling vegetables and fruits on horse-drawn carts. They were a lost nation spread across the American countryside, bewildered, their yeshiva education useless, their proud history ignored, as the clankety-clank of American industry churned around them, their proud past as watchmakers and tailors, scholars and historians, musicians and artists, gone, wasted. Americans cared about money. And power. And government. Jews had none of those things; their job was to tread lightly in the land of milk and honey and be thankful that they were free to walk the land without getting their duffs kicked—or worse. Life in America was hard, but it was free, and if you worked hard, you might gain some opportunity, maybe even open a shop or business of some kind.

Three pairs of eyes stared at me as I moved to the checkout station. Immediately, my eyes fell on the milk chocolate honey my brother had referenced. Damn! A nigga wasn’t lying when he said this woman was bad. I knew it was her, even though the other two women in the room were brown skinned as well. While they were cute in their own way, baby girl was nothing to play with. Her fucking lips had a nigga’s mind gone. She stared me dead in my eyes, and I couldn’t help but feel some type of way about that shit. No woman had ever been bold enough to do that. I leaned my arms onto the counter and licked my lips as we eyed each other. Baby girl could definitely get all this dick. “Excuse me, but can we help you?” The girl standing to her right was eye-fucking me too. Although she was cute, I wasn’t into her in the least. I broke eye contact with my future baby mama to address ole girl. “She can.” I nodded toward my baby. I met her eyes again. This time she looked away as a red tinge stained her cheeks. Bold, but shy…interesting.

Known as the punishment of 'sitting in the tub,' the convicted individual would be put in a wooden bathtub with only their head sticking out. Following that, the executioner would paint their faces with milk and honey; and shortly, flies would begin to feed on them. The sufferer was likewise fed consistently and also would end up swimming in their own excrement. After a few days, maggots and worms would devour their body as they rotted alive.

out a battered leather address book. ‘Dr Roberts. But he won’t come.’ ‘I’m sure he will.’ Bianca smiled at her. ‘I’ll explain how bad you are. Now, what can I get you? Cup of tea, warm milk?’ ‘Some hot lemon and honey would be so nice,’ said Florence. ‘You’ll find the wherewithal to make it in the kitchen. Bianca, you shouldn’t be here, you’ve got far more important things to do, I’m so sorry . . .’ She struggled to go on and couldn’t. ‘So kind,’ she finally managed.

If so be ye have tasted that the Lord is gracious." 1 Peter 2:3 If:--then, this is not a matter to be taken for granted concerning every one of the human race. "If:"--then there is a possibility and a probability that some may not have tasted that the Lord is gracious. "If:"--then this is not a general but a special mercy; and it is needful to enquire whether we know the grace of God by inward experience. There is no spiritual favour which may not be a matter for heart-searching. But while this should be a matter of earnest and prayerful inquiry, no one ought to be content whilst there is any such thing as an "if" about his having tasted that the Lord is gracious. A jealous and holy distrust of self may give rise to the question even in the believer's heart, but the continuance of such a doubt would be an evil indeed. We must not rest without a desperate struggle to clasp the Saviour in the arms of faith, and say, "I know whom I have believed, and I am persuaded that he is able to keep that which I have committed unto him." Do not rest, O believer, till thou hast a full assurance of thine interest in Jesus. Let nothing satisfy thee till, by the infallible witness of the Holy Spirit bearing witness with thy spirit, thou art certified that thou art a child of God. Oh, trifle not here; let no "perhaps" and "peradventure" and "if" and "maybe" satisfy thy soul. Build on eternal verities, and verily build upon them. Get the sure mercies of David, and surely get them. Let thine anchor be cast into that which is within the veil, and see to it that thy soul be linked to the anchor by a cable that will not break. Advance beyond these dreary "ifs;" abide no more in the wilderness of doubts and fears; cross the Jordan of distrust, and enter the Canaan of peace, where the Canaanite still lingers, but where the land ceaseth not to flow with milk and honey.

their entrance into the Promised Land of Yahweh be accompanied by the first of their Feasts that marked their exodus, an event that would forever be etched into their souls like the permanent markings on the monuments of Egypt. From Gilgal they would launch their campaign of military conquest of the land. On that day, they ate of the produce of the land of Canaan, their unleavened cakes and their parched grain. And on that very day, the manna ceased from heaven. They were now in the land of milk and honey.

And I read a book that figured the part about the virgins is a mistranslation. The word is ambiguous. It comes in a passage full of food imagery. Milk and honey. It probably means raisins. Plump, and possibly candied or sugared.” “They kill themselves for raisins?” “I’d love to see their faces.

Ariel laughed. Othniel had often thrown this up to her and she had never believed a word of it. “Get away with you, now. I don’t want to hear any more of your stories. But if you do bring the woman back, I want to thank her.” Othniel started to leave, but first turned to say, “Tomorrow we’re crossing the Jordan. That’ll be something to see. It took us forty years to get from Egypt to this point. Should have taken no more than a month at the most.” “What’ll happen when we cross the Jordan?” “We’ll be in the land of milk and honey. That’s what Moses always called it. I could use a little milk and honey.

history of his people well. His eyes grew dreamy as he began to speak of how Jehovah had appeared to Abraham. “He promised him a land flowing with milk and honey, and though he was only one man he said, ‘One day your descendants will be as many as the stars in the sky.’ Abraham was the first Hebrew.” Rahab was fascinated. This was the first time Ardon had spoken to her at any length. “Tell me more about your god.” “Why do you want to know?” “Surely everyone wants to know about your god.” “I don’t think so. Most people want what God will do for them. They don’t want God himself.

…Get me a cappuccino, with toasties, flavored in Jalapeno.” “Anything special for the cappuccino?” He asked, the waiter chivalrous. “Follow the ideal doing, grind the beans just before brewing. Use spring water, for softened water, makes a horror. A parley perfect, between the coffee, and the milk, with some, brown sugar thick.” (Poem: An apology of a coffee lunatic, Book: Ginger and Honey)

Essential Ingredients in the Paleo Kitchen   Transitioning to a Paleo lifestyle means that gradually you’ll become familiar with previously unknown ingredients. Stock your pantry with some of the foods from below and you’ll always have something quick and easy to whip up: Frozen broth (for adding to meals in a pinch – see recipe below) Plenty of dried herbs and spices (oregano, black pepper, turmeric and cinnamon are always needed and full of antioxidants) Cans of coconut milk and cream (for soups and smoothies) Coconut oil, olive oil, avocado oil (for cooking and dressings) Fresh lemons Fresh garlic and ginger Fresh herbs such as coriander and parsley (grow some on your kitchen window sill) Avocadoes A jar of tahini (a great peanut butter substitute and salad dressing ingredient) Dijon mustard (for any kind of meat) Honey Crushed tomatoes or tomato puree (avoid those brands in cans) Eggs Greek yogurt (for sauces) A bar of 80% cacao dark chocolate (for when your cravings hit!) Plenty of good quality butter

our backs tell stories no books have the spine to carry

There’s a story of a good man who dies and goes to heaven, and who is welcomed at the pearly gates, which are thrown open for him to enter. He goes through them in a daze of bliss, because it is everything he has been taught, golden streets, milk and alabaster and honey and golden harps. He wanders the streets lost in happiness, until after a while he realizes that he is all alone; he hasn’t seen anybody at all. He walks and walks, and he sees nobody. So he goes back to the gates, and asks, “Peter?” “Yes, my son?” “This really is heaven?” “Oh, yes, my son. Don’t you like it?” “Oh, it’s just wonderful! But where is everybody? Where are the prophets? Where is the Holy Family? Where are the saints?” Peter looks at him kindly. “Oh, them? They’re all down in hell, ministering to the damned. If you’d like to join them, I’ll show you the way.

Do not grieve over past joys, be sure they will reappear in another form. A child’s joy is in milk and nursing but once weaned, it finds new joy in bread and honey. Joy appears in many different forms it moves from place to place. It may suddenly show in the falling rain or in the rose bed; it comes now as water, now as beauty, or as nourishing bread. But suddenly it may show its face from behind the veil and destroy all idols that prevent you from seeking the divine. In sleep when the soul leaves the body you may dream of yourself as a tall cypress or as a beautiful rose, but be warned, my friend, all these phantoms dissolve into thin air once the soul returns to the body. Do not rely on anything but your heart.

I will admit that, for the most part, my poems are more Dr. Seuss than “Milk & Honey”.

Where does the road to ruin start? That’s the point of getting all this down, I’m told. To get the handle on some choice you made. Or was made for you. By the bullies that curdled your heart’s milk and honey, or the ones that went before and curdled theirs. Hell, let’s blame the coal guys, or whoever wrote the book of Lee County commandments: Thou shalt forsake all things you might love or study on, books, numbers, a boy’s life made livable in pictures he drew. Leave these ye redneck faithful, to chase the one star left shining on this place: manly bloodthirst. The smell of mauled sod and sweat and pent-up lust and popcorn. The Friday-night lights.

It is better to be silent before the Lord, than to dream of supplementing what He has spoken. The Word of the Lord is to the conceptions of men as a garden to a wilderness. Keep within the covers of the sacred book, and you are in the land which floweth with milk and honey; why seek to add to it the desert sands?

Baby lick me like your mouth has a gift for reading and I'm your favourite book. Find your favourite page in the soft spot between my legs and read it carefully, fluidly, vividly. Don't you dare leave a single word untouched and I swear my ending will be so good. The last few words will come running to your mouth. And when you're done, take a seat cause it's my turn to make music with my knees pressed to the ground.

180g blueberries 90ml coconut milk 1 egg ½ banana 1-2 tablespoons honey

150g raspberries 1 egg 80ml coconut milk ½ banana ½ lemon 1 tablespoon honey

coconut milk 2-3 avocados 2 eggs ¼ honeydew melon ½ lemon Bunch mint 2 tablespoons honey

500ml coconut milk 60g coconut flakes 1 egg 1 tablespoon honey ½ teaspoon coconut oil

I’m so fucking tired of black women always being described by their skin tones! Honey-colored this! Dark-chocolate that! My paternal grandmother was mocha-tinged, café-au-lait, graham-fucking-cracker brown! How come they never describe the white characters in relation to foodstuffs and hot liquids? Why aren’t there any yogurt-colored, egg-shell-toned, string-cheese-skinned, low-fat-milk white protagonists in these racist, no-third-act-having books? That’s why black literature sucks!

blueberries 90ml coconut milk 1 egg ½ banana 1-2 tablespoons honey

Bunch basil leaves 120ml coconut milk 120ml water 4-5 limes 2 tablespoons honey

2 watermelons 250ml coconut milk ½ lemon 2 tablespoons vanilla extract 1-2 tablespoons honey

apple juice 250ml water 250ml coconut milk 1 cinnamon stick 1-2 tablespoons honey 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

His voice promising milk and honey, but his expression cold and suspicious.