Hot Fudge Sundae Quotes

As for literary criticism in general: I have long felt that any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel or a play or a poem is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae or a banana split.

Always serve too much hot fudge sauce on hot fudge sundaes. It makes people overjoyed, and puts them in your debt.

He said my name the way diabetics talked about hot fudge sundaes.

It's never been true, not anywhere at any time, that the value of a soul, of a human spirit, is dependent on a number on a scale. We are unrepeatable beings of light and space and water who need these physical vehicles to get around. When we start defining ourselves by that which can be measured or weighed, something deep within us rebels. We don't want to EAT hot fudge sundaes as much as we want our lives to BE hot fudge sundaes. We want to come home to ourselves. (p. 174-5)

I had so much fun writing this book and I want readers to have fun also. A Passion for Prying is a feel-good, fun read. It's like eating a delicious, sinful hot fudge sundae--pure fun and indulgence.

I had never seen hair that purely black. It was glossy and slightly long, the ends drifting over his collar. That sexy length was the crowning touch of bad boy hotness over the successful businessman, like whipped cream topping on a hot fudge brownie sundae. As my mother would say, only rogues and raiders had hair like that." (Eva about Gideon)

Some relationships aren't meant to be Great Love; they're meant to be like a hot fudge sundae--enjoyable but not something you can acually live on.

Any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae.

Ellen rose to her feet. Jack thought for a moment she was going to storm out. Instead, she picked up the pitcher of hot fudge and poured the contents onto Leesha Middleton's pink jeans and fuzzy white sweater. "Oops." Ellen sat down again and went back to eating her ice cream. Leesha screamed, a sound that could be heard in Canada. Every eye in Corcoran's was on her. She slid out of the booth and swiped ineffectually at her jeans with a napkin.Then she plucked at her ruined sweater with her thumb and forefinger. "You...you...I can't believe you did that!" Ellen licked whipped cream from the back of her spoon and looked at Leesha calmly. Leesha was tiny, but she seemed to expand, like an amphibian taking on air, then she drew herself up and retrieved her pink leather purse from the bench next to Jack. It was smeared with fudge too. "You'll pay for that, I promise you," she said to Ellen in a voice that raised the gooseflesh on Jack's neck. Then she turned and left. For a moment, Corcoran's was totally silent. Ellen looked across the table at Jack's sundae. "Are you going to finish that?

He's created a freaking ice cream sundae with extra-hot fudge just by uttering my name.

always serve too much hot fudge sause on the hot fudge sundaes.It makes people overjoyed,and puts them in your debt

Any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae.” - Kurt Vonnegut

Sex is all right, but a hot fudge sundae don't never ask if the baby's really his.

...anyone who is so picky about a hot fudge sundae should make it themselves.

All time is all time. It does not change. It does not lend itself to warnings or explanations. It simply is. Take it moment by moment, and you will find that we are all, as I've said before, bugs in amber. Just because some of us can read and write and do a little math, that doesn't mean we deserve to conquer the Universe. Everything was beautiful and nothing hurt. Any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae. Here is a lesson in creative writing. First rule: Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you've been to college. Maturity is a bitter disappointment for which no remedy exists, unless laughter could be said to remedy anything. Life happens too fast for you ever to think about it. If you could just persuade people of this, but they insist on amassing information. Our awareness is all that is alive and maybe sacred in any of us. Everything else about us is dead machinery.

After a heated dispute, we each undertook an assignment for the next class: to engage in one pleasurable activity and one philanthropic activity, and write about both. The results were life-changing. The afterglow of the “pleasurable” activity (hanging out with friends, or watching a movie, or eating a hot fudge sundae) paled in comparison with the effects of the kind action. When our philanthropic acts were spontaneous and called upon personal strengths, the whole day went better. One junior told about her nephew phoning for help with his third-grade arithmetic. After an hour of tutoring him, she was astonished to discover that “for the rest of the day, I could listen better, I was mellower, and people liked me much more than usual.” The exercise of kindness is a gratification, in contrast to a pleasure. As a gratification, it calls on your strengths to rise to an occasion and meet a challenge. Kindness is not accompanied by a separable stream of positive emotion like joy; rather, it consists in total engagement and in the loss of self-consciousness. Time stops.

Sweet hot jazz, square dancing, gooey fudge sundaes, musicals, movie magazines and so forth - these were the obvious items on her list of beloved things.

A woman named Cynthia once told me a story about the time her father had made plans to take her on a night out in San Francisco. Twelve-year-old Cynthia and her father had been planning the “date” for months. They had a whole itinerary planned down to the minute: she would attend the last hour of his presentation, and then meet him at the back of the room at about four-thirty and leave quickly before everyone tried to talk to him. They would catch a tram to Chinatown, eat Chinese food (their favourite), shop for a souvenir, see the sights for a while and then “catch a flick” as her dad liked to say. Then they would grab a taxi back to the hotel, jump in the pool for a quick swim (her dad was famous for sneaking in when the pool was closed), order a hot fudge sundae from room service, and watch the late, late show. They discussed the details over and over again before they left. The anticipation was part of the whole experience. This was all going according to plan until, as her father was leaving the convention centre, he ran into an old college friend and business associate. It had been years since they had seen each other, and Cynthia watched as they embraced enthusiastically. His friend said, in effect: “I am so glad you are doing some work with our company now. When Lois and I heard about it we thought it would be perfect. We want to invite you, and of course Cynthia, to get a spectacular seafood dinner down at the Wharf!” Cynthia’s father responded: “Bob, it’s so great to see you. Dinner at the wharf sounds great!” Cynthia was crestfallen. Her daydreams of tram rides and ice cream sundaes evaporated in an instant. Plus, she hated seafood and she could just imagine how bored she would be listening to the adults talk all night. But then her father continued: “But not tonight. Cynthia and I have a special date planned, don’t we?” He winked at Cynthia and grabbed her hand and they ran out of the door and continued with what was an unforgettable night in San Francisco. As it happens, Cynthia’s father was the management thinker Stephen R. Covey (author of The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People) who had passed away only weeks before Cynthia told me this story. So it was with deep emotion she recalled that evening in San Francisco. His simple decision “Bonded him to me forever because I knew what mattered most to him was me!” she said.5 One simple answer is we are unclear about what is essential. When this happens we become defenceless. On the other hand, when we have strong internal clarity it is almost as if we have a force field protecting us from the non-essentials coming at us from all directions. With Rosa it was her deep moral clarity that gave her unusual courage of conviction. With Stephen it was the clarity of his vision for the evening with his loving daughter. In virtually every instance, clarity about what is essential fuels us with the strength to say no to the non-essentials. Stephen R. Covey, one of the most respected and widely read business thinkers of his generation, was an Essentialist. Not only did he routinely teach Essentialist principles – like “The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing” – to important leaders and heads of state around the world, he lived them.6 And in this moment of living them with his daughter he made a memory that literally outlasted his lifetime. Seen with some perspective, his decision seems obvious. But many in his shoes would have accepted the friend’s invitation for fear of seeming rude or ungrateful, or passing up a rare opportunity to dine with an old friend. So why is it so hard in the moment to dare to choose what is essential over what is non-essential?

All about them the golden girls, shopping for dainties in Lairville. Even in the midst of the wild-maned winter's chill, skipping about in sneakers and sweatsocks, cream-colored raincoats. A generation in the mold, the Great White Pattern Maker lying in his prosperous bed, grinning while the liquid cools. But he does not know my bellows. Someone there is who will huff and will puff. The sophmores in their new junior blazers, like Saturday's magazines out on Thursday. Freshly covered textbooks from the campus store, slide rules dangling in leather, sheathed broadswords, chinos scrubbed to the virgin fiber, starch pressed into straight-razor creases, Oxford shirts buttoned down under crewneck sweaters, blue eyes bobbing everywhere, stunned by the android synthesis of one-a-day vitamins, Tropicana orange juice, fresh country eggs, Kraft homogenized cheese, tetra-packs of fortified milk, Cheerios with sun-ripened bananas, corn-flake-breaded chicken, hot fudge sundaes, Dairy Queen root beer floats, cheeseburgers, hybrid creamed corn, riboflavin extract, brewer's yeast, crunchy peanut butter, tuna fish casseroles, pancakes and imitation maple syrup, chuck steaks, occasional Maine lobster, Social Tea biscuits, defatted wheat germ, Kellogg's Concentrate, chopped string beans, Wonderbread, Birds Eye frozen peas, shredded spinach, French-fried onion rings, escarole salads, lentil stews, sundry fowl innards, Pecan Sandies, Almond Joys, aureomycin, penicillin, antitetanus toxoid, smallpox vaccine, Alka-Seltzer, Empirin, Vicks VapoRub, Arrid with chlorophyll, Super Anahist nose spray, Dristan decongestant, billions of cubic feet of wholesome, reconditioned breathing air, and the more wholesome breeds of fraternal exercise available to Western man. Ah, the regimented good will and force-fed confidence of those who are not meek but will inherit the earth all the same.

Why is it there’s no aisle in a grocery or department in a store or menu on a website for “average stuff” or “beige products”? FACT: People never got passionate about mediocre and average. While consumers and clients can find “best deals” and “natural foods” and “artisan goods,” one doesn’t find an aisle or a website menu tab offering “average stuff” without excelling in something (which might explain that while vanilla is necessary for the ice cream sundae, it’s the hot fudge we all crave and talk about).

Brian orders us both Grandpa's Turtle Sundaes, a classic with vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, caramel sauce, whipped cream and nuts, topped with a house-made turtle candy instead of a cherry. Sigh. So much for getting out of the elastic waistband pants anytime soon. But the thing is, it works. Decadent, insane, over the top, but so freaking delicious. Cold ice cream, fluffy whipped cream, the mingling richness of fudge and caramel, perfectly tempered with the salt and crunch of toasted pecans and peanuts. A weirdly perfect food.

Mentally, I found her to be a disgustingly conventional little girl. Sweet hot jazz, square dancing, gooey fudge sundaes, musicals, movie magazines and so forth - these were the obvious items on her list of beloved things. The Lord knows how many nickels I fed to the gorgeous music boxes that came with every meal we had! I still hear the nasal voices of those invisibles serenading her, people with names like Sammy and Jo and Eddy and Tony and Peggy and Guy and Patty and Rex, and sentimental song hits, all of them as similar to my ear as her various candies were to my palate.

The thought makes my teeth gnash and my lip snarl and my jaw fill with a scream. A scream that always has the same chorus. What they took away, seemingly so easily, was a person. "This was a person!" A person who could watch a sunset and feel the wind against their cheek. Smell fresh-cut grass or listen to a Bowie song. A person who could scrape up enough money to buy themselves a hot-fudge sundae. A person who could still close their eyes and dream. That's what the media refuses to understand. No matter how down and out someone may seem, no matter how many drugs they took or arrests they had or rock bottoms they hit-they could have still done all those things. Those things that make us human. And one day, someone came along and took all those things away. Every single one of them. And left them with darkness.

Miss Elizabeth has never been to Old School Custard. Shall we?" "What's the flavor?" "Has that ever stopped us?" Nick pulled out his phone and started tapping. "It's our lucky day, kiddo. Salted Caramel." He turned to me as we headed out the door. "It's a frozen custard shop that makes only one flavor a day, but they always have chocolate and vanilla for backup." "I've never had frozen custard." "You're in for a treat----tons more calories than ice cream, but much creamier. Complete yum." Old School Custard was a small shop with walls covered in pictures of all the local high schools. I found Garfield and imagined Tyler in that huge building, teaching his beloved math. I then noticed an amazing chalk calendar with the flavor for each day listed, with creative drawings, and I understood why it was addicting---who could resist flavors like Malted Milk Balls, Caramel Macchiato, Espresso, or Banana Nutella? I ordered the Turtle Sundae----two scoops of Salted Caramel custard, pecans, hot fudge, caramel sauce, and whipped cream. Nick ordered the Recess, pretty much the same thing, but with Reese's Peanut Butter Cups instead of pecans. And Matt's Playground came complete with crushed Oreos for "dirt" and gummy worms.

Careful. Serve a girl hot fudge sundaes in bed, and she just might fall in love with you.” “Note to self,” I murmur, reaching down to grip the back of Rosie’s neck, hoisting her mouth to mine. “Serve Rosie hot fudge sundaes in bed.

If it weren’t for dreamers, we wouldn’t have The Beatles, Disney World, old Italian churches, or hot fudge sundaes.

The men look at Aunt Mia the way I might look at a hot fudge sundae in the hours between lunch and dinner. You know, when you're not sure if it's a good idea to go ahead -- you're interested beyond a shadow of a doubt, but you wonder if it might turn out to be a little too much for you. Men seem to realize that Aunt Mia's already making the most of herself.

What I need you to tell me is, ‘I’m not sure, but I turn down temptations every day. I eat salads when I crave hot fudge sundaes, I force myself to go to the health club when I’m feeling dead tired, I discipline myself in a hundred ways to keep myself healthy, and I can do the same for us.’ If you’re so unsure about controlling your impulses, why should I believe you won’t cheat on me again?

Every mental activity—contemplating a theorem, savoring a hot fudge sundae, dreaming of the boy next door—consists of neurons firing in a certain sequence.

There are times when I’m terrified that Kathleen will leave. However, those times are fewer and fewer. Every day that I wake up beside her leads me to hope just a little bit more that God might give us many, many years together. Kathleen’s strong and persuasive and feisty. Feisty enough, I hope, to stick with me and refuse to give up on us. I’m desperate for the chance to grow old with Kathleen. To raise our daughters together, to celebrate holidays, to renovate Bradfordwood to its former glory, to eat chocolate cake and hot fudge sundaes together, to watch each season fade into the next. Despite the challenges, I really am the luckiest man. I love my wife. I love my girls. And they love me. We’re a family. The

and decide you really do want a hot fudge sundae! Go ahead and eat it. It is continual excess that causes trouble—not occasional liberties. God created a wide variety of foods for us to eat. Every good food God made, you can eat.

Three scoops in his bowl, one coffee, one peanut butter, one chocolate. He’d added about four pounds of hot fudge and a metric ton of caramel, just to even the score. Hank had taken one look at it and said, “You’re an idiot.” “You are.” It had been the only appropriate answer, really. “Where’s your whipped cream? Where’s the cherry? Where’re the nuts?” Tox said, “This is a snack, not a sundae, and I got all the nuts I need. Wanna see ‘em?” “You don’t know anything about dessert,” Hank said disgustedly, reaching for the door of the freezer.

Inside, they took their places in line. She scanned the menu, tried to remember what she used to get at McDonald’s back when she and Bryte considered it a treat to go there. They used to get the hot fudge sundaes, she recalled. With nuts. She scanned the board and found that they still served them. This brought her an inordinate amount of comfort. Some things didn’t change. She wondered if Sycamore Glen had.

Here’s my current “food plan”: I eat a hot-fudge sundae almost every day of the week and when there is no hot fudge, I make do with syrups and heavily moose-tracked ice-cream product. I also eat salad every day. So if I were to open a restaurant, I’d call it “Caesar Creamers.

Almost everyone—and I say “almost” because this statement does not apply to my wife—makes mistakes. These errors fall into two broad categories: We do things we are not supposed to, and we don’t do things we are supposed to. For me, buying a hot fudge sundae at McDonald’s falls into the first category, and not keeping in regular touch with my school and college friends falls into the second.

He wiped the dirt off and realised it was an onion. He bit into it without peeling it. The hot, bitter juice burst into his mouth. He could feel it all the way up to his eyes. And when he swallowed, he felt its warmth move down his throat and into his stomach. He only ate half. He gave the other half to Zero. "Here, eat this." "What is it?" Zero whispered. "A hot-fudge sundae.

It feels like Elliott has just poured sprinkles all over my hot fudge sundae, and the sugar high is rushing through my veins.

Hostas were the hot fudge sundaes of the deer world.

Here is a good joke. The little boy walks into an ice cream store, He asks for a sundae with extra hot fudge sauce. 'I'm sorry." says tje ice cream man. "Hot fudge only comes in one temperature." Mark, Florida