Kitchen Hand Towels Quotes

gathering resolution; took in a big breath and began. When he entered the kitchen presently, with both eyes shut and groping for the towel with his hands, an honorable testimony of suds and water was dripping from his

I wish there were some way I could repay you,” she said, wiping her hands. “There is.” She looked up. “What can I do for you?” “You could kiss me, Rose.” She froze, the kitchen towel in her hands, sure she had misheard. “Surely, I deserve one kiss for saving your brother.” “Why would you want me to kiss you?” “I want to know what you taste like.” A slow smile stretched his lips. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of it.” She had thought of it, but she would die before admitting it. “Can’t say I have.” “One kiss,” he said. “Or are you scared?

Galen sprints to the back sliding-glass door and bangs on it. There's no time for etiquette. He motions for Rayna and Toraf to stay back. He can tell Rayna would rather eat her own than obey, but Toraf restrains her. Emma comes to the door, a brilliant smile on her face. "You in a hurry for some reason?" she says, excitement lighting up those huge violet eyes. "He must have missed me," Emma's mom calls from the kitchen. She winks at Galen, completely oblivious to how her world is about to shift. "Mom. Ew," Emma says, handing Galen a towel and shutting the door.

After splashing icy water on their faces and rubbing them fiery red with one of the rough sweet-smelling towels, they came in and took their places at the big kitchen table. This morning the table wore a bright red-and-white checked cloth and a pot of red geraniums. Mrs. Campbell handed the girls their plates, each with a slice of ham and half of a crisp, tan waffle.

I don't understand, Jenna, why you couldn't give him a ride home?" Mom struck the archetypal Mom pose-hands on hips, perplexed look on face, head tilted at that I cannot believe you came from my womb angle. "He walked home in the pouring rain. With a cold, I might add." "I didn't know he had a cold. I was at the JCC with Steph," I said, knowing that was not going to fly. Cameron padded into the kitchen on bare feet, rubbing his hair dry with a towel. "It's fine," he said. "I didn't have to walk that far." Mom shook her head. "It's not fine. While you're living with us, you're part of the family, and we don't leave each other stranded in the rain.

I believe another one of the Song girls has a birthday coming up.” He sings, “You are sixteen, going on seventeen…” I feel a strong surge of love for him, my dad who I am so lucky to have. “What song are you singing?” Kitty interrupts. I take Kitty’s hands and spin her around the kitchen with me. “I am sixteen, going on seventeen; I know that I’m naïve. Fellows I meet may tell me I’m sweet; willingly I believe.” Daddy throws his dish towel over his shoulder and marches in place. In a deep voice he baritones, “You need someone older and wiser telling you what to do…” “This song is sexist,” Kitty says as I dip her. “Indeed it is,” Daddy agrees, swatting her with the towel. “And the boy in question was not, in fact, older and wiser. He was a Nazi in training.” Kitty skitters away from both of us. “What are you guys even talking about?” “It’s from The Sound of Music,” I say. “You mean that movie about the nun? Never seen it.” “How have you seen The Sopranos but not The Sound of Music?” Alarmed, Daddy says, “Kitty’s been watching The Sopranos?” “Just the commercials,” Kitty quickly says. I go on singing to myself, spinning in a circle like Liesl at the gazebo. “I am sixteen going on seventeen, innocent as a rose…Fellows I meet may tell me I’m sweet, and willingly I believe…” “Why would you just willingly believe some random fellows you don’t even know?” “It’s the song, Kitty, not me! God!” I stop spinning. “Liesl was kind of a ninny, though. I mean, it was basically her fault they almost got captured by the Nazis.” “I would venture to say it was Captain von Trapp’s fault,” Daddy says. “Rolfe was a kid himself--he was going to let them go, but then Georg had to antagonize him.” He shakes his head. “Georg von Trapp, he had quite the ego. Hey, we should do a Sound of Music night!” “Sure,” I say. “This movie sounds terrible,” Kitty says. “What kind of name is Georg?” We ignore her.

large mixing bowl, cover with plastic wrap or a damp kitchen towel, and set aside in a draft-free place at room temperature until the dough doubles in size, about 45 minutes. Gently remove the dough from the bowl and place it on a clean surface. Cut the dough into 4 pieces and shape into 4 smooth bâtards (you will shape them into baguettes later) by stretching out the dough from the center only once, to maintain an oblong shape. Find a surface in your kitchen free from drafts and lay a kitchen towel dusted with flour on it. Place the bâtards on the kitchen towel and cover with plastic wrap or with another kitchen towel, this one a little bit damp, to prevent a crust from forming on the surface. Leave the loaves to proof at room temperature until they double in size, 20—25 minutes. Shape the loaves by lifting them off the towel and stretching them out from the ends. Use the side of your hand to create a crease down the middle of the dough. Fold the dough onto itself at the crease, pressing it firmly against the work surface to seal it. Using the palms of your hands and

More Activities to Develop Sensory-Motor Skills Sensory processing is the foundation for fine-motor skills, motor planning, and bilateral coordination. All these skills improve as the child tries the following activities that integrate the sensations. FINE-MOTOR SKILLS Flour Sifting—Spread newspaper on the kitchen floor and provide flour, scoop, and sifter. (A turn handle is easier to manipulate than a squeeze handle, but both develop fine-motor muscles in the hands.) Let the child scoop and sift. Stringing and Lacing—Provide shoelaces, lengths of yarn on plastic needles, or pipe cleaners, and buttons, macaroni, cereal “Os,” beads, spools, paper clips, and jingle bells. Making bracelets and necklaces develops eye-hand coordination, tactile discrimination, and bilateral coordination. Egg Carton Collections—The child may enjoy sorting shells, pinecones, pebbles, nuts, beans, beads, buttons, bottle caps, and other found objects and organizing them in the individual egg compartments. Household Tools—Picking up cereal pieces with tweezers; stretching rubber bands over a box to make a “guitar”; hanging napkins, doll clothes, and paper towels with clothespins; and smashing egg cartons with a mallet are activities that strengthen many skills.

From the Waverley Kitchen Journal Fig and Pepper Bread Mary’s Note: Sometimes the two most improbable things make the best combination. Ingredients: 2 cups whole grain spelt flour 2 ½ cups unbleached all purpose flour 1 ½ cups coarsely chopped figs 2 tsp coarse black pepper 2 tsp sea salt 2 tbsp olive oil 1 dry yeast packet 1 ½ cups of warm water Whisk flour, salt, pepper, and yeast until blended, by hand or with whisk attachment of mixer. Add olive oil and warm water. Knead for 10 minutes, or use dough hook attachment of mixer for 5 minutes, until dough is smooth and springy. Oil a large bowl, place dough inside, and cover bowl with a damp hand towel. Let sit in a warm place for approximately 1 hour, or until dough has doubled in size. Softly knead in the chopped figs and evenly distribute throughout the dough (lightly flouring your hands can make handling the dough easier), shape into an oval, then place on a baking sheet. Snip three shallow lines into top of the dough with scissors, then lightly dust the dough with flour. Let rise, uncovered, until dough swells a little more—10–15 mins, or longer if the kitchen isn’t warm. Place tray in 350° oven for 40–45 mins until crust is slightly brown and the loaf sounds hollow when tapped on the underside. Cool on a wire rack.

Cakes: Microwave milk, water, oil, and butter for two minutes. Make certain it is not too hot to touch (90–100 degrees. We don’t want to kill off our little hardworking yeast, do we? No. We are not killers). Crack eggs into liquid. In the mixing bowl of a standing mixer, combine 1 ½ cups of flour, the salt, sugar, and yeast. Add the liquid and stir thoroughly. Add remaining 2 cups of flour one cup at a time, stirring between each addition. With mixer on low and using the bread paddle or hook, mix dough for 4 minutes. If you don’t have a standing mixer for some strange reason, which I cannot fathom because they are the most useful things ever, you can knead it by hand for 8 minutes instead. Scrape dough into a greased and floured mixing bowl. Let rise for one hour in a warm place. (I preheat my oven to 100 degrees and then turn it off before putting the dough inside, covered with a towel. This is a Great Way to Not Kill Your Yeast.) After one hour, remove the dough and place on a floured cutting board. Gently roll it out to a 12 x 20 inch(ish) rectangle. Combine 3 tablespoons melted butter and ¼ teaspoon orange extract for the filling. Spoon the filling to cover the rectangle, then roll it up. It will be . . . slimy. Delicious, but slimy. Use a sharp knife to cut the log into 12 rolls. (They should be swirled like cinnamon rolls.) Place each roll cut side up in a greased muffin tin and let rise for a half hour covered with the towel. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees, then bake rolls (remove the towel first, flames are such a pain in the kitchen) for 14 minutes. Let them cool in the pan for a few minutes, then tip them out onto a large plate for the next step.

Once I reached the door, I paused with my hand near the sensor, listening. At first, all I heard were heavy breaths that turned into sobs. Then Akos screamed, and there was a loud crash, followed by another one. He screamed again, and I pressed my ear to the door to listen, my lower lip trapped between my teeth. I bit down so hard I tasted blood when Akos’s screams turned to sobs. I touched the sensor, opening the door. He was sitting on the floor in the bathroom. There were pieces of shattered mirror all around him. He had ripped the shower curtain from the ceiling and the towel rack from the wall. He didn’t look up at me when I came in, or even when I walked carefully across the fragments of glass to reach him. I knelt among the shards, and reached over his shoulder to turn the shower on. I waited until the water warmed up, then tugged him by his arm toward the spray. I stood in the shower with him, fully clothed. His breaths came in sharp bursts against my cheek. I put my hand on the back of his neck and pulled his face toward the water. He closed his eyes and let it hit his cheeks. His trembling fingers sought mine, and he clutched my hand against his chest, against his armor. We stood together for a long time, until his tears subsided. Then I turned the water off, and led him into the kitchen, scattering mirror pieces with my toes as I walked. He was staring into middle distance. I wasn’t sure that he knew where he was, or what was happening to him. I undid the straps of his armor and guided it over his head; I pinched the hem of his shirt and peeled the wet fabric away from his body; I unbuttoned his pants and let them drop to the floor in a soaking-wet heap. I had daydreamed about seeing him this way, and even about one day undressing him, taking away some of the layers that separated us, but this was not a daydream. He was in pain. I wanted to help him.

I stopped struggling, going limp in his arms. He reached around us and shoved the door closed, spinning around and facing us toward the kitchen. “I was trying to make you breakfast.” It took a moment for his words and their meaning to sink in. I stared dumbfounded across the room and past the island. There was smoke billowing up from the stove and the window above the sink was wide open. Bowls and spoons littered the island and there was a carton of eggs sitting out. He was trying to cook. He was really bad at it. I started to laugh. The kind of laugh that shook my shoulders and bubbled up hysterically. My heart rate was still out of control, and I took in a few breaths between laughs to try and calm it down. He said something, but I couldn’t hear him because the fire alarm was still going off. I had no doubt half the neighborhood was now awake from the sound. He didn’t bother to put me down, instead hauling me along with him, where he finally set me down, dragged a chair over near the alarm, and climbed up to remove the battery. The noise cut off and the kitchen fell silent. “Well, shit,” he said, staring at the battery in his hand. A giggle escaped me. “Does this always happen when you cook?” He shrugged. “The only time I ever cook is when it’s my turn at the station.” His forehead creased and a thoughtful look came over his face. “The guys are never around when it’s my night to cook. Now I know why.” He snagged a towel off the counter and began waving away the rest of the lingering smoke. I clicked on the vent fan above the stove. There was a pan with half a melted spatula, something that may or may not have once been eggs, and a muffin tin with half-burned, half-raw muffins (how was that even possible?). “Well, this looks…” My words faltered, trying to come up with something positive to say. “Completely inedible?” he finished. I grinned. “You did all this for me?” “I figured after a week of hospital food, you might like something good. Apparently you aren’t going to find that here.” I had the urge to hug him. I kept my feet planted where they were. “Thank you. No one’s ever ruined a pan for me before.” He grinned. “I have cereal. Even I can’t mess that up.” I watched as he pulled down a bowl and poured me some, adding milk. He looked so cute when he handed me the bowl that I lifted the spoon and took a bite. “Best cereal I ever had.” “Damn straight.” I carried it over to the counter and sat down. “After we eat, would you mind taking me to my car? I hope it’s still drivable.” “What about the keys?” “I have a security deposit box at the bank. I keep my spare there in case I ever need them.” “Pretty smart.” “I have a few good ideas now and then.” “Contrary to the way it looks, I do too.” “Thank you for trying to make me breakfast. And for the cereal.” He walked over to the stove and picked up the ruined pan. “You died with honor,” he said, giving it a mock salute. And then he threw the entire thing into the trashcan. I laughed. “You could have washed it, you know.” He made a face. “No. Then I might be tempted to use it again.

So,” I cleared my throat, unable to tolerate his moans of pleasure and praise any longer, “uh, what are your plans for the weekend?” “The weekend?” He sounded a bit dazed. “Yes. This weekend. What do you have planned? Planning on busting up any parties?” I asked lightly, not wanting him to know that I was unaccountably breathless. I moved to his other knee and discarded the towel. “Ha. No. Not unless those wankers down the hall give me a reason to.” Removing his arms from his face, Bryan’s voice was thick, gravelly as he responded, “I, uh, have some furniture to assemble.” “Really?” Surprised, I stilled and stared at the line of his jaw. The creases around his mouth—when he held perfectly still—made him look mature and distinguished. Actually, they made him even more classically handsome, if that was even possible. “Yes. Really. Two IKEA bookshelves.” I slid my hands lower, behind his ankle, waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, I prompted, “That’s it?” “No.” He sighed, hesitated, then added, “I need to stop by the hardware store. The tap in my bathroom is leaking and one of the drawer handles in the kitchen is missing a screw. I just repainted the guest room, so I have to take the excess paint cans to the chemical disposal place; it’s only open on Saturdays before noon. And then I promised my mam I’d take her to dinner.” My mouth parted slightly because the oddest thing happened as he rattled off his list of chores. It turned me on. Even more so than running my palms over his luscious legs. That’s right. His list of adult tasks made my heart flutter. I rolled my lips between my teeth, not wanting to blurt that I also needed to go to the hardware store over the weekend. As a treat to myself, I was planning to organize Patrick’s closet and wanted to install shelves above the clothes rack. Truly, Sean’s penchant for buying my son designer suits and ties was completely out of hand. Without some reorganization, I would run out of space. That’s right. Organizing closets was something I loved to do. I couldn’t get enough of those home and garden shows, especially Tiny Houses, because I adored clever uses for small spaces. I was just freaky enough to admit my passion for storage and organization. But back to Bryan and his moans of pleasure, adult chores, and luscious legs. I would not think about Bryan Leech adulting. I would not think about him walking into the hardware store in his sensible shoes and plain gray T-shirt—that would of course pull tightly over his impressive pectoral muscles—and then peruse the aisles for . . . a screw. I. Would. Not. Ignoring the spark of kinship, I set to work on his knee, again counting to distract myself. It worked until he volunteered, “I’d like to install some shelves in my closet, but that’ll have to wait until next weekend. Honestly, I’ve been putting it off. I’d do just about anything to get someone to help me organize my closet.” He chuckled. I’d like to organize your closet. I fought a groan, biting my lip as I removed my hands, turned from his body, and rinsed them under the faucet. “We’re, uh, finished for today.

Nathaniel bowed in a playful manner, making sure to keep his volume minimal. “Mademoiselle.” He looked up and flashed his winning smile. Thomas rolled his eyes. Kitty’s face flushed as she made another quick curtsy. She flashed an impish grin at both of them and went back to the kitchen, towel in hand. “Don’t play with her, Nathaniel.” Thomas didn’t say more until he was sure Kitty was out of earshot. “You’ll break her heart before she has a chance to give it to you. Besides, you’re too old for her.

February 27 Devoted Gazes of a Slave But now that you have been set free from sin and have become slaves to God, the benefit you reap leads to holiness, and the result is eternal life. —Romans 6:22 It was bitterly cold and raining, as I went to the barn to get horse feed. In the darkness, I could barely see a patch of white in the hay. “not a good idea to leave the poor thing,” I said to myself. Assuming it was a cat, I thought I bet I’m going to get scratched. But there was no resistance. As I slid my hand under the tiny animal, I realized it was a puppy. I tucked it deep into the folds of my jacket and walked back to the house. After vigorously rubbing her coat, I wrapped her in a big, fluffy towel—still shivering. As I entered the kitchen to get milk, her little body was leaning as far to the left as she could trying not to lose sight of me. I never found the owner and from that day, Chelsea was wholly devoted to me. None of my dogs ever doted on me like she did. She literally became my slave. Her gaze was constantly upon me. She was obedient and lived to bring pleasure. I tell this story to illustrate the loving gaze of the slave toward her master. She knows he has rescued her from certain death and even now has the power of life and death over her, yet she loves him for sparing her life. She watches him closely, trying to learn his wants and desires; she devotes herself to pleasing him. Her joy becomes his joy; and in the end, he blesses her with more than she has ever given him. Perhaps it’s been a while since you’ve gazed upon the one who has saved you from the slavery of sin. Would you return to worship at his feet with loving devotion, knowing that he will give you much more than you could ever sacrifice for Him?

He leaned toward her, bracing hands on the bar. Rich brown eyes glowed warm under serious hooded brows. “I can get that cabin put right for you in no time,” he said. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.” She put out a hand and he took it. She felt his calluses as he gently squeezed her hand; he was a man who did hard, physical work. “Thanks, Jack. Your bar was the only part of this experiment I enjoyed.” She stood and began fishing for her wallet in her purse. “What do I owe you?” “On the house. The least I could do.” “Come on, Jack—none of this was your doing.” “Fine. I’ll send Hope a bill.” At that moment Preacher came out of the kitchen with a covered dish wrapped in a towel. He handed it to Jack. “Doc’s breakfast. I’ll walk out with you.” “All right,” she said. At her car, he said, “No kidding. I wish you’d think about it.” “Sorry, Jack. This isn’t for me.” “Well, damn. There’s a real dearth of beautiful young women around here. Have a safe drive.” He gave her elbow a little squeeze, balancing the covered dish in his other hand. And all she could think was, what a peach of a guy. Lots of sex appeal in his dark eyes, strong jaw, small cleft in his chin and the gracious, laid-back manner that suggested he didn’t know he was good-looking. Someone should snap him up before he figured it out. Probably someone had. Mel

The New Dog I. “I’m intensely afraid of almost everything. Grocery bags, potted poinsettias, bunches of uprooted weeds wilting on a hot sidewalk, clothes hangers, deflated rubber balls, being looked in the eye, crutches, an overcoat tossed across the back of a chair (everybody knows empty overcoats house ghosts), children, doorways, music, human hands and the newspaper rustling as my owner, in striped pajamas, drinks coffee and turns its pages. He wants to find out where there’ll be war in the mid-east this week. Afraid even of eating, if someone burps or clinks a glass with a fork, or if my owner turns the kitchen faucet on to wash his hands during my meal I go rigid with fear, my legs buckle, then I slink from the room. I pee copiously if my food bowl is placed on the floor before the other dogs’. I have to be served last or the natural order of things - in which every moment I am about to be sacrificed - (have my heart ripped from my chest by the priest wielding his stone knife or get run out of the pack by snarling, snapping alphas) - the most sacred hierarchy, that fated arrangement, the glue of the universe, will unstick. The evolution will never itself, and life as we know it will subside entirely, until only the simplest animal form remain - jellyfish headless globs of cells, with only microscopic whips for legs and tails. Great swirling arms of gas will arm wrestle for eons to win cosmic dominance. Starless, undifferentiated chaos will reign. II. I alone of little escaped a hell of beating, neglect, and snuffling dumpsters for sustenance before this gullible man adopted me. Now my new owner would like me to walk nicely by his side on a leash (without cowering or pulling) and to lie down on a towel when he asks, regardless of whether he has a piece of bologna in his pocket or not. I’m growing fond of that optimistic young man in spite of myself. If only he would heed my warnings I’d pour out my thoughts to him: When panic strikes you like a squall wind and disaster falls on you like a gale, when you are hunted and scorned, wisdom shouts aloud in the streets: What is consciousness? What is sensation? What is mind? What is pain? What about the sorrows of unwatered houseplants? What indoor cloudburst will slake their thirst? What of my littler brothers and sisters, dead at the hands of dirty two legged brutes? Who’s the ghost in the universe behind its existence, necessary to everything that happens? Is it the pajama-clad man offering a strip of bacon in his frightening hand (who’ll take me to the park to play ball if he ever gets dressed)? Is it his quiet, wet-eyed, egg-frying wife? Dear Lord, Is it me?

Frank picked up two plates. “You managed that nicely.” “Thank you.” I picked up a half-full pitcher of milk with my uninjured hand. He cleared his throat. “Your mother is a bit . . .” “Overbearing?” I carried the milk into the kitchen, set it in the cooler. He followed behind. “You’ll have to let me in on your secret if we’re all to survive her visit.” “Survive whose visit?” James piped up. Frank looked like he’d been caught eating dessert before dinner. “You and Ollie bring the rest of the dishes.” The two of them scampered from the room. I burst out laughing and covered my mouth with my unbound hand. Frank looked stricken. Then he grinned and handed me a dish towel. “I’ll wash. You dry. We’ll get this cleaned up in no time.” We fell to work, side by side. And it felt so right.

He shouldn’t have walked out, because now the awkwardness was going to fester until she felt a need to talk about the incident in the bathroom. He could have laughed it off as morning wood, making it clear the pronounced lump had nothing to do with her. That would have been a lie, of course. He’d been up for several hours and it most definitely had something to do with her. But she might have bought the story and not had to talk about it. The kitchen felt claustrophobic all of a sudden, what with the two women he barely knew and the elephant in the room, so he took his coffee and muttered about catching the morning news. He turned on the TV in the living room and sank onto the couch with a sigh of relief. It would take a few minutes to make the French toast, so he had a few minutes of normal. “Can I talk to you for a second?” It was Emma, of course, and there went his normal. He sighed and moved over on the couch. “Knock yourself out.” She sat down, far enough away so none of their body parts touched. “I get the whole guy thing. Morning…you know, and I don’t want this to be weird.” “It’s no big deal.” “Okay.” She took a sip of her coffee, then wrapped both hands around the mug. “We’ll probably have more moments like this if we’re going to live together for a month. Probably best to just laugh them off.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “Actually, when a guy’s standing in front of you, fully hard and wearing nothing but a towel, laughing might not be the best way to handle it.” “True.” Her cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink and she laughed softly. “If we were in a movie, the towel would have fallen off. Could’ve been worse.” “With my luck, I’m surprised it didn’t.

The chatter in the apartment stops. For a second, we all just stand there. Me and Mia, half-naked. Skyler, at the kitchen table. Isis, about to crack an egg against a mixing bowl on the counter. Beth, by the couch—which is covered in dresses and pants and shoes. Jason in the middle of everything like a startled animal that doesn’t know where to flee.  “What is this?” Mia tugs her towel higher. “What are you guys doing here?”  Skyler lifts a coffee carrier from the kitchen table. “I brought lattes.”  Beth spreads her hands like she’s presenting the couch. “The usual for me. A fabulous assortment of clothes for you.”  “I’m making pancakes,” Isis chirps from the kitchen.  Jason shrugs, the corner of his mouth lifting in an embarrassed smile. “I just live here.” 

These are for you.  You have two choices.  You can use them when Rachel’s gone, or you can wait until she’s back, and I’m sure she’d be happy to help you.” He studied me for a moment then walked out of the kitchen, turning toward the bathroom.  I followed a few steps behind. A startled yelp escaped me when I rounded the corner and caught sight of a naked backside.  Without much thought, I tossed the soap and toothbrush in and slammed the door shut. “You could have waited until I put the stuff in there,” I said through the door as my heart thundered in my ears.  I took a steadying breath and heard the water turn on, the clink of his dog tag hitting the sink, then the shower curtain move. Who would have thought he would even know how to use a shower?  I hadn’t.  On the way home, I’d started to think of all the different things I would need to explain, like making sure to position the curtain inside the tub.  Standing outside the door, still reeling from the view I’d gotten, I realized I might see the same thing again if I didn’t get him a towel. I’d packed two bath towels.  Purchased from a discount store, they both sported gaudy floral designs.  I grabbed one and waited outside the door again until I heard him splashing in the shower.  Then, I knocked. “I have a towel for you,” I said through the door.  “If you’re still in the shower, I can open the door and toss it on the toilet seat.  Okay?”  I didn’t hear anything.  No surprise.  “Okay, I’m coming in.”  I waited a moment for any indication that I shouldn’t enter. When the water continued to run, I cautiously opened the door.  As soon as I saw a clear path to the toilet seat, I tossed the towel.  Standing just inside the bathroom with my hand wrapped around the door handle for a quick exit, I paused.  His new toothbrush rested on the sink. “My toothpaste is the one marked with the pink nail polish on the cap.  I’ll let you use it as long as you promise not to squeeze the tube from the middle.” His answer took the form of an accurately aimed splash of water over the top of the shower curtain.  I barely dodged it. “You’re cleaning that up.” I

Sky pulls her arm back, right as I turn back to walk to the couch, and suddenly the controller flies out of her hand and smacks directly into my nose. “Ugh!” I grunt out. Sky puts her hand over her mouth and gasps. But then she runs toward me when she sees the blood dripping down my face. I walk into the kitchen because I don’t want to get blood on the carpet. “Oh thit,” I swear, when I see that the kids didn’t follow us. She sits me down in a chair and puts a towel under my nose. “That hurts wike a mudder fudder.” I sound like I’m all stopped up with a cold, but the blood is still dripping, so I pinch my nose closed. “I’m so sorry,” she says as she drops down in front of me. She rests her forearms on my thighs. I can smell the pizza she just ate on her breath, and I really, really want to kiss her, but I have blood all over my face and hands. “I’m so sorry,” she says again. “I didn’t know it would fly out of my hand like that.” “You hab ta wap it awound your wist,” I say. “I have to wrap it around my wrist?” she repeats. “To keep it fwom fwying.” “Crap,” she says again. “I am so sorry.” She already said that. She gets up and goes to get a wet towel. She cleans my hands and wipes gently beneath my nose. My nose hurts like a son of a bitch. I jerk my head back, but she just follows, probing and prodding. “I think the bleeding has stopped,” she says. But I let her continue to fuss over me, just because I like it. “Do you want some ice?” she asks. Yeah, but I need it for my dick and not for my nose. “Pwease,” I say. Her face is only inches from mine. But then she goes to the fridge. She comes back with a small bag of ice. She’d probably get offended if I shoved it in my pants, so I lay it against my nose, instead. I brace my chin with one hand and hold the ice with the other. “I really didn’t mean to hit you,” she says. She looks so worried that I have to let her off the hook. Hell, I lived with four brothers. I have had more nosebleeds than I could ever begin to count. “I’ll wiv,” I say. She leans close and kisses my cheek. I want to turn my head and press my lips to hers, but I don’t. “You in lub wif me yet?” I ask. She laughs and turns her head away, closing her eyes. Her giggle is so damn cute. She winces. “I gwess dats a no,” I say. I lift my shirt and wipe the edge of my nose, since she took my wet towel. When I do, her eyes go to my frog prince, and she leans forward and presses her lips to him. She looks up at me, her blue eyes wide, as she holds her lips there for a second. Then she makes a loud smacking noise and pops back up, grinning. “There. All better?” Fuck no. We’re just getting started. Seth sticks his head into the room. He smirks at me and shakes his head. “Dude,” he says. He laughs. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.” I throw down the ice. “Dat’s it. I’m going to kick your ath at bow’ing, Seth. You are going down.” I follow him into the other room, take a controller, and try to pretend like she didn’t just rock my world.

dishes, leads, food, Plates, Pillows, Portable Television, Pans, Propane bottles S - Shoes, Surf boards, Soaps (Bar, dishwashing detergent, washing machine,) Shampoo. T - Tool kit, Toaster, Trash Cans, Towels: hand, large, kitchen, Toothbrushes, Toothpaste, Toilet paper, Tea bags. U - Umbrella. V - Vacuum cleaner This is by no means a comprehensive list, and you probably have a few things of your own to add. What is important is that you start the list early, and then keep adding all the essentials that will need to be on it.   Maintaining

Nathaniel bowed in a playful manner, making sure to keep his volume minimal. “Mademoiselle.” He looked up and flashed his winning smile. Thomas rolled his eyes. Kitty’s face flushed as she made another quick curtsy. She flashed an impish grin at both of them and went back to the kitchen, towel in hand. “Don’t play with her, Nathaniel.” Thomas didn’t say more until he was sure Kitty was out of earshot. “You’ll break her heart before she has a chance to give it to you. Besides, you’re too old for her.” “I’m not playing with anyone. And who are you calling old? I’m only a few years older than you.” Nathaniel kept his eyes on the kitchen door and sighed before he shook his head and straightened. “I have to be myself, my friend. I can’t help it if my good looks and charm makes those of the fairer sex swoon in my presence.” A grin he could not contain overtook Thomas’s face. “Your humility amazes me.” “It should. With such a face one would expect a certain degree of pride, but I like to treat even a common looking fellow like yourself with the highest respect.

You are not leaving.” “I will not argue the matter with you when Winnie can walk into the kitchen at any minute.” “Fair enough, but you will listen to what I say, Emmie Farnum. You are too damned skinny, you aren’t getting enough rest, your temper is short, and I don’t care if your menses are going to start this afternoon, you have no call to be treating me like I’m your enemy.” “Do not,” she hissed, “mention my bodily functions outside of a locked bedroom door.” St. Just ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. “I want to help, all right? All I’m saying is you seem frazzled, and if Winnie is part of the problem, I’ll tackle that, but we need to find a way to talk that doesn’t leave us at daggers drawn.” His tone was reasonable, almost pleading, and when he saw her shoulders relax, he knew he was making some progress—not much, but some. “If you would keep Winnie occupied today, I’d appreciate it.” “Done. And when you are through here, please just take a nap, Em.” He glanced around the kitchen. “Leave the mess. I’ve got staff, and they can clean up for once. Don’t come down to dinner if you don’t want to, either. Val understands—he plays his piano for hours most days, and if we see him at meals, it’s a coincidence. Just…” He looked her up and down, trying to keep the worry from his expression. “Just get some rest,” he finished with a tentative smile. “Please?” She nodded, able to return a small smile of her own. Taking his chances, St. Just stepped over to her, brushed a kiss to her forehead, and took his leave. He was more alarmed that she merely bore the kiss silently rather than swat him again with her towel. He

Do you make pizza dough?" "Yes." "This is the same thing. Very easy." When the yeast was foamy, she added flour, olive oil, and salt and handed me a large wooden spoon. "Now you stir it hard until it comes together. Then we knead." She floured the counter and I stirred until the ingredients came together and then turned the dough mass out onto the flour. Rosa divided it in half and we each kneaded a piece until it was smooth. We shaped them into balls, and Rosa covered them with a kitchen towel. "Now we prepare the fillings," she said. She went into a large pantry and returned with a basket filled with Italian salamis, ham, cheeses, red bell peppers, broccoli rabe, and fresh arugula. Just as Sally had said on the promotion show, "Casey Costello was cooking right in the kitchen with a real Italian," but it was no different from cooking with Mom or Nonna. The ingredients were the same, and Rosa, like my mother and grandmother, used no recipes. She knew her way around her ingredients and seemed pleased that I did as well. I realized that more than the country, more than the language, the food connected me to my heritage. I oiled the peppers and put them in a hot oven to roast. When they were charred, I removed the stems and seeds and cut them into thin strips. I laid them on a dish and put a little olive oil, salt, and vinegar on them. She peeled the stems of the broccoli rabe then cut it into two-inch pieces before blanching it for a minute and then sautéing it with olive oil, garlic, and hot pepper. I washed the arugula, removed the tough stems, and dried it. We put the fillings on platters. The colors were dynamite.

What it is is amazing: a fresh burst of sweet, briny crab flavor, beautifully complimented by just a hint of lemon, followed by a soft crunch from the biscuit, which dissolves more slowly than the mousse and has a slightly salty, vegetal flavor. Susan's sorry when it's done; she could happily eat a dozen of these, or just a bowl filled with that mousse. But she doesn't want to show her hand, so she keeps her face as still as she can manage and just makes a little "hmm" noise as she wipes a little mousse off her fingers with a kitchen towel (hard to resist licking them clean). "Is that seaweed?" she asks, indicating a tray of biscuits, lined up nearby. Without the mousse topping, she can see that they weren't really biscuits at all, but many layers of paper-thin seaweed, pressed together to form a semi-firm base. "It is," Gloria confirms. "Foraged from Scottish coasts, with Orkney crab mousse and Scottish salmon roe. Scotland's waters, on a plate.

Things in the kitchen were, thankfully, going according to plan. Ginny's hands moved at a gratifying pace over the stove. She deftly controlled the four burners to simmer sauces with ease. A pair of solid wooden cutting boards were positioned at her elbow, piled with minced garlic, leafy herbs, and fresh root vegetables. A beautiful cut of Angus beef rested on the counter, coming to room temperature and marinating in rich juices. An elevated twist on a white chocolate cheesecake chilled on the packed refrigerator shelf. All in all, she had planned a fabulous meal. This was how Ginny had always envisioned Mesquite running, smooth and well staffed, with happy guests at the table and herself at the helm. If she thought about it hard enough, which she rarely had time to do, Ginny would say this evening was damn near perfection. Feeling sentimental, she allowed herself a pour from the bottle of chilled Oregon pinot noir in the refrigerator. She wiped her fingers clean with a nearby tea towel and watched as the golden evening light filtered through the windows, illuminating the translucent burgundy liquid in her glass. This is how it should be, she thought to herself. Happy customers in the other room, her daughter and her sister all under one roof, and a warm place to call home. She'd be content if she knew it could last.

I headed straight for the half-bathroom I remembered seeing on my other visits over. I peed and started washing my hands, and it was when I reached for a towel that I happened to look down and saw something small and brown run across the floorboard. I froze. Leaning over just a little, I peeked around the toilet and saw it again. Two little eyes. One bare tail. About two inches long. It darted off, disappearing around the trash can. I wasn’t proud of myself… but I screamed. Not loud, but it was still a scream. And then I got the hell out of there. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I’d ever moved so fast going down the hall, thankful I’d seen him after I’d pulled my pants on and zipped them up, going as far away from the bathroom as possible. Which ended up being the kitchen. Rhodes was standing by the island, tearing paper towels off when he noticed me coming. A frown came over his face. “What’s—” “There’s a mouse in the bathroom!” I squeaked and went past him, pretty much leaping onto the stool beside the counter, then jumping from there to the back of the couch with a frantic look toward the floor to make sure I hadn’t been followed. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Amos stood up so fast the chair he was in fell backward, and the next thing I knew, he’d leaped onto the couch and ended up beside me, his butt propped up on the back of it, legs dangling inches off the floor in the air. Johnny and Jackie either didn’t care or were so stunned by Amos and me, that they hadn’t moved a single inch from the table. “A rat?” Rhodes asked from the exact same spot he’d been in. I shook my head at him, exhaling hard to try and bring my heart rate down. “No, a mouse.” His eyebrows crept up about a half-inch, but I noticed it. “You’re screaming because of a mouse?” Did he have to ask so slowly? I swallowed. “Yes!” He blinked. Beside me, Amos suddenly snorted deep in his throat like he hadn’t knocked his chair over. Then I noticed that Rhodes’s chest was shaking. “What?” I asked, eyeing the floor again. His chest was shaking even more, and he barely managed to wheeze out, both eyes squeezing closed, “I… I didn’t know you were into parkour.” Amos snorted again, lowering his legs and planting his feet. “You backflipped onto the table…,” Rhodes choked out. He was wheezing. The son of a bitch was wheezing. “No, I did not!” I argued, starting to feel just a little bit… foolish. I hadn’t. I didn’t know how to backflip. “You jumped from the island to the couch,” Rhodes kept going, raising a fist to hold it right in front of his nose. He could barely talk. “Your face… Ora, it was so white,” Am started, bottom lip starting to tremble. I pressed my lips together and stared at my favorite traitor. “My soul left my body for a second, Am. And you didn’t exactly walk over here either, okay.” Rhodes, who decided that this was what he was going to find hilarious, barely choked out, “You looked like you saw a ghost.” Amos burst out laughing. Then Rhodes burst out laughing. One quick glance confirmed that Johnny was chuckling too, Jackie was the only one giving me a smile. I was glad someone had a heart. They were cracking up, totally and completely cracking up. “You know, I hope it crawls into one of your mouths for being so mean to me,” I muttered, joking. Mostly. Rhodes grinned so wide, he came over and slapped his son on the back while they both kept laughing. At me. But together. And maybe I wasn’t going to be able to sleep tonight now, worried there might be a mouse next door, but it would be worth it.

Perhaps she could do something nice for Mama instead of buying her things. She might see if she could keep the house tidied for her or find out one of the farm tasks that Mama didn’t love and do it for her. One thing was for sure: Elizabeth had all she wanted just being there with Mama. Maybe being with each other was gift enough. Later that day, when Elizabeth and Mama arrived at Beatrice’s house for her party, the door opened, and instead of the warm, arm-stretched hello Elizabeth had gotten as a child, a middle-aged woman stood in front of them. The woman had mousy hair swept into an updo, eyes that almost disappeared when she smiled, and a hunter-green corduroy dress with Christmas trees printed all over it. Her gaze fluttering over to Elizabeth, she beckoned them inside. “I’m Ella, Ray’s wife,” she told Elizabeth. “Nice to meet you,” Elizabeth said as Ella beamed at her over her shoulder, while her mother swung the gift bag with the kitchen dish and towel set she’d gotten for Beatrice by her side. Ella ushered them down the narrow hallway of the house to the kitchen that smelled of sugar and butter. The long rectangular farmhouse table was covered in Christmas cupcakes on pedestals, all of them decorated with different green and red icing shapes, assortments of holiday cookies, and platters of food. Ray was perusing the fare, pinching a few crackers with cheese, a paper plate in his weathered hand.

The treat you gave your dog this morning for doing his little dance in the kitchen had good associations for him as he gobbled it up. That same treat caused him to run away from you when you offered it later to try to lure him into the bathtub. He's no fool. He can see the towel and shampoo bottle in your other hand and he knows what that means. Suddenly that chicken jerky you are holding reeks of a mean trick. The circumstances around a stimulus changed, so the meaning of that stimulus in the moment changed for him as well.

Beef & Butternut Squash Stew 6 Servings   Ingredients: 2 tablespoons olive or vegetable oil 1 pound beef stew meat, cut into 1-inch cubes 1/4 cup of flour 3 carrots, chopped 1 onion, coarsely chopped 2 cloves garlic, minced 4 cups beef stock 1 (14.5-ounce) can whole tomatoes, crushed with your hands or a potato masher 1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce (optional) 2 bay leaves 1 teaspoon dried thyme 1 small butternut squash, peeled and cut into 1-inch cubes 1 cup frozen or canned peas 1 teaspoon salt and, plus extra 1/2 teaspoon pepper, plus extra   Directions: 1. Preheat oven to 325 degrees F. 2. Heat oil over medium-high heat in a Dutch oven, or large skillet. While the oil is heating, blot the beef cubes with a paper towel to remove the moisture (this will allow them to get nice and brown in the pan). Next, season the beef cubes with 1 teaspoon of salt, and 1/2 teaspoon of pepper. Toss the seasoned beef cubes with the flour, and then brown the beef in the hot oil. 3. Remove the browned beef from the pot with a slotted spoon, and set aside on a plate. In the same pot, cook the carrots, onion and garlic over medium heat until they have a little color (about 10 minutes,) 4. If you used a Dutch oven to brown the meat and vegetables, go ahead and return the beef to the Dutch oven and toss with the vegetables. If you browned the meat and vegetables skillet, transfer everything to an oven-proof pot or casserole dish. 5. Add the beef stock, crushed tomatoes, Worcestershire sauce, bay leaves and thyme to the pot. Cover tightly and put into the oven for 90 minutes. 6. Remove from the oven and add the butternut squash. You will want the meat and vegetables to be submerged in liquid, so add a little more water or stock to the pot if needed. Give everything a stir, and cover, this time leaving the lid slightly ajar so that the steam can escape. Return to the oven for another 60 minutes, or until beef and squash are tender. 7. Remove from the oven and stir the peas into the hot stew. Allow the stew to cool for about 15 minutes before serving. Add salt and pepper, to taste.

I squat to retrieve the pitcher but Bruno’s faster. He offers it to me and I make the mistake of looking him in the eye. My balance is thrown and I start to fall back. Bruno drops the pitcher and takes hold of both of my wrists to keep my butt from slamming into the ground. He uses my momentum, and in one swift movement, we’re both standing again, face-to-face. Too close. Way too close. He smells of wine. And basil. Bruno picks up the pitcher, slowly this time, and loops my fingers through the handle. “All right?” he asks, his smile big and hypnotizing. I nod. “You should wash this.” I nod again. “And refill it.” Nod. “You agree with everything I say?” Nod. “You like sleeping in my bed last night?” My face combusts, suddenly very aware of all the customers, especially the table of American hoochies not even five feet away. I steal a glance at them. The brunette’s mouth hangs open and the blond one looks me up and down, her expression simultaneously appalled and impressed. I’m mortified. And slightly thrilled. I run through the restaurant and into the kitchen without looking back. I blast the cold water into the sink, let it fill my cupped hands, and dip my face down into it again and again until I’m no longer on fire. When my eyes clear, I notice a hand towel dangling in front of me. Luca. I take it and quickly pat my face dry. “I--”…have no idea what to say. “Your brother…” Luca makes an understanding noise. “Bruno is”--he struggles for the world--“loud.” I would have said something else, but his definition is accurate too. Luca wasn’t even outside but he obviously knows his brother well. Bruno barging in on me while I was changing should have told me everything I needed to know about him.

We stop at the gate to the apartment, but Bruno’s still hanging on to me. “The key,” he says, swaying his hips. “Pocket on left.” “So put me down and get it out.” He lowers his lips to my ear. “You get it for me?” Goose bumps. All over. I may have decided I want his attention, but that’s a little much. I remove my hands from his neck and push my legs down against his arm, making myself as heavy as possible. He gives in and lets me slide off, then opens the gate. I hop over to the stairs and use the railing as leverage to hoist myself up the first and second steps, blood pounding in my ears with every move. With a top floor apartment, this could take an hour. Bruno scoops me back up without a word and trudges up the stairs. Despite the strength and precision it takes him to avoid letting any of my appendages smack into the wall, he’s not even winded when we finally get to the apartment. He sets me down on the couch--the boys’ temporary bed folded away inside--and carefully props my giant foot on a pillow. He rummages in the kitchen and comes back with a plastic sandwich bag filled with ice, wrapped in a hand towel. The weight of it sends a fresh wave of pain up to my temples and I lean back, bracing myself. “I am sorry!” he says, a deep line between his eyebrows. “It’s fine.” I force a laugh. “This”--I motion to my foot--“is definitely not your fault.” “It is. I should have gone. It would not have happened.” If he had come with me, I know exactly what would have happened, and it wouldn’t have involved sightseeing. It would have been The Kissing Bench Part II.

Petrykin left the room again, and after a few seconds Green could hear him washing his hands in the kitchen sink. He returned a few seconds later drying his hands on a towel. In his pocket was a pair of latex gloves. Green smiled as Petrykin put them on. He too had a box of gloves ready and waiting in his kitchen. Habit of the profession, he thought. Petrykin took out the book and the sheet of folded up paper from the package. "So, Stuart, this was hidden in the lining here?" Petrykin mimed the removal of the page from the book. "Exactly." "Okay, let me look at this book first." Green watched the master go to work, inspecting the volume from every angle. It didn't take long before he reached a verdict. "It looks to be from the correct period, certainly. Sixteenth century. And that's the Tsar's seal, I'm positive, unless it's a forgery..." Petrykin looked inside the book. "Greek. My Greek isn't what it should be—too much football when I should have been studying—but it’s of the right period. The workmanship suggests a very expensive book, but not too fancy. To be read, rather than admired. Do you know what it says?" Green shook his head. "Until today I only had a few photographed pages, which I sent to be translated.” "Constantin?" Petrykin asked. "Yes, actually, but he never got back to me. I imagine he's busy." "Not busy so much as troubled. The university is after him," Petrykin lamented. "Really?" Petrykin nodded gravely and made the universal gesture of tipping a bottle toward one’s mouth. "He sucks his thumb?" Green joked. Petrykin faked a smile. "Ha, ha," he said. "We should get him this book—no, a copy, he cannot be trusted at the moment. Is he the only Greek person we know in the whole world?" Petrykin wondered, annoyed. "Could be," Green lamented. "Okay, we will take the book to the copy place and copy some of it. If it's promising, we copy the rest.

The weighty sound of Skinripper’s doom metal rose from the basement. The slow, tuned-down heaviness shook the floorboards. Gretchen couldn’t make out all the growled lyrics, but she made out the word “crepuscular.” No idea what it meant, but damn if that wasn’t the metalest word she’d ever heard. She walked into the kitchen, ripped some paper towel off the roll, stuck it in her ears, and opened the door to the basement. The power of the big arena sound almost knocked her backward. Skinripper was a power trio. Amanda “Louder” Lauden on drums. Jose “Pepe” Marrero on bass. Which left Gretchen’s brother Kurt “No Nickname” Ucker on guitar and vocals. One hundred decibels of plodding dread that sounded like Chewbacca in a suit of armor slowly falling down a staircase. In a good way.

Stormy insists I stay with her and John stay with Mr. Morales in his spare bedroom. I can tell John isn’t crazy about this idea, because he asks, “Can’t I just sleep on your floor?” I’m surprised when Stormy shakes her head. “I hardly think Lara Jean’s father would appreciate that!” “I really don’t think my dad would mind, Stormy,” I say. “I could call him if you want.” But the answer is a firm and resounding no: John must bunk with Mr. Morales. For a lady who’s always telling me to be wild and have adventures and bring the condom, she’s far more old-fashioned than I thought. Stormy hands John a face towel and a pair of foam earplugs. “Mr. Morales snores,” she tells him as she kisses him good night. John raises an eyebrow at her. “How do you know?” “Wouldn’t you like to know!” She shimmies off into the kitchen like the grand dame she truly is. In a low voice John says to me, “You know what? I really, really wouldn’t.” I bite the cushiony part of my cheek to keep from laughing. “Keep your phone on vibrate,” John says before he goes out the door. “I’ll text you.

Stupid woman,” muttered Jean Guy as he entered the kitchen. He grabbed a dish towel from the rack and began furiously drying a plate. Gamache figured that was the last they’d see of the India Tree design. “Tell me she’s adopted.” “No, homemade.” Reine-Marie handed the next plate to her husband. “Screw you.” Annie’s dark head shot into the kitchen then disappeared. “Bless her heart,” said Reine-Marie.