Licking Bowl Quotes

I’m the frosting on America’s cake, and tonight I’m willing to let you lick the bowl.

What if I promise to make you a batch of brownies tomorrow?" she asked, deciding to use his love of baked goods against him. He snorted in disbelief as he got to his feet. "I'm not some whore you can buy with a pan of yummy baked goods, woman. How dare you insult me?" he said on a sniff as he folded his arms over his chest and did his best to look put out. "Fine," Haley said with a sigh. "What if I promise to make a big bowl of frosting tomorrow and let you lick it off me?" She had to bite back a smile as Jason shifted anxiously while he licked his lips and ran his eyes hungrily down her body. "Buttercream?" he croaked out. "Mmmmhmm," she said, walking over to him. She cupped the back of his head and gently tugged him down for a quick kiss. "And if you're good I might lick some off you," she said, loving the idea. "Get your own bowl of frosting. I don't share," he simply said, giving her one last kiss before walking out the door, whistling happily, no doubt thinking about the large bowl of frosting he was going to devour tomorrow.

I was on a mission. I had to learn to comfort myself, to see what others saw in me and believe it. I needed to discover what the hell made me happy other than being in love. Mission impossible. When did figuring out what makes you happy become work? How had I let myself get to this point, where I had to learn me..? It was embarrassing. In my college psychology class, I had studied theories of adult development and learned that our twenties are for experimenting, exploring different jobs, and discovering what fulfills us. My professor warned against graduate school, asserting, "You're not fully formed yet. You don't know if it's what you really want to do with your life because you haven't tried enough things." Oh, no, not me.." And if you rush into something you're unsure about, you might awake midlife with a crisis on your hands," he had lectured it. Hi. Try waking up a whole lot sooner with a pre-thirty predicament worm dangling from your early bird mouth. "Well to begin," Phone Therapist responded, "you have to learn to take care of yourself. To nurture and comfort that little girl inside you, to realize you are quite capable of relying on yourself. I want you to try to remember what brought you comfort when you were younger." Bowls of cereal after school, coated in a pool of orange-blossom honey. Dragging my finger along the edge of a plate of mashed potatoes. I knew I should have thought "tea" or "bath," but I didn't. Did she want me to answer aloud? "Grilled cheese?" I said hesitantly. "Okay, good. What else?" I thought of marionette shows where I'd held my mother's hand and looked at her after a funny part to see if she was delighted, of brisket sandwiches with ketchup, like my dad ordered. Sliding barn doors, baskets of brown eggs, steamed windows, doubled socks, cupcake paper, and rolled sweater collars. Cookouts where the fathers handled the meat, licking wobbly batter off wire beaters, Christmas ornaments in their boxes, peanut butter on apple slices, the sounds and light beneath an overturned canoe, the pine needle path to the ocean near my mother's house, the crunch of snow beneath my red winter boots, bedtime stories. "My parents," I said. Damn. I felt like she made me say the secret word and just won extra points on the Psychology Game Network. It always comes down to our parents in therapy.

Unfortunately, the body within the uniform belonged to Quill Kipps, so the overall effect was like watching a plague rat lick a bowl of caviar. Yes, the classy element was there, but it wasn’t what you focused on.

While the bhikshu Views her navel And she His handsome face, Crows lick clean Both ladle and alms bowl.

A brick could be used like ice cream. But hold up, hold up. Let me put a bowl under it before you start licking, or else you’ll drip brick all over my blanket.


You know who dies first, the guy who licks our bowls and puts his faith in the sick bay, or squeals to the godfather.

So he does what a kid has to do: He smells the cedar chest in his parents’ bedroom, he decapitates dandelions, seesaws at the park, licks the mixing bowl, rides his bike, counts railroad cars, holds his breath, clucks his tongue, tastes tofu, touches moss, daydreams, looks back, looks ahead, wishes, wonders… and before he knows it, miraculously, the summer is over.” (p. 163).

Discovering a note in the mending basket, Phoebe plucked it out and unfolded it. She instantly recognized West's handwriting. Unemployed Feline Seeking Household Position To Whom It May Concern, I hereby offer my services as an experienced mouser and personal companion. References from a reputable family to be provided upon request. Willing to accept room and board in lieu of pay. Indoor lodgings preferred. Your servant, Galoshes the Cat Glancing up from the note, Phoebe found her parents' questioning gazes on her. "Job application," she explained sourly. "From the cat." "How charming," Seraphina exclaimed, reading over her shoulder. "'Personal companion,' my foot," Phoebe muttered. "This is a semi-feral animal who has lived in outbuildings and fed on vermin." "I wonder," Seraphina said thoughtfully. "If she were truly feral, she wouldn't want any contact with humans. With time and patience, she might become domesticated." Phoebe rolled her eyes. "It seems we'll find out." The boys returned from the dining car with a bowl of water and a tray of refreshments. Galoshes descended to the floor long enough to devour a boiled egg, an anchovy canapé, and a spoonful of black caviar from a silver dish on ice. Licking her lips and purring, the cat jumped back into Phoebe's lap and curled up with a sigh. "I'd say she's adjusting quite well," Seraphina commented with a grin, and elbowed Phoebe gently. "One never knows who might rise above their disreputable past.

Orange fluff ball, Rocky is an 18-pound marvel of love, so fluffy, he looks like he’s 26 pounds. He scares the local dogs just by sitting and staring at them. Rocky’s there for me when I get home, purrs when he wants to, leads me to the food bowl when he needs to, licks me in an attempt to heal my wounds, loves cellophane, red ribbons, left over chicken. Rocky, my best friend, is my orange fluff ball, and I wish I could share him with the world. -- Scott C. Holstad, Northern Stars Magazine (2004)

Nwella came up with a silver bowl and a big soft brush, and before Madrigal knew what was happening Nwella had dusted her chest, neck, and shoulders with something that glittered. “What—?” “Sugar,” she said, giggling. “Nwella!” Madrigal tried to brush it off, but it was dust-fine and it clung: sugar powder, which girls wore when they planned to be tasted. If her rose petal lips and naked back were not enough invitation to Thiago, Madrigal thought, this certainly was. Its telltale shimmer might as well have been a sign that said LICK ME.

You taste salty-" Matilda licked her lips "-like pretzels." It was an intimate gesture. I brushed her lips with mine, and it brought me back to that magical night at the estate bowling alley when I treaded carefully with my lips. "You taste sweet," I said. "Like sugar." "Like guava." Matilda grinned playfully. "I missed you." It came out before I could think about it. "I missed you squared, times seven, plus four," Matilda replied. It reminded me of something Matilda would have said at the estate- childish in a way. She was a completely different woman than the girl I had met on the tennis court, yet in some ways still the same. I needed to love the woman she was becoming, not just the girl she had been.

But wait. My eyes are almost burned by what I see. There’s a bowl in front of me that wasn’t there before. A brown button bowl and in it some apricots, some small oranges, some nuts, cherries, a banana. The fruits, the colours, mesmerize me in a quiet rapture that spins through my head. I am entranced by colour. I lift an orange into the flat filthy palm of my hand and feel and smell and lick it. The colour orange, the colour, the colour, my God the colour orange. Before me is a feast of colour. I feel myself begin to dance, slowly, I am intoxicated by colour. I feel the colour in a quiet somnambulant rage. Such wonder, such absolute wonder in such an insignificant fruit. I cannot. I will not eat this fruit. I sit in quiet joy, so complete, beyond the meaning of joy. My soul finds its own completeness in that bowl of colour. The forms of each fruit. The shape and curl and bend all so rich, so perfect. I want to bow before it. Loving that blazing, roaring, orange colour ... Everything meeting in a moment of colour and form, my rapture no longer abstract euphoria. It is there in that tiny bowl, the world recreated in that broken bowl. I feel the smell of each fruit leaping into me and lifting me and carrying me away. I am drunk with something that I understand but cannot explain. I am filled with a sense of love. I am filled and satiated by it. What I have waited and longed for has without my knowing come to me, and taken all of me. For days I sit in a kind of dreamy lethargy, in part contemplation and in part worship. The walls seem to be singing. I focus all of my attention on the bowl of fruit. At times I fondle the fruits, at times I rearrange them, but I cannot eat them. I cannot hold the ecstasy of the moment and its passionate intensity. It seems to drift slowly from me as the place in which I am being held comes back to remind me of where I am and of my condition. But my containment does not oppress me. I sit and look at the walls but now this room seems so expansive, it seems I can push the walls away from me. I can reach out and touch them from where I sit and yet they are so far from me.

Once inside the confectioners, she was spellbound by sugared fruits hung in garlands and glass bottles sparkling with morsels of sugar. While Loveday spoke to the shop girl, Biddy trailed the shelves slowly, looking inside the glass jars, mouthing the words on the Bill of Fare. 'Look Mr Loveday, "Macaroons- As Made In Paris"', she sighed, staring at a heap of biscuits made in every color from blue to shiny gold. Carefully he ordered his goods from the jars of herbs behind the counter. First, there was Mr Pars' packet of coltsfoot that he smoked to ease his chest. Then a bag of comfrey tea for his mistress's stomach. Finally, boxes of the usual violet pastilles. Biddy came up behind him while the girl tied the parcel with ribbon. 'Begging your pardon, miss. Is it right you're selling that Royal Ice Cream?' The girl shrugged. 'That's what it says on the board if you can read it.' 'Aye, I've been studying it all right. I've only ever read of ices before. So I'll have a try of it.' When the girl reappeared Biddy sniffed at the glass bowl, and then cautiously licked the ice cream from the tiny spoon. 'Why, it is orange flowers.' She looked happy enough to burst. 'And something else, some fragrant nut- do you put pistachio in it too?

Joanne Sanders, a broad woman in her forties, posed with friends, family, and Snowball in photographs displayed on the mantel of the fake fireplace. She had shoulder-length brown hair and bangs teased high above her brow. I could picture her behind ten inches of bulletproof glass sneering at me with gloss-encased lips for filling out my deposit slip incorrectly. I fed Snowball half a cup of kibble and a spoonful of wet food as my envelope of information directed. She ate it quickly while making funny little squeaking noises. Once she had licked her bowl to a bright sheen, we headed out for my first walk as a dog-walker. I steered us off of East End Avenue and onto the esplanade that runs along the river. The water reflected the sun in bright silver glints. I smelled oil and brine. We reached Carl Schurz Park and turned into the dog run for small dogs. The gate leading into the run reached only to my knees, as did the rest of the fence designed to keep small dogs in and big ones out. A sign on the gate read, "Dogs over 25 pounds not permitted." Ten dogs under 25 pounds, and one who was probably a little over, played together in the pen. Their owners, in groups of three or four, sat on worn wooden benches and talked about dogs. Snowball ran to join a poodle growling at a puppy. They intimidated it behind its owner's calves. Then the poodle, a miniature gray curly thing with long ears, mounted Snowball. I turned to the river and watched a giant barge inch by.

In the meantime, I tried my best to acclimate to my new life in the middle of nowhere. I had to get used to the fact that I lived twenty miles from the nearest grocery store. That I couldn’t just run next door when I ran out of eggs. That there was no such thing as sushi. Not that it would matter, anyway. No cowboy on the ranch would touch it. That’s bait, they’d say, laughing at any city person who would convince themselves that such a food was tasty. And the trash truck: there wasn’t one. In this strange new land, there was no infrastructure for dealing with trash. There were cows in my yard, and they pooped everywhere--on the porch, in the yard, even on my car if they happened to be walking near it when they dropped a load. There wasn’t a yard crew to clean it up. I wanted to hire people, but there were no people. The reality of my situation grew more crystal clear every day. One morning, after I choked down a bowl of cereal, I looked outside the window and saw a mountain lion siting on the hood of my car, licking his paws--likely, I imagined, after tearing a neighboring rancher’s wife from limb to limb and eating her for breakfast. I darted to the phone and called Marlboro Man, telling him there was a mountain lion sitting on my car. My heart beat inside my chest. I had no idea mountain lions were indigenous to the area. “It’s probably just a bobcat,” Marlboro Man reassured me. I didn’t believe him. “No way--it’s huge,” I cried. “It’s seriously got to be a mountain lion!” “I’ve gotta go,” he said. Cows mooed in the background. I hung up the phone, incredulous at Marlboro Man’s lack of concern, and banged on the window with the palm of my hand, hoping to scare the wild cat away. But it only looked up and stared at me through the window, imagining me on a plate with a side of pureed trout. My courtship with Marlboro Man, filled with fizzy romance, hadn’t prepared me for any of this; not the mice I heard scratching in the wall next to my bed, not the flat tires I got from driving my car up and down the jagged gravel roads. Before I got married, I didn’t know how to use a jack or a crowbar…and I didn’t want to have to learn now. I didn’t want to know that the smell in the laundry room was a dead rodent. I’d never smelled a dead rodent in my life: why, when I was supposed to be a young, euphoric newlywed, was I being forced to smell one now? During the day, I was cranky. At night, I was a mess. I hadn’t slept through the night once since we returned from our honeymoon. Besides the nausea, whose second evil wave typically hit right at bedtime, I was downright spooked. As I lay next to Marlboro Man, who slept like a baby every night, I thought of monsters and serial killers: Freddy Krueger and Michael Myers, Ted Bundy and Charles Manson. In the utter silence of the country, every tiny sound was amplified; I was certain if I let myself go to sleep, the murderer outside our window would get me.

A knock at the enameled door of the carriage altered them to the presence of a porter and a platform inspector just outside. Sebastian looked up and handed the baby back to Evie. He went to speak to the men. After a minute or two, he came back from the threshold with a basket. Looking both perturbed and amused, he brought it to Phoebe. “This was delivered to the station for you.” “Just now?” Phoebe asked with a nonplussed laugh. “Why, I believe it’s Ernestine’s mending basket! Don’t say the Ravenels went to the trouble of sending someone all the way to Alton to return it?” “It’s not empty,” her father said. As he set the basket in her lap, it quivered and rustled, and a blood-curdling yowl emerged. Astonished, Phoebe fumbled with the latch on the lid and opened it. The black cat sprang out and crawled frantically up her front, clinging to her shoulder with such ferocity that nothing could have detached her claws. “Galoshes!” Justin exclaimed, hurrying over to her. “Gosh-gosh!” Stephen cried in excitement. Phoebe stroked the frantic cat and tried to calm her. “Galoshes, how . . . why are you . . . oh, this is Mr. Ravenel’s doing! I’m going to murder him. You poor little thing.” Justin came to stand beside her, running his hands over the dusty, bedraggled feline. “Are we going to keep her now, Mama?” “I don’t think we have a choice,” Phoebe said distractedly. “Ivo, will you go with Justin to the dining compartment, and fetch her some food and water?” The two boys dashed off immediately. “Why has he done this?” Phoebe fretted. “He probably couldn’t make her stay at the barn, either. But she’s not meant to be a pet. She’s sure to run off as soon as we reach home.” Resuming his seat next to Evie, Sebastian said dryly, “Redbird, I doubt that creature will stray more than an arm’s length from you.” Discovering a note in the mending basket, Phoebe plucked it out and unfolded it. She instantly recognized West’s handwriting. Unemployed Feline Seeking Household Position To Whom It May Concern, I hereby offer my services as an experienced mouser and personal companion. References from a reputable family to be provided upon request. Willing to accept room and board in lieu of pay. Indoor lodgings preferred. Your servant, Galoshes the Cat Glancing up from the note, Phoebe found her parents’ questioning gazes on her. “Job application,” she explained sourly. “From the cat.” “How charming,” Seraphina exclaimed, reading over her shoulder. “‘Personal companion,’ my foot,” Phoebe muttered. “This is a semi-feral animal who has lived in outbuildings and fed on vermin.” “I wonder,” Seraphina said thoughtfully. “If she were truly feral, she wouldn’t want any contact with humans. With time and patience, she might become domesticated.” Phoebe rolled her eyes. “It seems we’ll find out.” The boys returned from the dining car with a bowl of water and a tray of refreshments. Galoshes descended to the floor long enough to devour a boiled egg, an anchovy canapé, and a spoonful of black caviar from a silver dish on ice. Licking her lips and purring, the cat jumped back into Phoebe’s lap and curled up with a sigh.

You don’t know me! You know Miss Erstwhile, but--” “Come now, ever since I witnessed your abominable performance in the theatrical, it’s been clear that you can’t act to save your life. All three weeks, that was you.” He smiled. “And I wanted to keep knowing you. Well, I didn’t at first. I wanted you to go away and leave me in peace. I’ve made a career out of avoiding any possibility of a real relationship. And then to find you in that circus…it didn’t make sense. But what ever does?” “Nothing,” said Jane with conviction. “Nothing makes sense.” “Could you tell me…am I being too forward to ask?...of course, I just bought a plane ticket on impulse, so worrying about being forward at this point is pointless…This is so insane, I am not a romantic. Ahem. My question is, what do you want?” “What do I…?” This really was insane. Maybe she should ask that old woman to change seats again. “I mean it. Besides something real. You already told me that. I like to think I’m real, after all. So, what do you really want?” She shrugged and said simply, “I want to be happy. I used to want Mr. Darcy, laugh at me if you want, or the idea of him. Someone who made me feel all the time like I felt when I watched those movies.” It was hard for her to admit it, but when she had, it felt like licking the last of the icing from the bowl. That hopeless fantasy was empty now. “Right. Well, do you think it possible--” He hesitated, his fingers played with the radio and light buttons on the arm of his seat. “Do you think someone like me could be what you want?” Jane smiled sadly. “I’m feeling all shiny and brand new. In all my life, I’ve never felt like I do now. I’m not sure yet what I want. When I was Miss Erstwhile, you were perfect, but that was back in Austenland. Or are we still in Austenland? Maybe I’ll never leave.” He nodded. “You don’t have to decide anything now. If you will allow me to be near you for a time, then we can see.” He rested his head back, and they looked at each other, their faces inches apart. He always was so good at looking at her. And it occurred to her just then that she herself was more Darcy than Erstwhile, sitting there admiring his fine eyes, feeling dangerously close to falling in love against her will. “Just be near…” she repeated. He nodded. “And if I don’t make you feel like the most beautiful woman in the world every day of your life, then I don’t deserve to be near you.” Jane breathed in, taking those words inside her. She thought she might like to keep them for a while. She considered never giving them up. “Okay, I lied a little bit.” He rubbed his head with even more force. “I need to admit up front that I don’t know how to have a fling. I’m not good at playing around and then saying good-bye. I’m throwing myself at your feet because I’m hoping for a shot at forever. You don’t have to say anything now, no promises required. I just thought you should know.” He forced himself to lean back again, his face turned slightly away, as if he didn’t care to see her expression just then. It was probably for the best. She was staring straight ahead with wide, panicked eyes, then a grin slowly took over her face. In her mind was running the conversation she was going to have with Molly. “I didn’t think it was possible, but I found a man as crazy intense as I was.

You make this man feel like a bowl of milk that some magical cats are licking. Perhaps you are petting these cats and smiling as you dream of me. You sing and a leaf falls into this bowl and it ripples(I ripple). Then a man sees this bowl of milk and he drinks it. He also splashes some of it onto his armpits. He is thirsty and needs nourishment. So kind and gracious of you to offer nurturing sustenance to this man by making me feel like a bowl of milk. This man has patches on his eyes(The cats won't rip his eyes out). You embody and exemplify what it is to share. Thankyou darling, thankyou.-

What would your word be?" Twiss said. Something to do with baking. Whenever Milly could scrape together enough flour, sugar, and butter, she'd bake a dessert. Often, her parents would stop what they were doing and wander into the kitchen, where Twiss would already be sitting with a napkin tucked into the collar of her shirt. Something about sugar made their family sweeter. "'Sugar,'" Milly said to Twiss, measuring out two cups' worth. She mixed the batter and poured it into a cake pan. After she put the pan in the oven, she gave Twiss the bowl to lick and took the spoon for herself.

Feelie Box—Cut a hole in a shoebox lid. Place spools, buttons, blocks, coins, marbles, animals, and cars in the box. The child inserts a hand through the hole and tells you what toy she is touching. Or, ask her to reach in and feel for a button or car. Or, show her a toy and ask her to find one in the box that matches. These activities improve the child’s ability to discriminate objects without the use of vision. “Can You Describe It?”—Provide objects with different textures, temperatures, and weights. Ask her to tell you about an object she is touching. (If you can persuade her not to look at it, the game is more challenging.) Is the object round? Cool? Smooth? Soft? Heavy? Oral-Motor Activities—Licking stickers and pasting them down, blowing whistles and kazoos, blowing bubbles, drinking through straws or sports bottles, and chewing gum or rubber tubing may provide oral satisfaction. Hands-on Cooking—Have the child mix cookie dough, bread dough, or meat loaf in a shallow roasting pan (not a high-sided bowl). Science Activities—Touching worms and egg yolks, catching fireflies, collecting acorns and chestnuts, planting seeds, and digging in the garden provide interesting tactile experiences. Handling Pets—What could be more satisfying than stroking a cat, dog or rabbit? People Sandwich—Have the “salami” or “cheese” (your child) lie facedown on the “bread” (gym mat or couch cushion) with her head extended beyond the edge. With a “spreader” (sponge, pot scrubber, basting or vegetable brush, paintbrush, or washcloth) smear her arms, legs, and torso with pretend mustard, mayonnaise, relish, ketchup, etc. Use firm, downward strokes. Cover the child, from neck to toe, with another piece of “bread” (folded mat or second cushion). Now press firmly on the mat to squish out the excess mustard, so the child feels the deep, soothing pressure. You can even roll or crawl across your child; the mat will distribute your weight. Your child will be in heaven.

True, there's an aisle devoted to foreign foods, and then there are familiar foods that have been through the Japanese filter and emerged a little bit mutated. Take breakfast cereal. You'll find familiar American brands such as Kellogg's, but often without English words anywhere on the box. One of the most popular Kellogg's cereals in Japan is Brown Rice Flakes. They're quite good, and the back-of-the-box recipes include cold tofu salad and the savory pancake okonomiyaki, each topped with a flurry of crispy rice flakes. Iris and I got mildly addicted to a Japanese brand of dark chocolate cornflakes, the only chocolate cereal I've ever eaten that actually tastes like chocolate. (Believe me, I've tried them all.) Stocking my pantry at Life Supermarket was fantastically simple and inexpensive. I bought soy sauce, mirin, rice vinegar, rice, salt, and sugar. (I was standing right in front of the salt when I asked where to find it This happens to me every time I ask for help finding any item in any store.) Total outlay: about $15, and most of that was for the rice. Japan is an unabashed rice protectionist, levying prohibitive tariffs on imported rice. As a result, supermarket rice is domestic, high quality, and very expensive. There were many brands of white rice to choose from, the sacks advertising different growing regions and rice varieties. (I did the restaurant wine list thing and chose the second least expensive.) Japanese consumers love to hear about the regional origins of their foods. I almost never saw ingredients advertised as coming from a particular farm, like you'd see in a farm-to-table restaurant in the U.S., but if the milk is from Hokkaido, the rice from Niigata, and the tea from Uji, all is well. I suppose this is not so different from Idaho potatoes and Florida orange juice. When I got home, I opened the salt and sugar and spooned some into small bowls near the stove. The next day I learned that Japanese salt and sugar are hygroscopic: their crystalline structure draws in water from the air (and Tokyo, in summer, has enough water in the air to supply the world's car washes). I figured this was harmless and went on licking slightly moist salt and sugar off my fingers every time I cooked.

Raz finish licking his bowl clean and toss it away, taking

One morning, after I choked down a bowl of cereal, I looked outside the window and saw a mountain lion siting on the hood of my car, licking his paws--likely, I imagined, after tearing a neighboring rancher’s wife from limb to limb and eating her for breakfast. I darted to the phone and called Marlboro Man, telling him there was a mountain lion sitting on my car. My heart beat inside my chest. I had no idea mountain lions were indigenous to the area. “It’s probably just a bobcat,” Marlboro Man reassured me. I didn’t believe him. “No way--it’s huge,” I cried. “It’s seriously got to be a mountain lion!” “I’ve gotta go,” he said. Cows mooed in the background. I hung up the phone, incredulous at Marlboro Man’s lack of concern, and banged on the window with the palm of my hand, hoping to scare the wild cat away. But it only looked up and stared at me through the window, imagining me on a plate with a side of pureed trout.

The terrier mix is named Alabama. His tail thumps a beat on the side of the crate. “Alabama is a gobbler real bad,” Theresa says. In making their reports, the AFB techs must take into account the animals’ individual mealtime quirks. There are gulpers, circlers, tippers, snooters. If you weren’t acquainted with Alabama’s neighbor Elvis, for example, you’d think he was blasé about both foods just now set before him. Theresa gives a running commentary of Elvis’s behavior while a colleague jots notes. “Sniffing A. Sniffing B. Licking B, licking his paws. Going back to A. Looking at A. Sniffing B. Eating B.” Most dogs are more decisive. Like Porkchop. “You’ll see. He’ll sniff both, pick one, eat it. Ready?” She puts two bowls by Porkchop’s front paws. “Sniffing A, sniffing B, eating A. See? That’s what he does.

Hold on,” Ettrek said. “What qualifies you to be in charge of this mission, anyway?” “I’m better than you,” I said. “At everything.” Teka rolled her eyes. “She knows the target, Trek. You want to charge into Voa to kill a man you don’t understand or know at all?” Ettrek shrugged. “Guess not.” “Everybody take this week to do what you need to get done,” Teka said. “I’ll start getting the ship ready now. I might need a new gravity compressor, and I know we need food.” “And,” I said, thinking of what Isae had used to kill my brother, “maybe some new kitchen knives.” Teka wrinkled her nose, likely remembering the same thing. “Definitely.” “Anyway, we might not be coming back, so…” I shrugged. “Say your good-byes.” “You’re just bursting with optimism, aren’t you,” Ettrek said. “Did you expect the person leading your assassination mission to be cheerful?” I said. “If so, I think you’re in the wrong field.” I set my half-finished bowl of breakfast down, and drew the knife at my hip instead. I leaned across the table and pointed the blade at him. “And by the way, if you call me ‘Scourge’ again, I will cut that stupid knot right off the top of your head.” Ettrek licked his lips, considering my knife. “Okay,” he finally said. “Cyra.

I stare at the woman in question and wonder what happened to the concept of sisterhood. If women stopped doing this kind of thing to other women, there would be a lot less pain in this world. Men, I'll admit, are probably a lost cause, but we could stop cheating on other women with their husbands, boyfriends, fiancés. Jo props herself up on her elbows and gives me a defiant look which, frankly, I'd like to wipe off her face---preferably with a cricket bat. "Who'd have thought that I'd be seeing so much of you," I say. "And so soon." Marcus's breakfast dish looks rather rattled. "I can explain," Marcus says as he tries to dismount from the table with some dignity. Difficult to pull off. "I'm all ears." "This was the last time," he says earnestly. There are raspberries crushed on his knees. "The last time ever. I was having one last fling before settling down. As soon as you moved in, I was going to be completely and utterly faithful." Jo doesn't look as if she knows about this particular part of the arrangement and she glares darkly at my fiancé. Perhaps she'll be sneaking into his flat and filling his clothes and his shoes with leftovers and leaving stinking prawns in his soft furnishings. Because, for sure, I won't be troubling myself to do it again. "You called to tell me you love me while she was here?" Jo clearly doesn't know about that bit either. Marcus chews his lip. I stare at Marcus as if I'm seeing him for the first time. He looks ridiculous---yogurt on his knob, smears of berry juice all over his chest and legs, breakfast cereal in his hair. I burst out laughing. Marcus laughs too---nervously. "Oh, Marcus," I say, clutching at my sides. "I can't believe you've done this again." I double over and belly laugh right the way up from my boots. "I love you," he says bleakly, and then he continues to laugh along with me, although it sounds forced. When I finally wrest control of my voice once more, I say softly, "I'm not laughing with you, Marcus. I'm laughing at you." Slipping my engagement ring from my finger, I put it delicately into the bowl of yogurt that's lying by Jo's feet. Then, picking it up, I tip the bowl upside down on Marcus's head. Yogurt drips slowly down his face. He licks it from his lips. Perhaps he can get Jo to do it for him when I'm gone. "This really is the very last time you do this to me, Marcus.

Getting It Right" Your ankles make me want to party, want to sit and beg and roll over under a pair of riding boots with your ankles hidden inside, sweating beneath the black tooled leather; they make me wish it was my birthday so I could blow out their candles, have them hung over my shoulders like two bags full of money. Your ankles are two monster-truck engines but smaller and lighter and sexier than a saucer with warm milk licking the outside edge; they make me want to sing, make me want to take them home and feed them pasta, I want to punish them for being bad and then hold them all night long and say I’m sorry, sugar, darling, it will never happen again, not in a million years. Your thighs make me quiet. Make me want to be hurled into the air like a cannonball and pulled down again like someone being pulled into a van. Your thighs are two boats burned out of redwood trees. I want to go sailing. Your thighs, the long breath of them under the blue denim of your high-end jeans, could starve me to death, could make me cry and cry. Your ass is a shopping mall at Christmas, a holy place, a hill I fell in love with once when I was falling in love with hills. Your ass is a string quartet, the northern lights tucked tightly into bed between a high-count-of-cotton sheets. Your back is the back of a river full of fish; I have my tackle and tackle box. You only have to say the word. Your back, a letter I have been writing for fifteen years, a smooth stone, a moan someone makes when his hair is pulled, your back like a warm tongue at rest, a tongue with a tab of acid on top; your spine is an alphabet, a ladder of celestial proportions. I am navigating the North and South of it. Your armpits are beehives, they make me want to spin wool, want to pour a glass of whiskey, your armpits dripping their honey, their heat, their inexhaustible love-making dark. I am bright yellow for them. I am always thinking about them, resting at your side or high in the air when I’m pulling off your shirt. Your arms of blue and ice with the blood running to make them believe in God. Your shoulders make me want to raise an arm and burn down the Capitol. They sing to each other underneath your turquoise slope-neck blouse. Each is a separate bowl of rice steaming and covered in soy sauce. Your neck is a skyscraper of erotic adult videos, a swan and a ballet and a throaty elevator made of light. Your neck is a scrim of wet silk that guides the dead into the hours of Heaven. It makes me want to die, your mouth, which is the mouth of everything worth saying. It’s abalone and coral reef. Your mouth, which opens like the legs of astronauts who disconnect their safety lines and ride their stars into the billion and one voting districts of the Milky Way. Darling, you’re my President; I want to get this right! Matthew Dickman, The New Yorker: Poems | August 29, 2011 Issue

Then I grab the butter and flour and start on the banana bread, a recipe I've made so many times I know it by heart. I've made numerous variations over the years---sometimes adding chocolate chips and crystallized ginger, at others drizzling a lime-coconut glaze over the top---but no matter what tweaks I make, licking the streaks of golden batter left in the bowl is pretty much mandatory. Once I've poured the batter into the pan and stuck it in the oven, I finish cleaning up the kitchen, dusting the bits of flour off the counter and washing the bowls and spatulas. The caramel-laced scent of banana bread wafts across the kitchen, filling the room with its sweet perfume. If I had to draw up a list of the best baking smells in the world, banana bread would, without question, rank in the top five. Possibly the top two. I'm not sure why its smell is so intoxicating, but one whiff and I'm ready to attack that baking pan like a cheetah on a fresh kill.

Askasleikir, Bowl-Licker, December 17 to December 30. If you bring a bowl of gruel or warm cereal to eat in bed before you drift off to sleep, this Lad is waiting under your bed for when you set the bowl on the floor. That's when he slides the bowl underneath and licks it clean.

Albert remembered reading somewhere that you could pick up more germs during a short journey on the London Underground than you could from licking a toilet bowl.

Even though she knew she shouldn’t have, Hannah’d given in last night and filled Moishe’s bowl with his regular kitty crunchies. Tip number six on her vet’s list of ways to convince him to eat senior fare hadn’t worked any better than tips one through five. Last night’s attempt involved drizzling the juice from a can of tuna over the bowl and, for a moment, Hannah thought it might actually be successful. Moishe headed straight for his food bowl and licked the senior pellets with gusto. Unfortunately, that’s all he did. When Hannah examined his food more closely, she discovered that Moishe had licked off every bit of the tuna-flavored juice and left the senior nuggets, pristine and untouched, in his bowl.

If you could get anything at all off Santa, what would it be?’ I asked for a fire engine and sweets. Bunty exclaimed in delight, ‘Santa will get you that, but you and Scott will need to leave out a bowl of milk and some carrots for Rudolph.’ ‘Who’s Rudolph?’ I asked. Bunty told me in confidence that Rudolph was Santa’s reindeer and that he helped pull all the children’s toys in the world over the snow. I couldn’t wait. In readiness for Rudolph, Scott, Martha, Bunty and I picked out four of the biggest carrots from a bag in the kitchen, which we then washed. We found a big bowl that we used to lick the cream out of, which we filled with milk. We put the bowl along with the carrots under the Christmas tree, with all the other children’s offerings. Then Bunty and Martha came in and washed us, put us to bed and read us a story, before kissing us good night. On their way out they said, ‘When you wake up, Santa will have been'.

Schadenfreude is as old as the Scriptures. Believe me, when the girls in the Red Sea bowling league heard that Lot’s wife had morphed into a pillar of salt, the deer-lick jokes flew.

There you are.  Want some popcorn?” I didn’t wait for an answer but went to the kitchen to get him his own bowl and split the popcorn between the two. In the living room, I set his bowl on the floor within his reach.  Then, I curled into my end of the couch and tucked my feet under him.  With my bowl balanced at my side, I reached for the remote. I’d barely started the movie when he sighed gustily, repositioned himself, and laid his head on my curled legs.  The heat of him relaxed me, and I settled in comfortably, content not to move him.  I ate a piece of popcorn as I watched the intro.  His head shifted on my leg, following the piece of popcorn.  I absently took another piece and offered it to him.  He gently ate it from my fingers.  I offered him a few more pieces, not fully paying attention when he licked the back of my hand. The second movie was more an action-suspense than comedy.  Halfway through the movie, I’d abandoned my bowl of popcorn to the floor.  One of my hands burrowed in the thick fur at Clay’s neck, and the other lightly worried his fuzzy ear.  He didn’t seem to mind my grip as I stared at the screen.  At a particularly suspenseful part, the front door opened.  It scared me so badly that a strangled scream tore through the air.  My scream.  My heart pounded as both Rachel and Clay stared at me. “And that’s why I don’t watch suspense movies,” I said to both of them once I could breathe again.  Clay didn’t stop laughing for two minutes.  Rachel laughed just as hard and thankfully didn’t notice Clay’s reaction. Clay licked my exposed midriff then, finally, settled down. I gently tugged on his ear.  “Cut it out,” I scolded softly. “So

Life’s got an interesting sense of humor.” He was relaxing now that she’d decided to drop the subject. A long, put-upon sigh. “Isn’t that the truth? Clearly, I’m being tested.” Curious, he asked, “And are you passing?” Another adorable pout. “I don’t think so.” That mouth looked like she’d just eaten a bowl of strawberries and the juices had stained her lips. He wanted to bite her. Lick her to see if she tasted as sweet as she looked. She got all squinty, another pretzel firmly in hand. “I’m drunk.” Unfortunately. “I don’t doubt that.” Her gaze caught his. Darted away. Her pink tongue flitted out to wet her full lower lip. It glistened like an invitation. “I’d leave, but I can’t walk. My feet hurt.” “I wouldn’t let you go, anyway.” He was a little taken aback to find the words true. It had been a long time since he’d wanted anything, but he still recognized the spark of desire. He wanted her, and wasn’t ready for her to walk off into the sunset yet. The right or wrong of the situation didn’t much matter. She swirled a finger over the edge of her ice water. “Do you think you could stop me? He cocked a brow and gave her a once-over. “Considering the way you hobbled in here, I think I can take you.” Dark lashes almost obscured the green of her irises as she squinted. “I’m supposed to be getting independent now.” “I see,” he said, considering the guy she’d ditched at the altar for the first time. It took a lot to drive a woman out a church window with nothing but the clothes on her back. “Everyone needs a little rescue sometime.” “You’re not one of those knight-in-shining-armor guys, are you?” She said the words as if they were foul. “Not normally, but I’m making an exception for you.” He was surprised to find he wanted the role, despite her distain. “I don’t want an exception.” Her tone had taken on a decided wail. “Too bad.” Yep, he wasn’t budging on this one. She wanted to stand on her own two feet. He understood, but it only made him more determined. “Why me?” “Because I want to.” It was that simple. Besides, she’d probably take off in the morning and he’d never see her again. One night to break the monotony wouldn’t hurt. Before she could respond, he turned and walked the length of the bar. Flipping open the counter, he rounded the corner, striding to stand in front of her. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything chivalrous. Won’t you let me?” Even white teeth nibbled on her bottom lip and he curled his hand into a fist to keep from stroking his thumb over the abused, moist flesh. Glassy, pensive eyes blinked up at him. He stepped close enough to feel the warmth of her skin. “What kind of a man would I be if I left you stranded?” “I’m

When I got home that evening the cat was sitting by his bowl in the kitchen. I talked it over with him while I was making dinner, and said, “What would you do?” The cat blinked, then bent over and licked his anus. Cats lead simple lives.

Run and find me. “Tom is worried that I am going to kill you,” said Baltsaros slowly. He wanted to laugh, the words were so absurd. However, Jon’s mouth went dry as he stared back at the creature of ice who looked at him through Baltsaros’s eyes. He licked his lips. “Why… would he think that?” whispered Jon. Something chuckled inside him. Foolish boy, it crooned. The scar on his back twinged as Jon hunched his shoulders. He remembered dreams of blood, of terror, of a black night, of Tom’s strong arms, and the captain bleeding on the rug. Dreams? He realized that Baltsaros watched him closely, and he shivered as the captain smiled, his brown eyes once more warm and amused. “Because I came very close once already,” said Baltsaros, and he speared a thick chunk of fish from Jon’s bowl on the end of his knife. Jon stared at the fish and felt the bench beneath him sway as if he were at sea.

Cookie Dough | The Food - The thing about raw cookie dough is that you know you shouldn’t eat it, but you can’t resist licking the bowl clean or at least a spoon. It’s a risk worth taking.

Dad's intentions were good, but even so, it was like living with a wild animal. Like those crazy hippies the Alaskans talked about who lived with wolves and bears and invariably ended up getting killed. The natural-born predator could seem domesticated, even friendly, could lick your throat affectionately or rub up against you to get a back scratch. But you knew, or should know, that it was a wild thing you lived with, that a col- lar and leash and a bowl of food might tame the actions of the beast, but couldn't change its essential nature. In a split second, less time than it took to exhale a breath, that wolf could claim its nature and turn, fangs bared.

I'd left the soon-to-be-blue doors open, and Clementine had let herself in. As we entered the kitchen, I could see her putting the finishing touches on two bowls of something chocolaty. "What is this?" I asked, taking a closer look. Clementine finished her plating and stepped back. "Nutella mousse with hazelnut liqueur, served with chocolate-dipped hazelnut shortbread." She was good; I had to give her that. Nico and I shared a deep, genetic affinity for the chocolate-hazelnut spread. Without hesitation, I picked up the spoon and dug in. An intense, perfectly complex Nutella taste met my tongue. My eyes slid shut. "That is so good." "Try it with the shortbread," Clementine instructed. I dipped the chocolaty-end of the shortbread into the mousse. The crunch of the cookie set off the rich mousse like a dream. A chocolaty, hazelnutty, Nutella-y dream. Dragging my attention away from dessert, I looked to Nico to see his reaction. He stood staring at me, spoon in hand, mousse untouched. I frowned at him. "What on earth are you waiting for? Eat!" Nico scowled but dug his spoon into the mousse. He took a bite; his face froze. "Seriously," I said, working two more spoonfuls, "I might lick the bowl." Nico shrugged. "It's pretty good." Clementine squared her shoulders. "Pretty good?" "You want the job?" "Yes, I do," she answered. "I'll think about it," he told her, his expression guarded. "Thank you," Clementine replied, unfazed. I scooped another bite of mousse. "This shortbread? It's perfect!" "It's the French butter. I get it from your grandmother's supplier--he gives us, I mean, me, a good deal. I bake croissants for him. He imports French butter but can't bake. Isn't that sad?" I nodded, nibbling at the shortbread. "The butter certainly imports a richness of flavor that's quite special.

The bowl was always warm, and Sydney liked to sleep in it. Occasionally, since it was old, the thing would come on by itself for a moment using whatever residual magic was nearby, and the entire camp would get a fine view of Sydney licking his balls until someone noticed and shut the telcaster off.

The Revenant I am the dog you put to sleep, as you like to call the needle of oblivion, come back to tell you this simple thing; I never liked you-not one bit. When I licked your face, I thought of biting off your nose. When I watched you toweling yourself dry, I wanted to leap and unman you with a snap. I resented the way you moved, your lack of animal grace, the way you would sit in a chair to eat, a napkin on your lap, knife in your hand. I would have run away, but I was too weak, a trick you taught me while I was learning to sit and heel, and-greatest of insults-shake hands without a hand. I admit the sight of the leash would excite me but only because it meant I was about to smell things you had never touched. You do no want to believe this, but I have no reason to lie. I hated the car, the rubber toys, disliked your friends and, worse, your relatives. The jingling of my tags drove me mad. You always scratched me in the wrong place. All I ever wanted from you was food and fresh water in my metal bowls. While you slept, I watched you breathe as the moon rose in the sky. It took all of my strength not to raise my head and howl. Now I am free of the collar, the yellow raincoat, monogrammed sweater; the absurdity of your lawn, and that is all you need to know about this place except what you already supposed and are glad it did not happen sooner- that everyone here can read and write, the dogs in poetry, the cats and all the others in prose.

poi,” said Kama. She scooped some poi out of the bowl and licked it off of her fingers. “You eat it with your hands? Cool,” said Annie. She stuck her fingers in the bowl and licked off the poi. “Mmm…good.” Jack stuck his finger in the bowl, too. The gooey mixture felt like peanut butter. But when he licked it off his finger, it had a weird taste—both bitter and sweet. “Hmm,” he said, but he made a face. “He doesn’t like it,” Kama said to Boka. “No, no,” said Jack. “It’s…” He tried to think of something polite…. “It’s very interesting.” Kama and Boka giggled. Then they stuck their fingers in the bowl and ate some poi. “Interesting!” they exclaimed. They cracked up laughing. Jack and Annie laughed with them. “Now tell us about your home over the mountains,” said Kama, “this place you call ‘Frog.’ ” Kama’s friendly smile made Jack want to tell her the truth. “It’s actually called Frog Creek,” he said. “It’s very far away—much farther than just over the mountains. We traveled here in a magic tree house.” Kama’s and Boka’s eyes got huge. They smiled even bigger smiles than before. “That sounds fun!” said Kama. “You are so lucky!” said Boka. Jack and Annie laughed. “Yeah,

He feels like a delicious secret that is just for me. Like the little treat chefs hide in the kitchen for themselves for after the party is over... the oysters of the chicken, the ends of the brisket, the last piece of bacon, the corner brownie. Kissing Shawn feels like licking the bowl of frosting once the cake is finished, or eating the last spoonfuls of still-warm risotto in the pan while you are cleaning up. Extra special, private, the littlest bit naughty.

One day they let me knead the ingredients for sausage meat, and the raw foods themselves seized me: lean pork and soft, white fat- The one talks to the other, said Carenza. Without the fat, the lean is too dry, and without the lean... she stuck out her tongue, too much. I grated some cheese: dry pecorino that had been in our larder for months, and some fresh marzolino, tasting both. Mace went in, and cinnamon, and black pepper. How much salt? Mamma showed me in the palm of her hand, Let me sweep it into the bowl. Then she broke some eggs onto the mixture. This is my secret, she said, and grated the rind of an orange so that the crumbs covered everything in a thin layer of gold. Do you want to mix it, Nino? Almost laughing with excitement, I plunged my fingers through the cold silkiness of the eggs, feeling the yolks pop, then made fists deep inside the meat. I could smell the orange, the pork, the cheese, the spices, and then they started to melt together into something else. When it was all mixed together I licked my fingers, though Carenza slapped my hand away from my mouth, and after we'd stuffed them into the slimy pink intestines and cooked up a few for ourselves, I discovered how the fire had changed the flavors yet again. The clear, fresh taste of the pork had deepened and intensified, while the cool blandness of the fat had changed into something rich and buttery that held the spices and the orange zest. And the salt seemed to have performed this magic, because it was everywhere, but at the same time hardly noticeable.

Peg judged the Chicken Pie to be satisfactory, if old-fashioned, the braised chicken flavored with nutmeg, fresh peas and cream. The Croxons liked it, too, and most of it had disappeared. Nan would certainly be staying on. That would leave Peg free to make only sweet confections, jellies, and cakes. She had not lost her touch, for the pudding bowls had returned downstairs all but licked clean. She had kept back a second dish for herself, and dug her spoon into syrupy gooseberries inside claggy suet pudding.

It Begins With A Tree: Before the first cookie has been pulled from the oven, before the licking of the frosting bowl or the squeal of scissors down a curl of ribbon comes the official beginning--- the fetching of the tree---and the smell that unfurls from each bough. It is less obvious than eggnog, quieter than caroling, more subtle than garlands and strands of white lights.

It Begins With A Tree: Before the first cookie has been pulled from the oven, before the licking of the frosting bowl or the squeal of scissors down a curl of ribbon comes the official beginning--- the fetching of the tree---and the smell that unfurls from each bough. It is less obvious than eggnog, quieter than caroling, more subtle than garlands and strands of white lights.

Do we have anything chocolate in this kitchen? Anything?" "I think there's some chocolate syrup in the fridge. But we don't have any milk. Not that it was me who drank it. That would be the witch." Della glanced back at Kylie. Kylie reached into the refrigerator and found the chocolate syrup. Oh, hell, beggars couldn't be choosy. She squeezed a line of chocolate all the way up her index finger and popped the digit into her mouth. "So the meeting with the Brightens didn't go well?" Della asked. "No, it went fine," Kylie mumbled around her chocolate-covered finger. When the sweetness disappeared, she pulled her finger out and aimed the top of the bottle down and gave the digit another squirt of sweetness. "Then why are you sucking chocolate syrup off your finger like it's whiskey? Wait! I know why, I heard about the fiasco with your dad and mom-the whole pregnancy thing. Hilarious." Della dropped her elbows on the table and laughed."Not hilarious." Kylie frowned. "How did you hear about it?" Della shrugged, looking a little guilty for bringing it up. "Someone heard it go down. Everybody was talking about it. Sorry." She made an apology face. Kylie moaned. "Will I ever stop being the source of gossip around here?" She held her head back and squeezed a good squirt of chocolate straight into her mouth. "Now that's gross!" Della chuckled. Kylie brought the bottle down and licked her lips. "I didn't touch my lips to the bottle. I just poured it into my mouth." "And on your chin." Frowning, Kylie wiped her chin with the back of her hand. "Sorry, I'm feeling desperate." She snagged a bowl and spoon and went back to the table and emptied a half a cup of the sweet feel-good stuff into her bowl. "Damn," Della said. "You are feeling desperate." Kylie scooped a spoonful of chocolate into her mouth, licked the spoon clean and said, "Monique crawled into the stall with me." "Who? What stall?" "Monique. Lucas's Monique. She climbed into the bathroom stall with me in the restaurant bathroom." "Oh, shit! Did you two like duke it out or something?" "No." Kylie licked the spoon. "I just peed all over myself." She took another spoonful of chocolate into her mouth. Della sighed. "Are you okay?" "I will be after I finish off this bottle," Kylie said. Della half grinned. "If I was a real friend, I'd stop you from drinking it." Kylie shook her head. "If you were a real friend, you'd help me finish it." "Shit. Why not?" She pushed over her glass of blood. "Give me a couple of shots." Kylie arched an eyebrow. "For real?" "Yeah." Della pushed her schoolbooks to the side. "Screw homework, let's get drunk off chocolate. I could use a pick-me-up, too.

A kiss,” he said. “Kiss!” The idea of it bounced around in her brain and grabbed on to parts of her she didn’t want to acknowledge. He shoveled the bite into his mouth, leaving a pitiable amount in the bowl. One bite to be exact. Her bite. He licked his lips and she stifled a whimper. “Just let me have it.” She tried giving him her best Puss in Boots expression. “I’m the one fearing for my life, here.” He remained unfazed. “Sorry, Cupcake. Kiss for the rest.” He tipped the bowl slightly. “That’s the deal.

When I finished my bowl, without thinking, I dipped my finger in the glaze that had accumulated and Roland licked it right off my finger, ravenous. "quite a sight." Mary finally said, and I felt like maybe she was sincere, that we were something to behold.

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.

Ew. Can you not talk about my dad ogling people? Scarlett Johansson may be gorgeous, but still.” “It’ll be a challenge, but I think I can refrain from licking the screen,” Brendan deadpanned, placing the wine bottle on the coffee table next to the bowl of popcorn before settling into the chair where he’d been working on his computer earlier. “Ew! Dad!