Mandarin Orange Quotes

Speaking biologically, fruit in a slightly shriveled state is holding its respiration and energy consumption down to the lowest possible level. It is like a person in meditation: his metabolism, respiration, and calorie consumption reach an extremely low level. Even if he fasts, the energy within the body will be conserved. In the same way, when mandarin oranges grow wrinkled, when fruit shrivels, when vegetables wilt, they are in the state that will preserve their food value for the longest possible time.

Zachary peels and eats a mandarin orange in small segments of sunshine as he reads.

You mix a can of cranberry sauce with a can of mandarin oranges and eat it out of a cereal bowl while your family questions your life choices.

Back in the car she said, “I think I die this year, maybe this month.” “I die first,” Jiichan replied. “Japanese women live to nineties.” “I die first! You eat many mandarin orange as child. They make you live longer. Vitamin C.” “You drink more green tea. You live longer.

Culture is a vulture but there's also vulture culture and cultured vultures and cultured yougurt (cherry, peach, pear, pineapple, grape, vanilla, plain, cherry vanilla, pineapple orage, cranberry, orange, mandarin orange, coffee, apricot, raspberry, blueberry, boysenberry, prune). And speaking of vulture culture there's counter-culture and under-the-counter culture, too. But whether you call it kulchur with a k and a ch and without the e it's still the same thing and you can't disguise it with pretty frills and a gallon of dog sweat. It still has two syllables and TWO-SYLLABLE WORDS SUCK so you can just forgetit, man. It's no fun at all and even fun wouldn't be fun if it was called funjure or funion or funching. But somehow fucking is still loads of fun even though there's that extra 3-letter cluster of vowels and consonants. Proof positive that there are exceptions everywhere you look. But don't look too hard, you might get eyestrain.

Ulysse apprit à Calypso le nom des arbres, la couleur d'une fleur, le goût de la papaye, le vibrato d'un do. Il lui apprit à reconnaître les parfums. Celui de l'orange et de la mandarine, de la fleur de violette et de la vanille, de la rose poivrée et de l'ylang-ylang, du bois de cèdre et du patchouli. Et tout cela composait un parfum. Le parfum des femmes qui aiment et s'élèvent dans le ciel.

The filth of these all-male rooms was horrifying. Moldy mandarin orange skins clung to the bottoms of wastebaskets. Empty cans used for ashtrays held mounds of cigarette butts, and when these started to smolder they’d be doused with coffee or beer and left to give off a sour stink. Blackish grime and bits of indefinable matter clung to all the bowls and dishes on the shelves, and the floors were littered with ramen wrappers and empty beer cans and lids from one thing or another. It never occurred to anyone to sweep up and throw these things in a wastebasket. Any wind that blew through would raise clouds of dust. Each room had its own horrendous smell, but the components of that smell were the same: sweat and body odor and garbage. Dirty clothes would pile up under the beds, and without anyone bothering to air the mattresses on a regular basis, these sweat-impregnated pads would give off odors beyond redemption. In retrospect, it seems amazing that these shit piles gave rise to no killer epidemics.

CHAPTER ONE Henri found himself looking at the sky again – a clear, black crystal dome overhead. It was difficult for the mind to conceive of hundreds of planes shattering that black crystalling silence! And suddenly, words began tumbling through his head with a joyous sound – the offensive was halted … the German collapse had begun … at last he would be able to leave. He turned the corner of the quay. The streets would smell again of oil and orange blossoms, in the evening there would be light, people would sit and chat in outdoor cafés, and he would drink real coffee to the sound of guitars.

Several weeks before he left Peking, Meyer visited a small village and noticed, in a house's doorway, a small bush with fruit as yellow as a fresh egg yolk. Meyer ignored a man who told him the plant was ornamental, its fruit not typically eaten but prized for its year-round production. The fruit looked like a mix between a mandarin and a citron (which later genetic testing would confirm). It was a lemon, but smaller and rounder---its flavor surprised him as both sweeter than a citron and tarter than an orange. And its price, twenty cents per fruit or ten dollars per tree, suggested that people with an abundance of other citrus valued it greatly. Meyer had little room in his baggage, but he used his double-edged bowie knife to take a cutting where the branches formed a V, the choice spot to secure its genetic material. That cutting made the voyage to Washington, and then the trip to an experiment station in Chico, California, where it propped up a new lemon industry grateful to receive a sweeter variety. The lemon became known as the Meyer lemon, and from it came lemon tarts, lemon pies, and millions of glasses of lemonade.

The fruit is extremely acidic: It is impossible to drink shikuwasa juice without diluting it first with water. Its taste is somewhere between that of a lime and a mandarin orange, to which it bears a family resemblance. Shikuwasas also contain high levels of nobiletin, a flavonoid rich in antioxidants.

Andrea is coming to pick me up in about thirty minutes to head to her folks' house for Thanksgiving. I've got buttery yeast rolls from Aimee's mom's old family recipe, my cranberry sauce with port and dried cherries, and a batch of spicy molasses cookies sandwiched with vanilla mascarpone frosting. I also have the makings for dried shisito peppers, which I will make there. Andrea's mom, Jasmin, is making turkey and ham, and braised broccoli and an apple pie, Andrea is doing a potato and celery root mash and a hilarious Jell-O mold that contains orange sherbet and canned mandarin oranges and mini marshmallows, and her dad, Gene, is making his mother's candied yams and sausage corn bread stuffing. Benji is cooking and serving most of the day at the group home where he grew up, and will come join us for dessert, bringing his chocolate pecan pie with bourbon whipped cream.

floral olive oil sorbet with mandarin orange swirls.

Nutmeg." Claudia grabbed the bottle and screwed the cap back on. The story was still filtering through me when a new scent exploded forth. "Orris root," Claudia said, tapping the new bottle on the table. "Am I going too fast for you?" "No," I lied. "Good." Linden blossom. Tonka bean. Benzoin. The smells came at me, little glass missiles fired across the table in rapid succession. "The point is speed and precision," Claudia said. She pushed a stack of papers toward me, the pages divided into rows and columns. "Put each scent in a category. Fresh, floral, woody, spicy, animal, marine, fruity. You need to recognize them instantly, without thinking." The bottles started again, and the world turned into charts and rows, filled with an onslaught of strange names. Litsea cubeba. Frangipani. Neroli. Tagette. Orange broke into pieces, became pettigrain, bergamot, tangerine, mandarin, bitter, sweet, and blood. Pepper was black, green, or pink. Mint was winter, spear, or pepper.

Sir, I need bathroom, make urination now. Emergency.” I pleaded in Mandarin. “Okay, letmesee…sir.” Holding up the walkie-talkie he chattered away in a strange dialect. I didn’t hear a reply, but he turned around. “Follow.”. Instead of going up the red stairs, I was led back outside the house walls, past the car which was getting a thorough cleaning by the driver, and back out through the front gate. I followed them into the bushes past the wall and down a narrow rocky trail. Two minutes later we were at a crumbly stone hut. Evidently the gardener’s house, from the hoes, rakes, and shovels leaned up against the wall. As I entered a thick ammonious stench of feline urine burned my nose. I nearly vomited when I saw the bed in the corner, filthy and greasy with age, a hideous floral-print stained mattress devoid of sheets. The pillow had a greasy stain in the center, which caused me to gag and look away. In the corner sat a raised tile squat-toilet flecked with old bits of feces and what appeared to be blood specked vomitus. The toilet was disgusting, but did not fill me with woozy nausea like the bed had. The guard sighed and pointed at the toilet, stepping out and leaving me alone in the hut. I stood in front of the squat toilet, standing on stale urine and bits of shit. I unzipped and pissed on a large plump unflushed turd. Buzzing flies flew off the turd as I did my best not to think about that nasty bed in the corner. It was one of those pisses you remember for years. I groaned a sigh of pleasure, as my manhood unleashed its furious stream, and I counted the seconds while I urinated. Seventy-four full seconds. It was like a non-sexual orgasm. I was dizzy with relief from the greatest piss ever pissed. As I turned to exit, ignoring the bed, I noticed a shoddy wooden table, with a small glass bottle of Chinese snuff, an overfilled plastic ashtray, and a pair of old round brass spectacles. Then I saw a cat under the table. A dead cat. A dead cat with a large gaping wound in its side. The cat was orange and white, clumps of dried blood on its fur, its mouth open in a frozen scream. Oddly, there was no smell of death. The cat was mummified from the arid climate, its tongue lolled out like a dried chicken gizzard. It had been there for months. Who would leave a dead cat under their table? I reminded myself of my Beijing host’s farewell advice; “Things are very difference in that part of China, not like here, much old style. No many civilization.” As I stepped out of the gardener’s hut, the two guards were waiting for me. The quiet one was smoking a cigarette and threw it away. He turned like a guilty teenager and discreetly exhaled his smoke. The other guard demanded my passport, again.