Mason Jars With Sayings And Quotes

She was wrapped in my jacket, almost swallowed by it. You never realize how small a woman is until she wears your clothes.

people who say “Mason jar” instead of “fruit jar” probably are a little snooty and sleep in pajamas.

What will you do when you figure it out?” Kitty asks me, her mouth full of cookie. “Yeah, what’s the point of all this?” Peter says. “I mean, who cares if a chocolate chip cookie is eight percent better? It’s still a chocolate chip cookie.” “I’ll take pleasure in the knowledge that I am in possession of the perfect chocolate chip cookie recipe. I will pass it down to the next generation of Song girls.” “Or boys,” Kitty says. “Or boys,” I agree. To her I say, “Now go upstairs and get a big Mason jar for me to put these cookies in. And a ribbon.” Peter asks, “Will you bring some to school tomorrow?” “We’ll see,” I say, because I want to see him make that pouty face I love so much. He makes the face, and I reach up to pat his cheeks. “You’re such a baby.” “You love it,” he says, snagging another cookie.

You are beautiful, Layla." Layla gave a tiny shake of her head. "I didn't feel beautiful when I saw the women Jonas had brought to our bed. Don't get me wrong. I have no desire to be that thin. I like my curves. But it was like he was saying there was something wrong with me, and it made me even angrier because he was right." She attacked the burger like it was a Scooby Snack. Did she really not see her own beauty? Evan had been falling all over himself to get her into bed, and the dudes with the mason jars weren't the only ones who'd been checking her out in the bar.

Naomi’s smile brightens. “Aww, thanks, Wiley! I’ve been working on a cherry batch I think you’ll like if you like that one.” Wiley smiles, his eyes tight. “I can’t wait,” he says, tipping his mason jar to her. To me, he scowls. “You devil.” He pinches me on the ass, and I giggle. “Cool it, cowboy.

Granny nods. “Here.” She leans down and grabs a mason jar from under the chair. “Have some moonshine.” “That’s not going to help anything.” “Well, it ain’t gonna hurt nothing either unless you drink too much. But it’s like I always say. Life should be full of moon words. Moonlight kisses and moonshine and your ol’ grandpappy mooning me from the front yard.” She holds the mason jar higher, extending it toward me.

She leaned over the basket again, taking in the mouthwatering aromas wafting out of it. "Fried chicken? Oh, I'm thinking buttermilk fried chicken?" Dylan was once again amused. "How do you do that?" "I like food." "You don't say." "And I love Southern fried chicken." She tried to open the basket, and he tapped her hand jokingly. "Sit," he said. And she did, crossing her legs and plopping down on the blanket. Opening the basket and playing waiter, Dylan began removing flatware and plates and red-checkered napkins, and then wrapped food. "For lunch today in Chez Orchard de Pomme, we have some lovely cheese, made from the milk of my buddy Mike's goat Shelia." He removed the plastic wrap, which covered a small log of fresh white cheese on a small plate, and handed it to her. Grace put her nose to the cheese. It was heavenly. "Oh, Shelia is my new best friend." "It's good stuff. And we have some fresh chili corn bread. The corn, I think, is from Peter Lindsey's new crop, just cut out from the maze, which is right down this hill." He motioned with his head toward the field, and then he handed her a big loaf of the fresh corn bread wrapped loosely in wax paper. "It's still warm!" Delighted, she held it to her cheek. Then he pulled out a large oval Tupperware container. "And, yes, we have Dolly's buttermilk fried chicken." Grace peeled open the top and smelled. "Fabulous." "It is!" He also pulled out a mason jar of sourwood honey, a sack of pecans, and a couple of very cold bottles of a local mountain-brewed beer.

She shook her head, and we parted, kissing, as the first beams from the sun burst forth behind us. When I returned to my bedroom, the scent of her hair remained on my pillow. For the first time in my life, at the age of twenty-five, I was in love.

So we went for a stroll in Alumni Park, a grassy lawn in front of Pepperdine that overlooks the coast. Deer trickle down from the hills and rocky bluffs to graze there. The coral trees rise like watchtowers over a pond where fresh water reeds grow, providing a small refuge for ducks and wild birds. At night, a full moon leaves a trail on the ocean’s black waters, and the constant coastal breeze disturbs the tree limbs, sending their leaves into a continuous stirring.

Grandpa stopped and looked at me. I paused, too, knowing this meant he had something important to say. His body was frail, but when he stood with his chin up like that, staring into my eyes, I had no choice but to respond with complete honesty. He could level me with that look. I was like a vulnerable child every time he did it.

Eden hid her smile in my hand and leaned down and kissed me. I took her face in my hand, her velvety skin like energy against my fingertips. Her love for her family and for people who were hurting all collided with her stunning beauty and made her irresistible. I kissed her forehead, her cheek, her neck, and her chin. Our noses touched, and she drew a shaky breath. Her hair hung around my face, creating a veil that hid us from the world.

I went for walks across the fields in my cozy, cotton-knit shirt, my worn out jeans, and my cowboy boots. I would stand at the pasture fence and watch the sun set. One day, pink ripples trailed its red ball; then the next it was a yellow bulb shining against gold-dusted clouds. Though it seemed as if heaven was on the other side of the hill, for some reason, the sunset was sad. At night, I would sit in the rocking chair by the fire with a cup of coffee and a book in my hand, a practice I had grown to love over the years. But what was once refreshing was now depressing. And when I stopped to ask myself what was wrong with me to see the world as so dull, dark, and worn-out looking, I remembered.

As a child, crisp spring afternoons were spent wading along Reedy Creek just beyond the field. Then came the heavy breeze in the autumn, pushing off the almond, auburn, sugar-yellow and apple-red leaves into the creek, providing rafts for dragonflies. In winter, the snow upon the wood became an eerie deep, and the occasional gliding of an owl would be spotted from our bedroom. Then, to spend an afternoon walking in a snowy wood and find a scarlet red cardinal perched on a white limb, you would think God arranged that picture just for you.

Grandpa would go for strolls alone through the pastures where meadowlarks and grasshoppers flew like broken-winged birds, where rabbits constructed their havens, and where thick-coated coyotes and red-tailed foxes sniffed and searched them out.

I followed her through the house into a surprisingly large kitchen with yellow and white checkered curtains hanging in the windows. A green ceramic frog with a dish scrubber in his mouth sat on the side of the sink and a cheery red tea kettle was on the spotless white stove. All together it looked like a completely normal kitchen—there was nothing witchy about it at all except for a huge black pot hanging from the rack over the oven. Gwendolyn saw me eyeing it and grinned. “That’s Grams’ gumbo pot. She always says you can’t make good authentic roux in anything but cast iron.” “Oh,” I said. “I thought—” “That we were hunched over the cauldron cackling and brewing spells?” She arched an eyebrow at me. “Sorry,” I said. “I guess there’s a lot about witches I don’t know.” “That’s okay—apparently there’s a lot about vamps I don’t know,” she said, opening a spotless white refrigerator. She brought out a mason jar and held it up.

And the time to say it was days ago, perhaps weeks ago, but it was never said. Like the fireflies she used to keep in Mason jars, the promise of its telling had glowed intermittently. "I love you," he said. And now the fireflies shone with a constant light.

Is this lox shmear?" Dahlia asks, opening the fancy gift bag I couldn't really afford but purchased anyway and pulling out the Mason jar packed with the pink spread. "Crawfish spread," I say. "But I imagine it would go very nicely on a bagel, same as lox." I am underplaying how delicious this stuff is. It's just poached crawfish tails blended in the Cuisinart with lots of butter and garlic, and a little cayenne pepper, but it's become my favorite thing in the world to eat. I serve it at the restaurant as an appetizer with toast points.

My husband says he feels like he's an extra in Jurassic Park except someone has turned all the dinosaurs miniature. In Florida, nature is seductive and full of vengeance. To live here is to engage in a ceaseless battle to keep the outdoors from coming in, but in this instance there is absolutely nothing to do but admit defeat: there are hundreds of thousands of lizards out there, with bodies malleable enough to slip through the smallest crack. This is why it's important to know how to catch lizards in mason jars, so we can help them rejoin the countless hordes outside. My mother's backyard is so full of lizards that the grass undulates of its own accord.

How many siblings do you have?” “Three sisters. The oldest is Charity. She’s twenty-eight. Then there’s Serenity, who is twenty-four. And Hope is twenty-two.” Mason’s eyebrow raised slightly, and I knew where his thoughts probably headed. Our names. Yes, we were all named after virtues. And yes, I was fully aware of the ridiculousness. “So…Charity, Serenity, Hope and Felicity?” “Between you and me”—I leaned toward him—“Charity is the most selfish person I know. Serenity is borderline crazy and nobody is more pessimistic than Hope. And me…well, I’m a ball of anger.” He laughed. “I wasn’t going to say a thing.” I stared at him. He grinned. “Okay, I was. And point taken.” I smiled. “My sisters are actually great. But so help me God, I’ll never give my children matching names, nor will I choose ones that will forever be their defining characteristic. I mean, c’mon, it’s like we were set up for failure.” He laughed. “So what’s your full name?” “Felicity Anne Daniels.” “Your initials are—” “Fad. Yes. I know. My parents are awful, and I can never get anything monogrammed.” “Hey, it’s not so bad. I’m named after a jar.” “Doesn’t ‘Mason’ originate from, like, a stoneworker or something?” “Yeah, but my mom literally got it from the jar. Apparently, she loved eating my great-grandma’s homemade preserves while pregnant with me. One day, she’s staring at the canning jar and thinks I should name my baby Mason. The rest is history.” I covered my mouth to hide my laugh. “Well, it could be worse. You could be named after what was in the jar.” “No shit. I’m pretty sure if I’d been a girl I’d be named Strawberry.