Milk And Vine Quotes

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The Kitchen           Half a papaya and a palmful of sesame oil; lately, your husband’s mind has been elsewhere.   Honeyed dates, goat’s milk; you want to quiet the bloating of salt.   Coconut and ghee butter; he kisses the back of your neck at the stove.   Cayenne and roasted pine nuts; you offer him the hollow of your throat.   Saffron and rosemary; you don’t ask him her name.   Vine leaves and olives; you let him lift you by the waist.   Cinnamon and tamarind; lay you down on the kitchen counter.   Almonds soaked in rose water; your husband is hungry.   Sweet mangoes and sugared lemon; he had forgotten the way you taste. Sour dough and cumin; but she cannot make him eat, like you.
Warsan Shire (Teaching My Mother How to Give Birth)
i’m in me mum’s car vroom vroom get out me car aww
Adam Gasiewski (Milk and Vine: Inspirational Quotes From Classic Vines)
this bitch called me ugly i said bitch where she said under all that makeup i said bitch where
Adam Gasiewski (Milk and Vine: Inspirational Quotes From Classic Vines)
Les pieds de Dieu. Do not tell my superior, but the smell of God’s feet is heaven to me.” The monk smiled. Threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Eight months ago I added milk, rennet, and a little salt together in a wooden vat. Pressed it, shaped it, and put it on the shelf to age. Today I have a delicious cheese to share with a guest. But the flavor, monsieur, that grows from something I did not add.
Luanne G. Smith (The Vine Witch (The Vine Witch, #1))
what are those
Adam Gasiewski (Milk and Vine: Inspirational Quotes From Classic Vines)
look at all those chickens
Adam Gasiewski (Milk and Vine: Inspirational Quotes From Classic Vines)
Nothing on this earth had ever felt as good as being inside Chloe. He gritted his teeth, hanging on to the last remnants of sanity he possessed, as he tried to calm enough not to take her like some primal beast. The grip of her. The silky heat. He braced his elbow next to her head and their eyes locked. He was fucking Chloe. This was going to change them forever. He experienced a rush of panic that quickly dimmed as her thighs clasped his hips and she arched to meet him, gasping. Her hands fell to his waist, nails digging into his skin. He moved, gripped her wrists, and brought them up over her head. They were touching everywhere, the length of him sliding into her. Her breasts against his chest. Her inner muscles clamped around him and he cursed, thrusting inside her. He'd think later. Much, much later. He covered her mouth with his, his tongue sliding against hers. The air grew thick and humid. Tinged with a desperate, urgent lust. He ripped away and groaned. Pumped harder inside her. Her head pressed into the pillow and her neck arched. He held her wrists tighter, he bit her exposed throat, before soothing the skin with his tongue. She cried out. Her nails dug harder. Her thighs clenched. Their movements deepened. Quickened. He let her go, levered up, and rammed hard inside her, circling his hips. Grinding against her. Thrusting harder. Faster. Deeper. The bed frame banged its frantic beat against the wall. Over and over and over again. Her body rippled down the length of his cock. He jerked, losing what little control he had as he came in a loud shout, just as her orgasm rushed through her, milking him for everything he was worth, his vision dimming as intense pleasure tore through him in endless waves. He had no idea how long they went on like that. Pushing and pulsing together mindlessly, lost in the aftershocks of bone-deep satisfaction. He collapsed on top of her, burying his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling that special scent, unique to Chloe. He licked her skin. Tasting salt and sex.
Kate Angell (The Cottage on Pumpkin and Vine)
Most of the ingredients she cooked with came from the tiny farm immediately behind the restaurant. It was so small that the Pertinis could shout from one end of it to another, but the richness of the soil meant that it supported a wealth of vegetables, including tomatoes, zucchini, black cabbage, eggplant and several species that were unique to the region, including bitter friarielli and fragrant asfodelo. There was also a small black boar called Garibaldi, who despite his diminutive size impregnated his harem of four larger wives with extraordinary diligence; an ancient olive tree through which a couple of vines meandered; a chicken or two; and the Pertinis' pride and joy, Priscilla and Pupetta, the two water buffalo, who grazed on a patch of terraced pasture no bigger than a tennis court. The milk they produced was porcelain white, and after hours of work each day it produced just two or three mozzarelle, each one weighing around two pounds- but what mozzarelle: soft and faintly grassy, like the sweet steamy breath of the bufale themselves. As well as mozzarella, the buffalo milk was crafted into various other specialties. Ciliègine were small cherry-shaped balls for salads, while bocconcini were droplet-shaped, for wrapping in slices of soft prosciutto ham. Trecce, tresses, were woven into plaits, served with Amalfi lemons and tender sprouting broccoli. Mozzarella affumicata was lightly smoked and brown in color, while scamorza was smoked over a smoldering layer of pecan shells until it was as dark and rich as a cup of strong espresso. When there was surplus milk they even made a hard cheese, ricotta salata di bufala, which was salted and slightly fruity, perfect for grating over roasted vegetables. But the cheese the Pertinis were best known for was their burrata, a tiny sack of the finest, freshest mozzarella, filled with thick buffalo cream and wrapped in asphodel leaves.
Anthony Capella (The Wedding Officer)
I cried in the Chevron bathroom stall. I cried near the confederate jasmine vine on the left side of the mailbox. I cried in conditions of suburban sprawl. I cried on the couch, in the black bucket seat, near the diaper, halfway between the Little Free Library and a nearby house, in the funeral home parlor, in the late afternoon traffic which turned every light orange, in the mega-box store with low prices for milk. I cried in the grass and pressed my face into the driveway pavement.
Alina Stefanescu (Every Mask I Tried On: Short Stories)
Go light, light, light, said the pastry chef. Not too hard, the touch. So I simmered the fruit with sugar. Eased together a batter, barely stirring. The shortcakes came whispering from the oven, pale mounds, uncompromised. I slipped fingers into their heat. Outside the grass was scant and dead and below my pane of mountain sky, smog clung to the lowlands like scum on stock, one unending gray season. But on my tongue it was summer and it was spring and seasons flourished and vines ran high. Butter and fruit: my mouth an orchard in the sun.
C Pam Zhang (Land of Milk and Honey)