Mini Mart Quotes

She thinks I have no skin in this game anymore. But telling the world who I am doesn’t stop truckers from honking at me as I walk to the diner that afternoon. It doesn’t stop me from needing to duck into three mini-marts on my way home to find one that sells tampons. It’s changed the shape of the target on my back, but it’s also made that target bigger.

Laundromat, mini-mart, nail salon, pet shop, Books of Darkness.

The bar had the ambiance of a Chevron station mini-mart and the odor of someone deep-frying fish in a men’s locker room.

The strangest thing about becoming an atheist was how little things changed. With no divine rules or threat of eternal punishment hanging over my head, I still somehow managed to not lie, cheat, steal, or kill anybody. Although to be honest, I was a little confused as to why we weren't lying, cheating, or stealing. Not killing people still made sense, but why, for example, should we not steal some peanut butter crackers from the unmanned mini-mart in this Holiday Inn?

Lucky for Joan, she was not watching when her devilish sons nearly knocked Layla off her feet in front of Fadden's Mini-Mart. "How's it going?" Peter winked at Layla as his brother let out a low whistle. Layla, having just sidestepped Benny Corcoran's admiration, was not prepared for the wily twins' attentions. With an enchanting combination of teenage timidity and self-assurance, she nodded briefly in their direction before ducking into the mini-mart. "Jaysus. Did you see her?" "See her? Michael, I think we've just witnessed a miracle.

While her youngest sister was hiccuping romance in the mini-mart, Marjan was busy in the kitchen chopping her last onion, impatient for Layla to return with reinforcements. Frying the chopped onion with some olive oil, she flipped the pieces about until they were crunchy but not blackened, then set the fried charms aside for later, to be sprinkled on bowls of soup ordered by expectant customers. Marjan considered this sizzled garnish to be the best part of her red lentil soup, for after all, the humblest of moments can often be the most rewarding.

Logan took off running, not toward the gas station mini-mart, but down the road, away from the two men. They clearly weren’t going to hurt him, but that didn’t matter. He was afraid in general—fear-filled at having gotten himself into this predicament, so far from home and unable to communicate. A frantic knot gnawed at his stomach, the feeling that now

Elemim ve ıstırabım derindir. Bana müsaade et... Çıkayım, bütün cihâna şu hakikati söyleyeyim: 'Benim mini mini kalbim bir mâbettir. Orada bir ışık yanar. Ona Mustafa Kemal aşkı derler. Ben yalnız onunla ve onun için yaşayan bir mahlûkum. Benim yolum yalnız onun göstereceği yoldur' diye bağırayım! (Mustafa Kemal Paşa'ya Yazdığı 22 Mart 1926 Tarihli Mektuptan)

MOLLY’S OWN CHILDHOOD MEMORIES ARE SCANT AND PARTIAL. SHE remembers that the TV in the living room seemed to be on all the time and that the trailer smelled of cigarette smoke and the cat’s litterbox and mildew. She remembers her mother lying on the couch chain-smoking with the shades drawn before she left for her job at the Mini-Mart. She remembers foraging for food—cold hot dogs and toast—when her mother wasn’t home, and sometimes when she was. She remembers the giant puddle of melting snow just outside the door of the trailer, so large that she had to jump across it from the top step to get to dry ground.

The Jeep was thirsty so I stopped for gas on the edge of town. Ambient noise filled the air around me. The slosh of gasoline filling the tank. Trucks on the highway muffled with the hum and womp womp of snow tires. A couple arguing as they came out of the mini-mart. A semi driving over a steel manhole cover, first the front wheel, then the back. A bulldozer and an excavator working in tandem in a lot behind me. A siren several blocks off, followed by a second. Kids playing basketball somewhere over my shoulder.

Inside an H Mart complex, there will be some kind of food court, an appliance shop, and a pharmacy. Usually, there's a beauty counter where you can buy Korean makeup and skin-care products with snail mucin or caviar oil, or a face mask that vaguely boasts "placenta." (Whose placenta? Who knows?) There will usually be a pseudo-French bakery with weak coffee, bubble tea, and an array of glowing pastries that always look much better than they taste. My local H Mart these days is in Elkins Park, a town northeast of Philadelphia. My routine is to drive in for lunch on the weekends, stock up on groceries for the week, and cook something for dinner with whatever fresh bounty inspires me. The H Mart in Elkins Park has two stories; the grocery is on the first floor and the food court is above it. Upstairs, there is an array of stalls serving different kinds of food. One is dedicated to sushi, one is strictly Chinese. Another is for traditional Korean jjigaes, bubbling soups served in traditional earthenware pots called ttukbaegis, which act as mini cauldrons to ensure that your soup is still bubbling a good ten minutes past arrival. There's a stall for Korean street food that serves up Korean ramen (basically just Shin Cup noodles with an egg cracked in); giant steamed dumplings full of pork and glass noodles housed in a thick, cakelike dough; and tteokbokki, chewy, bite-sized cylindrical rice cakes boiled in a stock with fish cakes, red pepper, and gochujang, a sweet-and-spicy paste that's one of the three mother sauces used in pretty much all Korean dishes. Last, there's my personal favorite: Korean-Chinese fusion, which serves tangsuyuk---a glossy, sweet-and-sour orange pork---seafood noodle soup, fried rice, and black bean noodles.

As the indifferent crowd parted to let him through, two young men stepped out of Ma Barker’s Mini Mart—straight into the thief’s escape route. He slammed into the first man—Chandler, all six foot six and two hundred ninety pounds of him—and bounced right off. Chandler didn’t budge.

Elemim ve ıstırabım derindir. Bana müsaade et... Çıkayım, bütün cihâna şu hakikati söyleyeyim: 'Benim mini mini kalbim bir mâbettir. Orada bir ışık yanar. Ona Mustafa Kemal aşkı derler. Ben yalnız onunla ve onun için yaşayan bir mahlûkum. Benim yolum yalnız onun göstereceği yoldur' diye bağırayım! (Boşanma sonrası Gazi Mustafa Kemal Paşa'ya yazdığı 22 Mart 1926 tarihli mektuptan)

As Corcoran's Bake Shop boasted no back garden, and had no need for parking space thanks to its owner's preference for wheelbarrow delivery, the arrangement was a sound one for both parties. Benny Corcoran never minded having to share his alley space, encouraged it even, as the sharing allowed him proximity to his primary source of inspiration, Layla Aminpour's rosewater and cinnamon scent. Ever since the Babylon Café's opening, that first day when Benny crossed paths with Layla on his way from Fadden's Mini-Mart, the baker had been on a steady chrysalis-like course of transformation. Not only had he tripled his hot cross bun production and experimented with a black yeast and soda water ferment that pumped his sugar loaves to near Blarney Stone proportions, but he had dedicated himself to the rigors of an exercise regime that found him running up and down Croagh Patrick's stony path once a week, showers notwithstanding. Metamorphosis would have been an exaggeration had it been anyone but Benny Corcoran; the once puffy baker had turned his body and libido into a sinewy machine of redheaded virility- a development that did not bode well for his wife Assumpta's version of the marriage sacrament.