Mrs Potts Quotes

The bad things that happen in our lives serve to shape us just as much as the good.

Mrs. Pott's beady black eyes narrowed,"Do you know how many glass slippers I have to stitch when I get home? There's a Mad Hatter serenading a toaster as we speak. There could be mayhem wreaking havoc all over the love in New Gotham, granted what thankless ingrates you are. But here I am! I've taken a chance on you..

I HAVE SOME QUESTIONS ABOUT KING TRITON. Specifically, King, why are you elderly but with the body of a teenage Beastmaster? How do you maintain those monster pecs? Do they have endocrinologists under the sea? Because I am scheduling you some bloodwork... ...Question: How come, when they turn back into humans at the end of Beauty and the Beast, Chip is a four-year-old boy, but his mother, Mrs. Potts, is like 107? Perhaps you're thinking, "Lindy, you are remembering it wrong. That kindly, white-haired, snowman-shaped Mrs. Doubtfire situation must be Chip's grandmother." Not so, champ! She's his mom. Look it up. She gave birth to him four years ago... As soon as you become a mother, apparently, you are instantly interchangeable with the oldest woman in the world, and / or sixteen ounces of boiling brown water with a hat on it. Take a sec and contrast Mrs. Pott's literally spherical body with the cut-diamond abs of King Triton, father of seven.

Mrs. Potts beady black eyes narrowed,"Do you know how many glass slippers I have to stitch when I get home? There's a Mad Hatter serenading a toaster as we speak. There could be mayhem wreaking havoc all over the love in New Gotham, granted what thankless ingrates you are. But here I am!

Still, Mrs Potts wasn't going to let the girl just leave - not if she could help it. And having lived with a stubborn individual for quite some time, she knew that sometimes the best way to make people do what they didn't want to do was to give them the chance to do it on their own terms.

Count,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter. ‘Mrs. Hunt,’ replied the count. ‘This is Mr. Snodgrass, a friend of Mr. Pickwick’s, and a poet.’ ‘Stop,’ exclaimed the count, bringing out the tablets once more. ‘Head, potry — chapter, literary friends — name, Snowgrass; ver good. Introduced to Snowgrass — great poet, friend of Peek Weeks — by Mrs. Hunt, which wrote other sweet poem — what is that name? — Fog — Perspiring Fog — ver good — ver good indeed.’ And the count put up his tablets, and with sundry bows and acknowledgments walked away, thoroughly satisfied that he had made the most important and valuable additions to his stock of information. ‘Wonderful man, Count Smorltork,’ said Mrs. Leo Hunter. ‘Sound philosopher,’ said Mr. Pott. ‘Clear-headed, strong-minded person,’ added Mr. Snodgrass.

Her mother called.” “Her mother?” he asked, half asleep. “Wondering where she was since she didn’t come home last night.” “She must have forgotten to call. We talked until dawn.” “Her mother was very worried.” “She’s an adult, Miss Potts. She’s twenty-six.” “Tell that to Judy Carmichael.” Miss Potts pursed her lips. “What about her reputation?” “This isn’t the 1800s.” “Lucky for you, or Frank Carmichael might be out here with a shotgun in the next little while. And she’d be the next Mrs. Lee.” He refused to rise to that specific bait, regardless of how the very idea made his heart beat faster. “Humph,” said Miss Potts. “Wake her up and come up to the house. I’ll make eggs and biscuits before she goes.” She turned to go, and Asher called after her softly, careful not to wake up Sleeping Beauty. “Miss Potts.” She turned, her expression still disapproving. “I care about her. A lot.” “Caring about someone means looking out for their best interest. Always. Without exception.” She put a finger to her chin, tapping thoughtfully. “I’ll have to make something special for Sunday. As a peace offering.” Asher grinned. “Mama’s peach cobbler?” “The very thing,” said Miss Potts nodding approvingly, before turning to head back into the woods.

And then...burble...to come...blorb ten years later...glug...and ask me..." Mrs. Potts was quite literally boiling over.

As soon you become a mother, apparently, you are instantly interchangeable with the oldest woman in the world, and/or sixteen ounces of boiling brown water with a hat on it. Take a sec and contrast Mrs. Potts’s literally spherical body with the cut-diamond abs of King Triton, father of seven.

My point is that amid all this upheaval, you can stay the same. You can be the constant the kingdom needs you to be." She looked out to the horizon. "The person you are now is the same person who saved our kingdom. Why should you ever want to change into someone else?

Try the gougères," Lumière interrupted, popping one into her mouth before she could continue. It was warmed by his flame and melted on her tongue- nothing at all like the perfectly good but usually rock-hard ones she and her father baked. "Ohhh..." she couldn't help saying. "It's been so long since we had a guest!" Mrs. Potts danced around on the table happily, somehow managing to fold a napkin with her spout-nose. She tossed it into Belle's lap: a swan shape that gracefully unfolded as it fell, almost like it was flying. Belle shrank back, worried it was actually going to fly. "I can't imagine why," she muttered. And then she was distracted by the food. Piles of it. More than a feast- a banquet. There was a whole leg of lamb, multiple terrines and soufflés, three soup courses, a delicate fish in white wine broth, an orange ice in between to clear the palate... There was a water glass, a golden glass for red wine, a crystal one for white, and a saucer for consommé. There were seven forks of descending size and different numbers of tines, the last three whose use she couldn't even begin to work out.

I don’t make promises I can’t keep, Mrs. Potts. Not anymore.