Out Of The Salt Shaker Quotes

I was stealing salt shakers again. Ten, sometimes twelve a night, shoving them up my sleeves, smuggling them out of bars and diners and anywhere else I could find them. In the morning, wherever I woke up, I was always covered in salt. I was cured meat. I had become beef jerky. Even as a small child, I knew it would one day come to this.

Ready?” he asked. He motioned for her to look to the sky. She’d been on enough long walks with her father to know it was time to open her mind. Their times in nature usually held a secret surprise. It could be anything, really—a rainbow touching the snow or heart-shaped shade cast by a pair of trees. Anything. Today, the gift was being outside the second it started to snow. “Ooh, Daddy! Look, it’s like a salt shaker!” She stuck her tongue out for the newborn snowflakes. Blake followed her lead. Snow tasted sweeter with Emme around.

You’re not going to throw this away, are you?” she says, and she’ll be talking about the grains of rice in the bottom of the salt shaker. “No, Mrs. Peacock, by all means, you take them. They’ll come in handy when your son gets out of prison and marries your niece.

My old man 16 years old during the depression I’d come home drunk and all my clothing– shorts, shirts, stockings– suitcase, and pages of short stories would be thrown out on the front lawn and about the street. my mother would be waiting behind a tree: “Henry, Henry, don’t go in . . .he’ll kill you, he’s read your stories . . .” “I can whip his ass . . .” “Henry, please take this . . .and find yourself a room.” but it worried him that I might not finish high school so I’d be back again. one evening he walked in with the pages of one of my short stories (which I had never submitted to him) and he said, “this is a great short story.” I said, “o.k.,” and he handed it to me and I read it. it was a story about a rich man who had a fight with his wife and had gone out into the night for a cup of coffee and had observed the waitress and the spoons and forks and the salt and pepper shakers and the neon sign in the window and then had gone back to his stable to see and touch his favorite horse who then kicked him in the head and killed him. somehow the story held meaning for him though when I had written it I had no idea of what I was writing about. so I told him, “o.k., old man, you can have it.” and he took it and walked out and closed the door. I guess that’s as close as we ever got.

tap out a single grain of salt from a shaker. You could line up about ten skin cells along one side of it. You could line up about a hundred bacteria. Compared to viruses, however, bacteria are giants. You could line up a thousand viruses alongside that same grain of salt.

Then there’s the superstition about spilling salt. One night midway through the Tour of Italy, my CSC teammate Michael Sandstød decided to risk breaking the rule. He purposely knocked over the salt shaker, then poured out the salt in his hand and tossed it all around, laughing, saying, “It’s just salt!” We laughed too, but more nervously. The next day, Michael crashed on a steep downhill, breaking eight ribs, fracturing his shoulder, and puncturing a lung; he nearly died.

So I thought it might be interesting, for the length of a book, to consider the ordinary things in life, to notice them for once and treat them as if they were important, too. Looking around my house, I was startled and somewhat appalled to realize how little I knew about the domestic world around me. Sitting at the kitchen table one afternoon, playing idly with the salt and pepper shakers, it occurred to me that I had absolutely no idea why, out of all the spices in the world, we have such an abiding attachment to those two. Why not pepper and cardamom, say, or salt and cinnamon? And why do forks have four tines and not three or five? There must be reasons for these things. Dressing, I wondered why all my suit jackets have a row of pointless buttons on every sleeve. I heard a reference on the radio to someone paying for room and board, and realized that when people talk about room and board, I have no idea what the board is that they are talking about. Suddenly the house seemed a place of mystery to me.

The next morning I drove to an antique store and asked them if they had some of the old tin salt and pepper shakers. Back when Kiowas were made prisoners of war and placed in concentration camps, the U.S. government didn’t allow us to practice our culture. The only thing we had were government rations called commodities, and in those commodities were tin salt and pepper shakers. Most looked at them and saw salt and pepper shakers, but we looked at them through Kiowa eyes and we saw gourd dance rattles. In secret, out of the military’s sight, we practiced our culture, and we modified the rations we had at our disposal. When Kiowas danced with rattles made from tin salt and pepper shakers, it was a proud act of resistance.

Come on. Let’s go get coffee, get your mind off it,” Silas says soothingly as I begin to take my frustration out on the bag of bread, violently twisting the end of the plastic into a knot. “I don’t like coffee,” I grumble without looking at him. Silas reaches forward and puts his hands over mine. Goose bumps erupt on my arms. He raises his eyebrows, voice gentle. “You can get chocolate milk, then. But let’s get out of here before you bend the entire loaf in half.” I sigh and look at him. Funny how he can go from being “just Silas” to Silas in a matter of seconds. I release the bread and follow him out the door, my frustration and the flutter feeling fighting for control of me. The diner Silas takes me to is just a few blocks away, a dingy but classic-looking place with black and white tile and red neon signs blinking things such as “Apple Pie!” and “Specialty Hash Browns!” We slide into a booth, and a waitress who is missing several teeth grins at us and asks us for our order. “Just a cup of coffee for me. You, Rosie?” “Chocolate milk,” I reply with a snide look at Silas. He laughs and the waitress hurries away. Then, silence. Silas rearranges the salt and pepper shakers, and I pretend to read a piece of paper outlining the history of the diner. Right. “So,” I blurt out, a little louder than I meant to, “I guess you didn’t get much time at home, did you? Back from California and now stuck here with us?” Is my voice shaking? I think my voice is shaking.

My first example concerns Satan’s efforts to corrupt a person who has an unusual commitment to one particular doctrine or commandment of the gospel of Jesus Christ. This could be an unusual talent for family history work, an extraordinary commitment to constitutional government, a special gift in the acquisition of knowledge, or any other special talent or commitment. In a memorable message given at the 1971 October conference, Elder Boyd K. Packer likened the fulness of the gospel to a piano keyboard. He reminded us that a person could be “attracted by a single key,” such as a doctrine they want to hear “played over and over again.” He explained: Some members of the Church who should know better pick out a hobby key or two and tap them incessantly, to the irritation of those around them. They can dull their own spiritual sensitivities. They lose track that there is a fulness of the gospel, . . . [which they reject] in preference to a favorite note. This becomes exaggerated and distorted, leading them away into apostasy. [Boyd K. Packer, Teach Ye Diligently (Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1975), p. 44] We could say of such persons, as the Lord said of the members of the Shaker sect in a revelation given in 1831, “Behold, I say unto you, that they desire to know the truth in part, but not all” (D&C 49:2). And so, I say, beware of a hobby key. If you tap one key to the exclusion or serious detriment of the full harmony of the gospel keyboard, Satan can use your strength to bring you down.

For comparison, tap out a single grain of salt from a shaker. You could line up about ten skin cells along one side of it. You could line up about a hundred bacteria. Compared to viruses, however, bacteria are giants. You could line up a thousand viruses alongside that same grain of salt.

what technology could account for a living, breathing, bulletproof wolf, a beast that seemingly disappeared in midstride but left behind a chunk of its decaying flesh? What military or intelligence program can pull off a trick like that? What invisible soldier repeatedly slipped into Ellen Gorman’s locked bathroom (see page 239) and removed her towel and hairbrush? What Delta Force commando infiltrated her kitchen and unpacked her groceries from the cabinets? How many covert operatives did it take to surreptitiously invade the Gorman home for the purpose of taking the spatula out of the frying pan so that it could be hidden in the freezer? Which tough-as-nails marine was assigned the vital but routine task of switching the salt into the pepper shaker and the pepper into the salt shaker? To put it mildly, it’s a bit of a stretch.

How many piercings do you have?” I ask. He starts to count on his fingers. He stops at seven. “Seven?” “Where?” He points to each nipple, then his ears, then the shell of his ear. And then his gaze goes down to his crotch. He’s not smiling, and his eyes narrow as though he’s waiting to see my reaction. I gasp and nearly choke on my inhale. “Down there?” I whisper, a grin tugging at my lips. He nods, taking a sip of his root beer. “Did they hurt?” I suddenly have the most obnoxious desire to see every last one. He shrugs. “Can you do one for me?” I ask. Then I rush on to say, “Not today. Or any time soon. I don’t have enough money.” “Where would you want it?” he asks. I’ve only had my ears pierced and never thought of doing any other part of my body. My nipples go hard just thinking about it. “Did your nipples hurt?” I whisper. Then I realize he can’t tell I’m whispering, since he’s just reading my lips. “It hurts a little when you do it, but it goes away. Just like any other piercing.” I can’t stop thinking about the one down there. Heat creeps up my cheeks again. “I could pierce you. Anywhere you want,” he says. This time his face floods with color. “Anywhere?” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens them, he only opens one, and he looks at me like he’s wincing when he says carefully, “Anywhere.” He looks at my boobs again and licks his lips. “Take your pick.” Suddenly, I’m curious. “You do a lot of those?” I don’t know why that bothers me. “The… ones…down there?” He shrugs. I don’t like the idea of him touching anyone’s private places. Not at all. Although the idea of him touching mine… I squirm in my seat, and he arches an eyebrow at me. “Something wrong?” he asks. He’s smirking. I shake my head, biting my lips together. “Can anyone get a piercing like that?” I point toward my lap. I don’t know why I’m being so bold about this, but I’m curious. “Most people can.” He plays with the salt shaker. “We’d have to take a look to see what type of piercing would be best for you.” My face flames at the thought of him taking a look down there. He pushes my root beer toward me and says, “Drink. Before you pass out.” He’s grinning, though, and I’ve never seen such a look of confidence on a man. The awkwardness of a moment before has passed. And he’s enjoying making me squirm.

The boy from that morning stood idly in the doorframe, once again wearing that maddening smirk. “Mort doesn’t really believe in cooking,” he said, swinging into the room. He opened the freezer door and nimbly transferred a pie from the box to the microwave. “He calls it a waste of time and sulfuric acid.” Lex attempted to disguise the mangled expression of intrigue and annoyance that had involuntarily appeared on her face. “And you would know because you’re his . . .” “Pool boy.” “There is no pool!” She turned to Uncle Mort, the ire rising once again. “What is he doing here?” Uncle Mort heaved an overdramatic shrug. “What are any of us doing here, really?” he said, waving his hands philosophically. “Jesus. You’re both evil.” “That’s no way to talk about your uncle,” her uncle said. “Or your partner,” Driggs added. “What?” Lex squawked, a whole new stew of emotions bubbling over. Not knowing what else to do, she grabbed the salt shaker and hurled it at him, followed by the pepper. “You’re my partner?” Driggs caught both items and began to juggle. “Yes, he is,” said Uncle Mort. “And in case you’ve forgotten, you still have a full week of training left—training that I can easily cancel and turn into a one-way ticket back home if you keep acting like a troglodyte.” Lex frowned, but lowered the sugar bowl she had readied. “So you two better find a way to get along. Now hug it out.” “No way.” She eyed Driggs. “I’m not hugging that.” “Oh yes you are.” Uncle Mort was enjoying this little show. “Befriend or else.” She had no choice. Careful to avoid Driggs’s gaze, Lex reluctantly entered into the frosty embrace. “You have no intention of befriending, do you?” Driggs whispered. “I’d rather take a bath with a toaster.

blueberry margarita It’s a stretch, but I like to think of this drink as the boozy almost-equivalent of an açai bowl, since it’s made with pomegranate juice and fresh blueberries. You can take it all the way healthy by omitting tequila, if you like your drinks dry, and subbing in ginger ale, club soda, or a nonalcoholic spirit. Either way, it’s perfect for a summer (or, if you live in Los Angeles, spring/summer/fall/winter) day. TIME: 3 MINUTES SERVES: 1 2 tablespoons Himalayan pink salt 1 lime wedge 4 fresh mint leaves ¼ cup rinsed fresh blueberries, plus 4 blueberries for garnish 2 ounces tequila ½ ounce fresh lime juice 1 ounce pomegranate juice ½ ounce Ginger Syrup Pour the Himalayan salt into a small dish. Run the wedge of lime around the rim of a highball glass, then twist the rim in the salt until fully coated. Fill the salt-rimmed glass with ice and set aside. Clap the mint to bring out its flavor, then put it and the blueberries into a shaker. Muddle them until pulverized. Add a handful of ice, the tequila, lime juice, pomegranate juice, and ginger syrup. Shake vigorously until chilled; strain into the prepared glass. Skewer 4 blueberries onto a cocktail pick and use to garnish the drink. Serve and enjoy.

But what if the sketches based on Jack Thayer’s account were right? What if Titanic had split open, the two halves plummeting, broken ends first? Then some of what was inside would have tumbled into the ocean like salt and pepper pouring out of shakers. I visualized the ship not just breaking in two but falling to the bottom, with the heaviest pieces heading straight down and lighter ones drifting in the current, just as I had seen with Scorpion and Thresher. It played out like a film in my head and, all of a sudden, it was as clear as a bell. I shouldn’t be searching for the ship. I should be searching for the debris trail. A mile-long trail would be easier for me to find than an 883-foot ship that was maybe in one piece, maybe not.

You, Reader I wonder how you are going to feel when you find out that I wrote this instead of you, that it was I who got up early to sit in the itchen and mention with a pen the rain-soaked windows, the ivy wallpaper, and the goldfish circling in its bowl. Go ahead and turn aside, bite your lip and tear out the page, but, listen– it was just a matter of time before one of us happened to notice the unlit candles and the clock humming on the wall. Plus, nothing happened that morning– a song on the radio, a car whistling along the road outside– and I was only thinking about the shakers of salt and pepper that were standing side by side on a place mat. I wondered if they had become friends after all these years or if they were still strangers to one another like you and I who manage to be known and unknown to each other at the same time– me at this table with a bowl of pears, you leaning in a doorway somewhere near some blue hydrageas, reading this.