Rebecca Sugar Quotes

Everybody needs a comfy space to cry!

It seems unforgiving when a good thing ends But you and I will always be back then

Something weird might just be something familiar from a different angle, and that's not scary, right?

I make it a habit to always pay attention when a woman speaks to me. It’s the ones who are out of their minds who have the most fascinating and insightful things to say.

You, my dearest darling, are someone I’ve only dreamed of meeting. I’m very afraid I won’t be able to let you go back to your world. I think I shall have to keep you here, with me.

So you’re not on the Rat King’s side then?” “Fuck no. He has no sense of style, for one thing. And for another… No, that’s it. That’s my only reason.

You’ve heard of her,” I say—a challenge, an assurance. Below me and above me and in the woods stretching thick and endless, their leaves made of sugar out of nothing but light.

...in the woods stretching thick and endless, their leaves making sugar out of nothing but light.

Excuse me, but what kinda black lady are you?" I smiled, looked at her, and said, "The kinda black lady that you wanna know.

My mother was the first person you called for a recipe (a cup of onions, garlic, don’t forget the pinch of sugar) and the last one you called at night when you just couldn’t sleep (a cup of hot water with lemon, lavender oil, magnesium pills). She knew the exact ratio of olive oil to garlic in any recipe, and she could whip up dinner from three pantry items, easy. She had all the answers. I, on the other hand, have none of them, and now I no longer have her.

You want to hide away from every piece of shit out there instead of fighting, then I’ll build you a damn fortress.” “You need a monster to protect you from the monsters, then I’ll do the dirty work. My hands are already filthy with it.” “But if you want to learn how to rip out their throats yourself, sugar, then I’ll show you how to fucking bite.

He wanted to spend the rest of his life building Nora's Paris out of sugar cubes, brick by brick. He wanted a one-way ticket to 1920. He thought about Nora's idea of time travel. What a horrible kind of travel, that took you only forward into the terrifying future, constantly farther from whatever had once made you happy. Only maybe that wasn't what she'd meant. Maybe she meant the older you got, the more decades you had at your disposal to revisit with your eyes closed.

I saw the things that mattered to you. And suddenly I was terrified of losing you.

You can’t take the actions of one and infer the wickedness or unworthiness of all!

Lari, I was wondering if—” he begins to say, but Pedro suddenly sticks his head between us like a giraffe. “What’s with the chitchatting in my kitchen? We got work to do!” Pedro scolds,

t's not like everything has been solved between all of us, like a lifted curse in a storybook. And I know we still have a lot of learn from each other and s lot to forgive. But standing side by side in the kitchen together seems like a new chapter in our families' shared story, one full of hope.

How can anyone so annoying smell so good? The wind stirs Pedro's hair and balloons his shirt. I guess after years of preparing buttercream, melting chocolate with delicate precision, and kneading sweet rolls with his bare hands, the scents have remained on him like a second skin. He smells like Sugar's early mornings, when they fill their ovens with the first batches of bolo de rolo and coconut buns.

Her name was Rebecca. Or at least that’s what her nametag said. She was making my coffee at Starbucks as I admired how her green Starbucks apron matched her bright green eyes. She had hair the color of coffee with a hint of cream in it. I was trying to act casual and not make it seem like I came in here only to see her. The truth is, I hate coffee. That’s not entirely true. I do like a hint of coffee in my cup of sugar.

I’d forgotten the names of most of the plants, but back in Dana Ramos’s class I’d known them all. I only lived four years in New England, but I noticed more and learned more about what was around me there than I ever had in Indiana, and more than I ever would in LA, where there’s constantly something new and impossibly technicolor blooming on my street. I could still tell you a few of them, the stalwart trees and ephemeral flowers of New Hampshire: painted trillium, bunchberry, hemlock, sheep laurel, white cedar, bloodroot. Below me and above me and in the woods stretching thick and endless, their leaves made sugar out of nothing but light.

My mother was the first person you called for a recipe (a cup of onions, garlic, don’t forget the pinch of sugar) and the last one you called at night when you just couldn’t sleep (a cup of hot water with lemon, lavender oil, magnesium pills). She knew the exact ratio of olive oil to garlic in any recipe, and she could whip up dinner from three pantry items, easy. She had all the answers. I, on the other hand, have none of them, and now I no longer have her. “Hi,” I hear Eric say from inside. “Where is everyone?” Eric is my husband, and he is our last guest here today. He shouldn’t be. He should have been with us the entire time, in the hard, low chairs, stuck between noodle casseroles and the ringing phone and the endless lipstick kisses of neighbors and women who call themselves aunties, but instead he is here in the entryway to what is now my father’s house, waiting to be received. I close my eyes. Maybe if I cannot see him, he will stop looking for me. Maybe I will fold into this ostentatious May day, the sun shining like a woman talking loudly on a cell phone at lunch. Who invited you here? I tuck the cigarette into the pocket of my jeans. I cannot yet conceive of a world without her, what that will look like, who I am in her absence. I am incapable of understanding that she will not pick me up for lunch on Tuesdays, parking without a permit on the

He clumsily picks up the trays of corn cake and bolo de rolo, now all mixed together. He shoves a piece of the mixture into his mouth like he's doing it just to avoid talking. But then his eyes light up. "Oh my God!" he says with his mouth full. He grabs another piece of corn cake stacked with bolo de rolo, holding it up to show it to me, like he's just made a great discovery. "What?" I ask. "You gotta try this," he says. I'm so nervous that I don't think I can make myself eat, but I take the first bite--- Salt and sugar mix in my mouth, the two tastes meeting like a kiss. "It's... it's..." I can't find the right words. "Perfect," he finishes for me. He's so close, his eyes locked with mine and that silly smile on his face. WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME?!

Sweetheart, you have to get some sleep. The doctor said you needed to rest, that your body was still flushing that drug out of your system.” Eli said nothing for a moment. “You called me ‘sweetheart.’” “I did?” “Did you mean it? Cause here’s the thing, sugar. You turned my world upside down. I’ve never been so scared in my life as when I realized Scarlett Group had taken you. I was afraid I wouldn’t have the chance to tell you how much I love you.” “Oh, Eli.” Tears filled her eyes. Her handsome Navy SEAL loved her enough that he was laying his heart on the line without having a clue she felt the same way about him.. An act of courage from the man staring at her with a wary gaze. “We haven’t known each other long. If it’s too soon for you to know how you feel about me, I’ll wait. Just know you own my heart, Brenna. I want to marry you and someday watch you rock my children.” She laid her hand over his mouth, stemming the tidal wave of words. “Eli, you don’t have to wait.” “I don’t?” “I’m a romance writer, my love. Happy endings are my stock in trade. Without you in my life, I wouldn’t have a happy ending because I love you, too, Eli. And, yes, I will marry you.” “Soon?” “The sooner, the better.

Maxim’s grandmother suffered her in patience. She closed her eyes as though she too were tired. She looked more like Maxim than ever. I knew how she must have looked when she was young, tall, and handsome, going round to the stables at Manderley with sugar in her pockets, holding her trailing skirt out of the mud. I pictured the nipped-in waist, the high collar, I heard her ordering the carriage for two o’clock. That was all finished now for her, all gone. Her husband had been dead for forty years, her son for fifteen. She had to live in this bright, red-gabled house with the nurse until it was time for her to die. I thought how little we know about the feelings of old people. Children we understand, their fears and hopes and make-believe. I was a child yesterday. I had not forgotten. But Maxim’s grandmother, sitting there in her shawl with her poor blind eyes, what did she feel, what was she thinking? Did she know that Beatrice was yawning and glancing at her watch? Did she guess that we had come to visit her because we felt it right, it was a duty, so that when she got home afterwards Beatrice would be able to say, “Well, that clears my conscience for three months”? Did she ever think about Manderley? Did she remember sitting at the dining room table, where I sat? Did she too have tea under the chestnut tree? Or was it all forgotten and laid aside, and was there nothing left behind that calm, pale face of hers but little aches and little strange discomforts, a blurred thankfulness when the sun shone, a tremor when the wind blew cold? I wished that I could lay my hands upon her face and take the years away. I wished I could see her young, as she was once, with color in her cheeks and chestnut hair, alert and active as Beatrice by her side, talking as she did about hunting, hounds, and horses. Not sitting there with her eyes closed while the nurse thumped the pillows behind her head.

Every now and then, a mouthful of food tilted the world on its axis. This was one of them. The stew was dark and rich, meaty, herby. Thick broth and tender carrots and cubes of potato, hints of spice and aromatic vegetables. I moved my spoon through the opaque lake of gravy, imagining words that might describe it in an essay. I'd use the setting of the room, the AGA cooker in the corner, and the mullioned windows and the thatchers in their jeans. "This is venison?" I asked and took a larger spoonful. "It's amazing." "Thank you," Rebecca said mildly. "Have you never had it?" "Not like this. We don't really eat it in the U.S." I tasted again, mulled the flavors: red wine, garlic, bacon, and something I couldn't quite put my finger on. "There's a hint of sweetness. Not honey, I don't think, or brown sugar." Tony chuckled. "She'll never tell you her secrets." "Of course I will. Red currant jam.

Sugar releases dopamine in the reward centre of the brain, similar to abusive drugs. 

The more added sugar that is in your diet the more likely you are at risk of ending up with heart disease

Sugar decreases the ability of the body to fight against bacteria infection ●

Sugar is known to suppress the immune system ●

Sugar can increase the risk of developing ulcerative colitis

a strong link between sugar and the risk of schizophrenia and depression. 

Sugar can cause emphysema ●

Sugar can cause migraines and headaches ●

Sugar can increase the body's fluid retention ●

Sugar can cause kidney stones ●

Sugar can contribute to Alzheimer's disease ●

Sugar can contribute to mild memory loss ●

Sugar can cause epileptic seizures ●

sugar activates the same area of the brain that is activated while a person is consuming drugs such as cocaine. 

each American eats about 130 pounds of sugar a year! 

What would your word be?" Twiss said. Something to do with baking. Whenever Milly could scrape together enough flour, sugar, and butter, she'd bake a dessert. Often, her parents would stop what they were doing and wander into the kitchen, where Twiss would already be sitting with a napkin tucked into the collar of her shirt. Something about sugar made their family sweeter. "'Sugar,'" Milly said to Twiss, measuring out two cups' worth. She mixed the batter and poured it into a cake pan. After she put the pan in the oven, she gave Twiss the bowl to lick and took the spoon for herself.

The town fair, which took place over the last weekend of August each year, was just over a month away. If their family agreed about anything, it was the town fair. Twiss loved the Wild West game and the spun sugar; their father loved the putting game and the caramel apples; their mother loved the bean counting game- last year she'd guessed 1,245 beans and won a forty-pound sack of kidney beans- and the Ferris wheel; and Milly loved what everyone else loved, except the livestock show and the amateur rodeo, where boys from the 4-H club wrestled calves to the ground for giant gold belt buckles. Milly also loved how the fair transformed the abandoned field behind the high school from twenty-five dandelion-inhabited acres that went unnoticed most of the year into a kind of fairy-tale place, where people sucked on cherry-flavored ice chips and honey-roasted peanuts, and the Ferris wheel went round and round, and the firecrackers reached higher and higher.

She takes off as fast as Jessie and James getting kicked into the horizon at the end of every Pokémon episode.

My confidence suddenly soars, and I start adding other fruit to the leftover contents in the blender, filling it to the brim with slices of mangoes and strawberries, like I've seen Grandma do when she was preparing "summer smoothies," a medley of different citrusy flavors that combined so well. PC, Victor, and Cintia flank me, watching wide-eyed. "She's like the smoothie whisperer," PC jokes. I reach for more milk, following my instinct, and fill the blender to the brim to compensate for all the extra fruit I added. Who knew that blending fruit would be this exciting? I watch all the bright, colorful pieces of fruit stacking up in the blender, looking like a beautiful mosaic.

I picture the customers pressing their faces to the display window outside to look at quibes, pastéis, and codfish bolinhos. I listen for our old stereo alternating between static crackling and forró songs swelling with melancholy accordions. I search for the tangy scent of ground beef simmering in a clay pot ready to turn into coxhina filling.

Bell pepper and onion skewers dripping with garlic hot sauce and a little lime. Chicken and steak skewers wrapped in bacon. And a side of farofa so we could dip the skewers and feel the crunch of kasava flour soaking up juices from the meat.

Empadões sit behind the glass, the round, perfectly golden brown pot pies loaded with shredded chicken and green olives. People usually know what they want when they walk into our bakery. Five loaves of bread. Shrimp empadinhas. Maybe some lunch quentinhas, the warm to-go box filled with couscous and carne de sol.

What do we have left from this morning?" "We have a Sousa Leão cake, a marble cake, and a passion fruit cake. They're all small, unfortunately." Seu Romário frowns. "Any frosting left?" "Some ganache, Chef." "Use it as frosting on the marble cake. Add a few strawberries on top. Then take all the small cakes we have left to tonight's wedding. Grab an assortment of guava and doce de leite bolos de rolo, too, that we were going to put on display tomorrow.

Great-grandma Elisa Ramires was a promising cook at an inn. The job was her only opportunity to raise Grandma on her own, so she made herself famous with a buttery, delicately savory fubá cake recipe. Dona Elizabete Molina had been at the inn longer than Great-grandma, and she was also famous for her own recipe. Milk pudding. It was said to be so smooth it slid on your tongue. The two were often at odds. They each wanted to prove to the neighborhood who was the best cook in town, and the opportunity came about with a cooking contest. The night before the contest, Great-grandma and Dona Elizabete were busy preparing their entry dishes and tending to the many guests at the inn. It was a busy night, with many tourists in town for Carnival. Nerves frazzled, shoulder to shoulder, and vying for space in the small kitchen, the story goes that the cooks accidentally tripped each other and sent their cake and pudding flying off the trays. Miraculously, the layers stacked up. Dona Elizabete's milk pudding landed atop Great-grandma's fubá cake. Maybe Dona Elizabete held the tray at the right angle until the last second and the pudding had enough surface tension to just slide off the right way without breaking. Maybe Great-grandma's cake was firm enough to hold the delicate layer of pudding atop. Whatever the case, they tried this new, accidental two-layered cake and realized that their recipes complemented each other beautifully. When they passed samples around to the guests, their reaction was proof that they'd produced perfection. No one remembers if they still entered the contest. Because from that moment on, the only thing everyone could talk about was their new recipe, the one they called "Salt and Sugar". One layer fubá cake, one layer pudding.

I've lived my whole life across the street from the Molinas, but this is the first time I set foot in Sugar. The theme inside is very gaudy. Twinkling lights shaped like icicles hanging from the ceiling. Red walls, just like the facade, the shade of Santa Claus's clothes. Glass shelves and counters polished until they sparkle, not one sign of fingerprints or kids' fogged breaths. There's a translucent wall in the back with display slots. Most are empty by now, but an assortment of bolos de rolo, Seu Romário's famous cakes, takes the main spot at the center. The special lighting shows off the traditionally super thin spiral layers--- twenty layers in this roll cake, he claims--- filled with guava and sprinkled with sugar granules that glisten like a dusting of crystals. The shelves to the right and left are packed with jujubas, bright candies, condensed milk puddings, cookies, broas, and sweet buns, filling the air with a strong, sweet perfume, the type you can actually taste. It's like being inside a candy factory.

The familiar cooking warmth coming from the booths soothed my anxious thoughts, like entering a labyrinth of barbecued, breaded, deep-fried treats. Acarajé bursting with shrimp. Grilled fish covered in lime juice and raw onion rings. Coxinhas loaded with shredded chicken and potato. Pastéis heavy with extra minced meat and olives. Coconut and cheese tapioca. Crepe sticks, too, prepared on demand right before the customers' eyes, the batter cooked like a waffle and filled with chocolate and doce de leite.

Sour starch, Parmesan cheese, water, vegetable oil, milk, eggs... And salt, of course," he reads aloud the ingredients we'll need today. "We're making pão de queijo and packaging fresh fruits this afternoon." This cheese bread has always been a favorite at Salt, pairing well with hot, chocolatey coffee. Growing up, I used to linger in the kitchen watching Grandma roll the dough into small balls with her hands. Once in the oven, they'd filled the entire bakery with a strong cheesy aroma that attracted customers all the way from Alto da Sé.

The Molinas' entourage of bakers stream through Sugar's doors with trays brimming with lavender-colored surpresas de uva, brigadeiros, and bem-casados under protective plastic films, which they load into the back of the van. And then they bring out a full tray of empadinhas! Even from my spot across the street, I see the dough flaky and golden like Grandma's recipe. The thing is, everyone knows that only Salt makes empadinhas on our street. That's the deal our families made generations ago, when our great-grandmothers drew the battle lines: Ramires only prepare savory foods. Molinas only prepare sweets. Sugar crossed the line baking empadinhas, and they know it. Those shameless, dishonest, garbage snakes!

I think about her serving this cake at Salt, the slice still warm, the aroma of corn filling the whole bakery like the branches of a tree stretching in all directions. It tasted buttery, and savory, and with just the right hint of sour, which I guess came from the cheese. It was perfectly salted and spicy, cinnamon's contribution to the cake.

The ruby guava melts into the cheesy corn cake looking like a flower sprouting in the sun-kissed earth. This is the best compromise between our families' bakeries. It's perfect.

Our cake represents the best our families' bakeries Salt and Sugar have to offer," Pedro says, addressing the audience. "Two layers. There's the savory, nourishing quality of Parmesan corn and the sweetness of a guava-drizzled cake that's a reinterpretation of bolo de rolo. Two flavors that are dominant by themselves, meeting to complement each other." He points at each layer. "Salt and Sugar. Just like our families' bakeries." The judge smiles. "Thank you, kids. And what do you call your cake?" I meet Pedro's eyes. Deciding on the name wasn't hard. But saying it out loud in front of our families could go either way. "Romário and Julieta," we say in unison.

Sweet potato. Mashed yams covered in beef jerky. French bread. Butter. A warm bowl of couscous. It's like she's trying to feed an army. "I'm not very hungry," I say. "It's not like you to refuse breakfast," she says with a wink. And my heart stops, because Mom winks just like Grandma used to. "And you barely ate last night. You need sustenance." I join her at the counter, trying not to think about how without a third stool at the center to balance our family out, the counter feels much wider than it is. Our breakfast begins quietly, just the hum of the fridge in the background. I add butter to my yams, and the spoonful melts in my mouth, warming me up from inside out. I scoop up the little cuts of beef jerky individually, leftover from last night, chewing on them with my eyes closed. I let the salty flavor spread over my taste buds to wake them up one by one. I then pull my bowl of milk couscous closer, breathing in the cinnamon-fragrant steam.

Give up, mortal.” The rat soldier’s voice skitters through rows of sharp black teeth. “Yield to me, and I promise to fuck you before I kill you.” “How is that a bargain?” I gasp. “I’ve slept with all sorts of people—I’m not picky—but I draw the line at a foul rat-bastard.

Wine should be pale like the lover’s face. Yellow, the color of suffering: it should be mature and clear, bitter but sweetened with sugar. -- Translated by Kayvan Tahmasebian and Rebecca Ruth Gould

There had been lasers and sugar and wookies in the old world, right? She'd laughed and laughed and cried a tiny bit and said no, none of those things, those were all just stories.

She tasted just as he remembered. Like sugar in strong black tea. Lavender. The first rays of dawn. Mist that has just burned away from a meadow.

Do you know what it feels like to be in a kitchen that’s just stuck, frozen in time? I’ve prepared the same dishes so many times, always the same dishes, I don’t even know whether I like them or not anymore. That’s my curse. I know it bothers you that you didn’t grow up cooking, but I envy you. You get all this freedom to just grab a recipe and prepare it for the first time, or to reinvent it, make it your own. You can do whatever you want and not feel like you’re offending anyone.

Kissing him is like nightfall with a shower of sugared stars. It’s dark glitter in my mouth, in my mind, in my very soul. There’s wind flowing around us, lifting his hair and mine, as if the universe itself is weaving a spell just for us.

You hate me. We fight constantly. How is that a wise foundation for a relationship?” “We communicate. We find our differences and discuss them.

Mira would fill in the right words. Sugar baby? Escort? Working girl? Prostitute? Or maybe she was one of those people who wanted to reclaim a derogatory title. High-class whore?

For what Mama would serve were she hosting a brunch: sausage, egg, and cheese casserole, coffeecake swirled with cinnamon, pecans, and brown sugar, grits baked with garlic and cheese.

All I would do was fantasize about food I could eat when I was done. Like carrots, which were banned for their high sugar content. Fucking carrots!