Root Beer Quotes

We've searched our database for all the quotes and captions related to Root Beer. Here they are! All 143 of them:

You're not a Quaker, Jeremy. I happen to know you put beer on your cornflakes.
Kyle Keyes (Matching Configurations (Quantum Roots, #3))
I haven't had a very good day. I think I might still be hung over and everyone's dead and my root beer's gone.
Holly Black (The Coldest Girl in Coldtown)
It is a curious thing, but as one travels the world getting older and older, it appears that happiness is easier to get used to than despair. The second time you have a root beer float, for instance, your happiness at sipping the delicious concoction may not be quite as enormous as when you first had a root beer float, and the twelfth time your happiness may be still less enormous, until root beer floats begin to offer you very little happiness at all, because you have become used to the taste of vanilla ice cream and root beer mixed together. However, the second time you find a thumbtack in your root beer float, your despair is much greater than the first time, when you dismissed the thumbtack as a freak accident rather than part of the scheme of a soda jerk, a phrase which here means "ice cream shop employee who is trying to injure your tongue," and by the twelfth time you find a thumbtack, your despair is even greater still, until you can hardly utter the phrase "root beer float" without bursting into tears. It is almost as if happiness is an acquired taste, like coconut cordial or ceviche, to which you can eventually become accustomed, but despair is something surprising each time you encounter it.
Lemony Snicket (The End (A Series of Unfortunate Events, #13))
Percy says be talked to a Nereid in Charleston Harbor!” “Good for him!” Leo yelled back. “The Nereid said we should seek help from Chiron’s brothers.” “What does that mean? The Party Ponies?” Leo had never met Chiron’s crazy centaur relatives, but he’d heard rumors of Nerf sword-fights, root beer-chugging contests, and Super Soakers filled with pressurized whipped cream. “Not sure,” Annabeth said. “But I’ve got coordinates. Can you input latitude and longitude in this thing?” “I can input star charts and order you a smoothie, if you want. Of course I can do latitude and longitude!
Rick Riordan (The Mark of Athena (The Heroes of Olympus, #3))
I think all it really takes for different people to get along is a common rooting interest and a few beers.
Matthew Quick (The Silver Linings Playbook)
He felt around desperately for a weapon. What did he have? Diapers? Cookies? Oh, why hadn't they given him a sword? He was the stupid warrior, wasn't he? His fingers dug in the leather bag and closed around the root beer can. Root beer! He yanked out the can shaking it with all his might. "Attack! Attack!" he yelled.
Suzanne Collins (Gregor the Overlander (Underland Chronicles, #1))
A bee rose up from a sun-filled paper cup, off to make slum honey from some diet root beer it had found inside.
Nicholson Baker (La mezzanine)
Love isn’t roses. It’s those little square caramels and a root beer from the gas station because he knows that’s your favorite snack. It’s watching a musical with you without groaning. It’s handing you your glasses at night because he knows you’re too blind to find your way to the bathroom without them. Love is awkward.
R.K. Ryals (The Story of Awkward)
She tasted like run, root beer, and something wild he couldn’t place, but it didn’t matter. He wanted more. Craved it.
Lisa Kessler (Magnolia Mystic (Sentinels of Savannah, #1))
DADDY You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoe In which I have lived like a foot For thirty years, poor and white, Barely daring to breathe or Achoo. Daddy, I have had to kill you. You died before I had time― Marble-heavy, a bag full of God, Ghastly statue with one grey toe Big as a Frisco seal And a head in the freakish Atlantic When it pours bean green over blue In the waters of beautiful Nauset. I used to pray to recover you. Ach, du. In the German tongue, in the Polish town Scraped flat by the roller Of wars, wars, wars. But the name of the town is common. My Polack friend Says there are a dozen or two. So I never could tell where you Put your foot, your root, I never could talk to you. The tongue stuck in my jaw. It stuck in a barb wire snare. Ich, ich, ich, ich, I could hardly speak. I thought every German was you. And the language obscene An engine, an engine Chuffing me off like a Jew. A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen. I began to talk like a Jew. I think I may well be a Jew. The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna Are not very pure or true. With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack I may be a bit of a Jew. I have always been scared of you, With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo. And your neat mustache And your Aryan eye, bright blue. Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You― Not God but a swastika So black no sky could squeak through. Every woman adores a Fascist, The boot in the face, the brute Brute heart of a brute like you. You stand at the blackboard, daddy, In the picture I have of you, A cleft in your chin instead of your foot But no less a devil for that, no not And less the black man who Bit my pretty red heart in two. I was ten when they buried you. At twenty I tried to die And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do. But they pulled me out of the sack, And they stuck me together with glue. And then I knew what to do. I made a model of you, A man in black with a Meinkampf look And a love of the rack and the screw. And I said I do, I do. So daddy, I’m finally through. The black telephone’s off at the root, The voices just can’t worm through. If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two― The vampire who said he was you And drank my blood for a year, Seven years, if you want to know. Daddy, you can lie back now. There’s a stake in your fat black heart And the villagers never like you. They are dancing and stamping on you. They always knew it was you. Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I’m through.
Sylvia Plath (Ariel)
I haven’t had a very good day. I think I might still be hung over and everyone’s dead and my root beer’s gone.” Horrifyingly, she felt her eyes prick with sudden tears. He bent down and picked up Aidan, slinging him over one shoulder. “We’ll get you another day,” Gavriel said, with such odd sincerity that she had to smile.
Holly Black (The Coldest Girl in Coldtown)
Horst passed him a bottle he had picked up in his rapid trip from there to here. Remarkably, it's contents had survived the transit. "Drink this," he said, unmoved by Cabal's anger. "You need to save your voice for your next session." Cabal took the bottle testily and swigged from it. there was a moments pause, just long enough for Cabal's expression to change from testy to horrified revulsion. He spat the liquid violently onto the grass like a man who has got absent-minded with the concentrated nitric acid and a mouth pipette. He glared at Horst as he took off his spectacles and wiped his suddenly weeping eyes "Disinfectant? You give me disinfectant to drink?" Horst's surprise was replaced with mild amusement. "It's root beer, Johannes. Have you never had root beer?" Cabal looked suspiciously at him, then at the bottle "People drink this?" "Yes." "For non-medical reasons?" "That's right." Cabal shook his head in open disbelief. "They must be insane.
Jonathan L. Howard (Johannes Cabal the Necromancer (Johannes Cabal, #1))
You’ll have champagne. All girls like champagne.” All girls didn’t like champagne. I preferred root beer. Willie preferred anything that smelled like gasoline and burned her throat. She could hold her liquor better than any man, and I wished she was there to help me navigate John Lockwell.
Ruta Sepetys (Out of the Easy)
When my time is up, I want to cross a River Styx of pure root beer." - Jilly Page 30
Dean Koontz (By the Light of the Moon)
Can I assume you're sober?" "Nope, had two diet root beers.
Dean Koontz (Frankenstein Collection)
chill out. We make root beer cocktails and we roast marshmallows and we kick back, relax, and enjoy the post-apocalyptic sunset.
Max Brallier (The Last Kids on Earth)
Cloud root beer floats and moon grilled cheeses. But their favorite food is stardust.
Michelle Cuevas (Confessions of an Imaginary Friend)
What does that mean? The Party Ponies?” Leo had never met Chiron’s crazy centaur relatives, but he’d heard rumors of Nerf sword-fights, root beer–chugging contests, and Super Soakers filled with pressurized whipped cream. “Not sure,” Annabeth said. “But I’ve got coordinates. Can you input latitude and longitude in this thing?” “I can input star charts and order you a smoothie, if you want. Of course I can do latitude and longitude!
Rick Riordan (The Mark of Athena (The Heroes of Olympus, #3))
My point of view is this: If you like root-beer floats so much, have one on Monday, another on Tuesday, and a third on Wednesday.
Dean Koontz (Odd Thomas (Odd Thomas, #1))
This is the girl they keep calling a monster. I want you to keep that firmly in mind. The girl who could be satisfied with a hamburger and a dime root beer after her only school dance so her momma wouldn't be worried . . .
Stephen King (Carrie)
...root beer floats are the stuff that toasts are made of.
Sandra D. Bricker (If the Shoe Fits)
I should make sure my brethren don’t go too overboard with the root beer.
Rick Riordan (The Last Olympian (Percy Jackson and the Olympians, #5))
Depression isn’t like root beer. It’s not as if you either like it or you don’t.
Joelle Charbonneau (Time Bomb)
GO BACK TO DALLAS!” the man sitting somewhere behind us yelled again, and the hold Aiden still had on the back of my neck tightened imperceptibly. “Don’t bother, Van,” he demanded, pokerfaced. “I’m not going to say anything,” I said, even as I reached up with the hand furthest away from him and put it behind my head, extending my middle finger in hopes that the idiot yelling would see it. Those brown eyes blinked. “You just flipped him off, didn’t you?” Yeah, my mouth dropped open. “How do you know when I do that?” My tone was just as astonished as it should be. “I know everything.” He said it like he really believed it. I groaned and cast him a long look. “You really want to play this game?” “I play games for a living, Van.” I couldn’t stand him sometimes. My eyes crossed in annoyance. “When is my birthday?” He stared at me. “See?” “March third, Muffin.” What in the hell? “See?” he mocked me. Who was this man and where was the Aiden I knew? “How old am I?” I kept going hesitantly. “Twenty-six.” “How do you know this?” I asked him slowly. “I pay attention,” The Wall of Winnipeg stated. I was starting to think he was right. Then, as if to really seal the deal I didn’t know was resting between us, he said, “You like waffles, root beer, and Dr. Pepper. You only drink light beer. You put cinnamon in your coffee. You eat too much cheese. Your left knee always aches. You have three sisters I hope I never meet and one brother. You were born in El Paso. You’re obsessed with your work. You start picking at the corner of your eye when you feel uncomfortable or fool around with your glasses. You can’t see things up close, and you’re terrified of the dark.” He raised those thick eyebrows. “Anything else?” Yeah, I only managed to say one word. “No.” How did he know all this stuff? How? Unsure of how I was feeling, I coughed and started to reach up to mess with my glasses before I realized what I was doing and snuck my hand under my thigh, ignoring the knowing look on Aiden’s dumb face. “I know a lot about you too. Don’t think you’re cool or special.” “I know, Van.” His thumb massaged me again for all of about three seconds. “You know more about me than anyone else does.” A sudden memory of the night in my bed where he’d admitted his fear as a kid pecked at my brain, relaxing me, making me smile. “I really do, don’t I?” The expression on his face was like he was torn between being okay with the idea and being completely against it. Leaning in close to him again, I winked. “I’m taking your love of MILF porn to the grave with me, don’t worry.” He stared at me, unblinking, unflinching. And then: “I’ll cut the power at the house when you’re in the shower,” he said so evenly, so crisply, it took me a second to realize he was threatening me… And when it finally did hit me, I burst out laughing, smacking his inner thigh without thinking twice about it. “Who does that?” Aiden Graves, husband of mine, said it, “Me.” Then the words were out of my mouth before I could control them. “And you know what I’ll do? I’ll go sneak into bed with you, so ha.” What the hell had I just said? What in the ever-loving hell had I just said? “If you think I’m supposed to be scared…” He leaned forward so our faces were only a couple of inches away. The hand on my neck and the finger pads lining the back of my ear stayed where they were. “I’m not
Mariana Zapata (The Wall of Winnipeg and Me)
This is where the pivotal events of my childhood unfolded, while I ate banana and root beer Popsicles, two by two, tucking the sticks neatly under the skirt of the chair. It's where Sunnybank Lad met Lady, Ken met his friend Flicka, Atlanta burned, Manderley burned, Lassie came home, Jim ran away, Alice got small, Wilbur got big, David Copperfield was born, Beth died, and, on an endless gloomy winter afternoon, Jody shot his yearling.
Jo Ann Beard (In Zanesville)
The Council of American Builders met once a month and engaged in no tangible activity beyond listening to speeches and sipping an inferior brand of root beer. Its membership did not grow fast in quantity or quality. There were no concrete results achieved.
Ayn Rand (The Fountainhead)
Some enterprising rabbit had dug its way under the stakes of my garden again. One voracious rabbit could eat a cabbage down to the roots, and from the looks of things, he'd brought friends. I sighed and squatted to repair the damage, packing rocks and earth back into the hole. The loss of Ian was a constant ache; at such moments as this, I missed his horrible dog as well. I had brought a large collection of cuttings and seeds from River Run, most of which had survived the journey. It was mid-June, still time--barely--to put in a fresh crop of carrots. The small patch of potato vines was all right, so were the peanut bushes; rabbits wouldn't touch those, and didn't care for the aromatic herbs either, except the fennel, which they gobbled like licorice. I wanted cabbages, though, to preserve a sauerkraut; come winter, we would want food with some taste to it, as well as some vitamin C. I had enough seed left, and could raise a couple of decent crops before the weather turned cold, if I could keep the bloody rabbits off. I drummed my fingers on the handle of my basket, thinking. The Indians scattered clippings of their hair around the edges of the fields, but that was more protection against deer than rabbits. Jamie was the best repellent, I decided. Nayawenne had told me that the scent of carnivore urine would keep rabbits away--and a man who ate meat was nearly as good as a mountain lion, to say nothing of being more biddable. Yes, that would do; he'd shot a deer only two days ago; it was still hanging. I should brew a fresh bucket of spruce beer to go with the roast venison, though . . . (Page 844)
Diana Gabaldon (Drums of Autumn (Outlander, #4))
His eyes the bright brown of July Fourth sunlight through a tall mug of root beer. Quite the American specimen. A classic face of such symmetrical proportions, the exactly balanced type of face one dreams of looking down to find smiling and eager between one's inner thighs. Still, that's the trouble with only a single glance at any star on the horizon.
Chuck Palahniuk (Tell-All)
Don’t listen to what they say. Go see. — Chinese proverb
J.W. "Bill" Marriott Jr. (Without Reservations How A Family Root Beer Stand Grew Into A Global Hotel Company)
apple, candy apple, funnel cake, cotton candy, and a root beer float.
Wendy Mass (Jeremy Fink and the Meaning of Life)
That’s right, buddy. You bought yourself a dime root beer this afternoon. You also put Carolyn Poulin back in a wheelchair.
Stephen King (11/22/63)
The greenhouse was made entirely of glass. Its ceiling reached five stories high, tall enough to fit a variety of fruit-bearing trees and vines. Butterflies flitted between sparkling flowers. Honeybees collected pollen for their hive, which conveniently drip honey right into glass jars. And watermelons, root beer melons, and orangeade melons grew along trellises.
Suzanne Selfors (Once Upon A Pet : A Collection of Little Pet Stories)
The rest of the family tree had a root system soggy with alcohol... One aunt had fallen asleep with her face in the mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving dinner; another's fondness for Coors was so unwavering that I can still remember the musky smell of the beer and the coldness of the cans. Most of the men drank the way all Texas men drank, or so I believed, which meant that they were tough guys who could hold their liquor until they couldn't anymore--a capacity that often led to some cloudy version of doom, be it financial ruin or suicide or the lesser betrayal of simple estrangement. Both social drinkers, my parents had eluded these tragic endings; in the postwar Texas of suburbs and cocktails, their drinking was routine but undramatic.
Gail Caldwell (Let's Take the Long Way Home: A Memoir of Friendship)
Algernon is a pleasant companion. At mealtimes, he takes his place at the small gateleg table. He likes pretzels, and today he took a sip of beer while we watched the ballgame on TV. I think he rooted for the Yankees.
Daniel Keyes
Maybe I really can see The face of God. Maybe it's there When I sit with my Patched-together family For pancake breakfast. Maybe it's in the power Of the sea, Or in the driftwood That gets hurled about By storms. Maybe it's in the words Of an ice-cream man Or the joyful leaps Of a dolphin. It might even be in the pain Of leaving my new best friend, Or maybe It's especially in that. Maybe all these things Show me the face of God, Or maybe they just show me A bit of light Or love Or happiness. And maybe that's exactly The same thing.
Shari Green (Root Beer Candy and Other Miracles)
The room And my heart Are draped With a wondrous hush Like swimming under water.
Shari Green (Root Beer Candy and Other Miracles)
I guess truth is like treasure- no good to anyone if it's hidden, tucked away in a box, lost." -Bailey
Shari Green (Root Beer Candy and Other Miracles)
I close my hand around the bit of turquoise sea glass in my pocket, rub its smooth edges with my thumb - a broken bit made smooth and beautiful, changed by the sea." -Bailey
Shari Green (Root Beer Candy and Other Miracles)
When civilized people dance they reconnect with their old animal nature. It reminds them that they aren’t mechanical chess pieces or rooted trees, but free-flowing meat waves of possibility.
Tom Robbins (B Is for Beer)
She looked like a hippie who’d been kicked to the side of the road maybe forty years ago, where she’d been collecting trash and rags ever since. She wore a dress made of tie-dyed cloth, ripped-up quilts, and plastic grocery bags. Her frizzy mop of hair was gray-brown, like root-beer foam, tied back with a peace-sign headband. Warts and moles covered her face. When she smiled, she showed exactly three teeth.
Rick Riordan (The Son of Neptune (The Heroes of Olympus, #2))
Tantalus grabbed for the glass, but it scooted away before he could touch it. A few drops of root beer spilled, and Tantalus tried to dab them up with his fingers, but the drops rolled away like quicksilver before he could touch them. He growled and turned toward the plate of barbecue. He picked up a fork and tried to stab a piece of brisket, but the plate skittered down the table and flew off the end, straight into the coals of the brazier.
Rick Riordan (The Sea of Monsters (Percy Jackson and the Olympians, #2))
Some archaeologists and anthropologists have argued that the production of beer induced human beings to settle down and develop permanent agriculture—to literally put down roots and cultivate grains instead of roam nomadically.
Adam Rogers (Proof: The Science of Booze)
Peasant families ate pork, beef, or game only a few times a year; fowls and eggs were eaten far more often. Milk, butter, and hard cheeses were too expensive for the average peasant. As for vegetables, the most common were cabbage and watercress. Wild carrots were also popular in some places. Parsnips became widespread by the sixteenth century, and German writings from the mid-1500s indicate that beet roots were a preferred food there. Rutabagas were developed during the Middle Ages by crossing turnips with cabbage, and monastic gardens were known for their asparagus and artichokes. However, as a New World vegetable, the potato was not introduced into Europe until the late 1500s or early 1600s, and for a long time it was thought to be merely a decorative plant. "Most people ate only two meals a day. In most places, water was not the normal beverage. In Italy and France people drank wine, in Germany and England ale or beer.
Patricia D. Netzley (Haunted Houses (The Mystery Library))
I wouldn’t want perfect love. I want true love, the kind that doesn’t depend on pretending to be better than I am.” I glanced at Elspeth, my gaze soft. “Love isn’t roses. It’s those little square caramels and a root beer from the gas station because he knows that’s your favorite snack. It’s watching a musical with you without groaning. It’s handing you your glasses at night because he knows you’re too blind to find your way to the bathroom without them. Love is awkward.
R.K. Ryals (The Story of Awkward)
Now, I know what you’re thinking: Isn’t this the guy who said, “Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy”? Well, not exactly. This quote has been somewhat paraphrased and hijacked by many of our nation’s craft breweries, and rightly so. It may be revisionist writing, but I for one am okay with it. What Franklin did write was, “Behold the rain which descends from heaven upon our vineyards, there it enters the roots of the vines, to be changed into wine, a constant proof that God loves us, and loves to see us happy.” Beer, wine . . . come on. Six of one, etcetera. He also coined the euphemism for drunkenness “Halfway to Concord,” which tickles me to no end. That, my friends, is fun with words.
Nick Offerman (Gumption: Relighting the Torch of Freedom with America's Gutsiest Troublemakers)
Al and Lou had arrived at the Wisconsin State Fair by nine in the morning for fresh egg omelettes in the Agriculture Building and some apple cider donuts. They'd nibbled their donuts and wandered the stalls celebrating various products grown and raised in Wisconsin. You could sample and buy anything, from honey-filled plastic sticks to ostrich steaks to cranberry scones. They followed up their breakfast with a stop at the milk barn, where Lou had forced him to try root beer-flavored milk. While he'd been skeptical, it tasted delicious and precisely like a root beer float.
Amy E. Reichert (The Coincidence of Coconut Cake)
Cheat (sometimes) Eating healthily is a part of my lifestyle, but I’m no superhuman. My Kryptonite is at the movie theater. I can’t go to the movies unless I have popcorn (with butter and salt, of course), and I’ll also get nachos with extra cheese and jalapeños, then some M&Ms, water, and a root beer if I really want to get crazy. It’s okay to cheat…provided you do it only occasionally. If you never allow yourself to cheat, you put too much pressure on yourself and doom yourself to failure. Work hard and practice hard, but it’s okay to cut yourself a break now and then.
Derek Hough (Taking the Lead: Lessons from a Life in Motion)
Sable sauntered in to the Burger Lord. It was exactly like every other Burger Lord in America. [But not like every other Burger Lord across the world. German Burger Lords, for example, sold lager instead of root beer, while English Burger Lords managed to take any American fast food virtues (the speed with which your food was delivered, for example) and carefully remove them; your food arrived after half an hour, at room temperature, and it was only because of the strip of warm lettuce between them that you could distinguish the burger from the bun. The Burger Lord pathfinder salesmen had been shot twenty-five minutes after setting foot in France.]
Neil Gaiman (Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch)
Her love for him has always been the underdog. She roots for it as if from a distance. She imagines what they must look like through the uncurtained window, the picture of tranquil domesticity they must now make. He smells like cilantro and beer, like curry and rain. And underneath that, he smells like himself, like nobody else, his body alarming because it is already so familiar.
Emily Fridlund (Catapult)
Listening is the single most important on–the–job skill that a good manager can cultivate. A leader who doesn’t listen well risks missing critical information, losing (or never winning) the confidence of staff and peers and forfeiting the opportunity to be a proactive, hands–on manager. Listening is also how you empower people to grow in their jobs and gain confidence as decision makers.
J.W. "Bill" Marriott Jr. (Without Reservations How A Family Root Beer Stand Grew Into A Global Hotel Company)
Martin got up and brushed off the seat of his pants with his hat. He put his hat on his head and started back toward the path. For when you woke from a long dream, into the new morning, then try as you might you couldn't not hear, beyond your door, the sounds of the new day, the drawer opening in your father's bureau, the bang of a pot, you couldn't not see, through your trembling lashes, the stripe of light on the bedroom wall. Boys shouted in the park, on a sunny tree-root he saw a cigar band, red and gold. One of these days he might find something to do in a cigar store, after all he still knew his tobacco, you never forgot a thing like that. But not just yet. Boats moved on the river, somewhere a car horn sounded, on the path a piece of broken glass glowed in a patch of sun as if at any second it would burst into flame. Everything stood out sharply: the red stem of a green leaf, horse clops and the distant clatter of a pneumatic drill, a smell of riverwater and asphalt. Martin felt hungry: chops and beer in a little he remembered on Columbus Avenue. But not yet. For the time being he would just walk along, keeping a little out of the way of things, admiring the view. It was a warm day. He was in no hurry.
Steven Millhauser (Martin Dressler: The Tale of an American Dreamer)
He hands me a book- paperback cover with a picture of the bay. I flip through, find picture after picture from my month in Felicity Bay, all those *beep* *click* *beep* times that Daniel captured, put in a book - a baby crab, mermaid hair, Froot Loops, sandy toes, tree house, and even stained glass windows, and a chalice - moments of significance, ordinary things that turned out to be extraordinary." -Bailey
Shari Green (Root Beer Candy and Other Miracles)
Cash misses his wife with a blank pain in his chest, and he misses his sisters and cousins, who have known him since he was a strong, good-looking boy. Everyone back there remembers, or if they are too young, they've been told. The old ones get to hang on the sweet, perfect past. Cash was the best at climbing trees; his sister Letty won the story bees. The woman who married Letty's husband's brother, a beauty named Sugar, was spotted one time drinking a root beer and had her picture in LIFE magazine. They all know. Now she has thin hair and a humped back but she's still Sugar, she gets to walk around Heaven, Oklahoma, with everybody thinking she's pretty and special. which she is. That's the trouble with moving away from family, he realizes. You lose your youth entirely, you have only the small tired baggage that is carried within the body.
Barbara Kingsolver (Pigs in Heaven)
It happens thousands of times a day around the world, maybe millions, yet it is the culmination of human achievement, of human science and apprehension of the natural and technical world. Some archaeologists and anthropologists have argued that the production of beer induced human beings to settle down and develop permanent agriculture -- to literally put down roots and cultivate grains instead of roam nomadically. The manufacture of alcohol was, arguably, the social and economic revolution that allowed Homo sapiens to become civilized human beings. It's the apotheosis of human life on earth. It's a miracle.
Adam Rogers (Proof: The Science of Booze)
SARSAPARILLA SYRUP ENOUGH FOR 1 GALLON BREWED SARSAPARILLA 41⁄2 cups water 5 ounces dried sarsaparilla root, chopped 1 ounce dried sassafras root, chopped 1⁄4 ounce dried wintergreen leaves 4 cups dark brown sugar 2 tablespoon maltodextrin (optional) Combine the water, sarsaparilla, sassafras, and wintergreen in a large saucepan. Bring to a simmer over medium heat, stirring occasionally; let simmer, uncovered, for 15 minutes. Blend the brown sugar and maltodextrin (if using), and gradually add the mixture to the simmering root infusion, stirring until the sugar dissolves. Then remove from the heat, let cool to room temperature, and strain. This syrup will keep in the refrigerator for up to 2 months.
Andrew Schloss (Homemade Soda: 200 Recipes for Making & Using Fruit Sodas & Fizzy Juices, Sparkling Waters, Root Beers & Cola Brews, Herbal & Healing Waters, Sparkling ... & Floats, & Other Carbonated Concoctions)
22 grams cinchona bark 4 grams dried hawthorn berries 8 grams dried sumac berries 2 grams cassia buds 3 cloves 1 small (2-inch) cinnamon stick, preferably Ceylon cinnamon 1 star anise 12 grams dried bitter orange peel 4 grams blackberry leaf 51⁄4 cups spring water 50 grams citric acid 2 teaspoons sea salt 1 stalk lemongrass, cut into 1⁄2-inch sections Finely grated zest and juice of 2 limes Finely grated zest and juice of 1 lemon 1⁄2 cup agave syrup Combine the cinchona bark, hawthorn berries, sumac berries, cassia buds, cloves, cinnamon, and star anise in a spice mill or mortar and pestle and crush into a coarse powder. Add the orange peel and blackberry leaf, divide the mixture among three large tea baskets or tea bags, and put a few pie weights in each. Bring the water to a boil in a large stainless-steel saucepan. Add the tea baskets, citric acid, and salt. Let simmer for 5 minutes. Add the lemongrass, cover partially, and let simmer 15 minutes longer. Add the lime and lemon zests and juices and let simmer, uncovered, until the liquid is reduced by a little less than half, making about 3 cups. Remove from the heat and remove the tea balls. Pour the agave syrup into a bowl. Set a fine-mesh strainer over the bowl and strain the tonic into the syrup. You will need to work in batches and to dump out the strainer after each pour. If the tonic is cloudy, strain again. Pour into a clean bottle and seal. Store in the refrigerator for up to 1 year.
Andrew Schloss (Homemade Soda: 200 Recipes for Making & Using Fruit Sodas & Fizzy Juices, Sparkling Waters, Root Beers & Cola Brews, Herbal & Healing Waters, Sparkling ... & Floats, & Other Carbonated Concoctions)
The menu is spectacular. Passed hors d'oeuvres include caramelized shallot tartlets topped with Gorgonzola, cubes of crispy pork belly skewered with fresh fig, espresso cups of chilled corn soup topped with spicy popcorn, mini arepas filled with rare skirt steak and chimichurri and pickle onions, and prawn dumplings with a mango serrano salsa. There is a raw bar set up with three kinds of oysters, and a raclette station where we have a whole wheel of the nutty cheese being melted to order, with baby potatoes, chunks of garlic sausage, spears of fresh fennel, lightly pickled Brussels sprouts, and hunks of sourdough bread to pour it over. When we head up for dinner, we will start with a classic Dover sole amandine with a featherlight spinach flan, followed by a choice of seared veal chops or duck breast, both served with creamy polenta, roasted mushrooms, and lacinato kale. Next is a light salad of butter lettuce with a sharp lemon Dijon vinaigrette, then a cheese course with each table receiving a platter of five cheeses with dried fruits and nuts and three kinds of bread, followed by the panna cottas. Then the cake, and coffee and sweets. And at midnight, chorizo tamales served with scrambled eggs, waffle sticks with chicken fingers and spicy maple butter, candied bacon strips, sausage biscuit sandwiches, and vanilla Greek yogurt parfaits with granola and berries on the "breakfast" buffet, plus cheeseburger sliders, mini Chicago hot dogs, little Chinese take-out containers of pork fried rice and spicy sesame noodles, a macaroni-and-cheese bar, and little stuffed pizzas on the "snack food" buffet. There will also be tiny four-ounce milk bottles filled with either vanilla malted milk shakes, root beer floats made with hard root beer, Bloody Marys, or mimosas.
Stacey Ballis (Wedding Girl)
All about them the golden girls, shopping for dainties in Lairville. Even in the midst of the wild-maned winter's chill, skipping about in sneakers and sweatsocks, cream-colored raincoats. A generation in the mold, the Great White Pattern Maker lying in his prosperous bed, grinning while the liquid cools. But he does not know my bellows. Someone there is who will huff and will puff. The sophmores in their new junior blazers, like Saturday's magazines out on Thursday. Freshly covered textbooks from the campus store, slide rules dangling in leather, sheathed broadswords, chinos scrubbed to the virgin fiber, starch pressed into straight-razor creases, Oxford shirts buttoned down under crewneck sweaters, blue eyes bobbing everywhere, stunned by the android synthesis of one-a-day vitamins, Tropicana orange juice, fresh country eggs, Kraft homogenized cheese, tetra-packs of fortified milk, Cheerios with sun-ripened bananas, corn-flake-breaded chicken, hot fudge sundaes, Dairy Queen root beer floats, cheeseburgers, hybrid creamed corn, riboflavin extract, brewer's yeast, crunchy peanut butter, tuna fish casseroles, pancakes and imitation maple syrup, chuck steaks, occasional Maine lobster, Social Tea biscuits, defatted wheat germ, Kellogg's Concentrate, chopped string beans, Wonderbread, Birds Eye frozen peas, shredded spinach, French-fried onion rings, escarole salads, lentil stews, sundry fowl innards, Pecan Sandies, Almond Joys, aureomycin, penicillin, antitetanus toxoid, smallpox vaccine, Alka-Seltzer, Empirin, Vicks VapoRub, Arrid with chlorophyll, Super Anahist nose spray, Dristan decongestant, billions of cubic feet of wholesome, reconditioned breathing air, and the more wholesome breeds of fraternal exercise available to Western man. Ah, the regimented good will and force-fed confidence of those who are not meek but will inherit the earth all the same.
Richard Fariña (Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me)
In Riverview, we stopped at Larkin’s Drugstore for a cold drink. Leaving the rest of us to scramble out unaided, John offered Hannah his hand. Although I’d just seen her leap out of a tree as fearless as a cat, she let him help her. At the soda fountain, Hannah took a seat beside John. In her white dress, she was as prim and proper as any lady you ever saw. Quite frankly, I liked her better the other way. I grabbed the stool on the other side of Hannah and spun around on it a couple of times, hoping to get her to spin with me, but the only person who noticed was Mama. She told me to sit still and behave myself. “You act like you have ants in your pants,” she said, embarrassing me and making Theo laugh. While I was sitting there scowling at Theo in the mirror, John leaned around Hannah and grinned at me. “To celebrate your recovery, Andrew, I’m treating everyone to a lemon phosphate--everyone, that is, except you.” He paused dramatically, and Hannah gave him a smile so radiant it gave me heartburn. She was going to marry John someday, I knew that. But while I was here, I wanted her all to myself, just Hannah and me playing marbles in the grove, talking, sharing secrets, climbing trees. She had the rest of her life to spend with stupid John Larkin. “As the guest of honor,” John went on, “you may pick anything your heart desires.” Slightly placated by his generosity, I stared at the menu. It was amazing what you could buy for a nickel or a dime in 1910. “Choose a sundae,” Theo whispered. “It costs the most.” “How about a root beer float?” Hannah suggested. “Egg milk chocolate,” Mama said. “It would be good for you, Andrew.” “Tonic water would be even better,” John said, “or, best of all, a delicious dose of cod-liver oil.” When Hannah gave him a sharp poke in the ribs, John laughed. “Andrew knows I’m teasing. Come on, what will it be, sir?” Taking Theo’s advice, I asked for a chocolate sundae. “Good choice,” John said. “You’d have to go all the way to St. Louis to find better ice cream.
Mary Downing Hahn (Time for Andrew: A Ghost Story)
So, uh, where should I…?” I told up the pizza boxes as I trail off. “Oh, right. Kitchen table’s fine.” “I’ll show you!” Madison announces, as if I don’t know where it is, but I let her lead me there anyway. Kennedy shuts the door and follows behind us. I set the boxes on the table, and Madison doesn’t hesitate, popping the top one open. She makes a face, looking horrified. “Gross!” “What in the world are you—?” Kennedy laughs as she glances at the pizza. “Ham and pineapple.” “Why is that fruit on the pizza?” Madison asks. “Because it’s good,” Kennedy says, snatching the top box away before opening the other one. “There, that one’s for you.” Madison shrugs it off, grabbing a slice of cheese pizza, eating straight from the box. I’m gathering this is normal, since Kennedy sits down beside her to do the same. “You remembered,” she says plucking a piece of pineapple off a slice of pizza and popping it in her mouth. “Of course,” I say, grabbing a slice of cheese from the box Madison is hoarding. “Pretty sure I’m scarred for life because of it. Not something I can forget.” She laughs, the sound soft, as she gives me one of the most genuine smiles I’ve seen in a while. It fades as she averts her gaze, but goddamn it, it happened. “You shoulda gots the breads,” Madison says, standing on her chair as she leans closer, vying for my attention like she’s afraid I might not see her. “And the chickens!” “Ah, didn’t know you liked those,” I tell her, “or I would’ve gotten them.” “Next time,” she says, just like that, no question about it. “Next time,” I say. “And soda, too,” she says. “No soda,” Kennedy chimes in. Madison glances at her mother before leaning even closer, damn near right up on me, whisper-shouting, “Soda.” “I’m not so sure your mom will like that,” I say. “It’s okay,” Madison says. “She tells Grandpa no soda, too, but he lets me have it.” “That’s because you emotionally blackmail him,” Kennedy says. “Nuh-uh!” Madison says, looking at her mother. “I don’t blackmail him!” Kennedy scoffs. “How do you know? You don’t even know what that means.” “So?” Madison says. “I don’t mail him nothing!” ... “You give him those sad puppy-dog eyes,” Kennedy says, grabbing Madison by the chin, squeezing her chubby cheeks. “And you tell him you’ll love him ‘the mostest’ if he gives you some Coca-Cola to drink.” “ ‘Cuz I will,” Madison says. “That’s emotional blackmail.” “Oh.” Madison makes a face, turning to me when her mother lets go of her. “How ‘bout root beer?” “I’m afraid not,” I tell her. “Sorry.” Madison scowls, hopping down from the table to grab a juice box from the refrigerator.
J.M. Darhower (Ghosted)
The billboards ruin everything. The historical flavor, the old-time architecture, even the beauty of the wooded hillside—all are sacrificed. Pole-lines and wires may be accepted, like fences, as part of the basic American landscape. They do their work without striving to be conspicuous, and often their not-ungraceful curves add a touch of interest, an intricacy of pattern, even some beauty. Billboards are different. . . . billboards blast themselves into the viewer's consciousness. . . . some of the smaller billboards—those advertising local hotels, service-stations, or small industries—seem to have a certain rooting in the soil, and are often modest and comparatively harmonious to the setting. The large billboards—owned by special companies, usually advertising the products of mass-production—are always placed in the most conspicuous spots, and have designs and colors carefully chosen to clash with the background. One feels a difference between a home-produced: "Stop at Joe's Service Station for Gas—Two Miles," or "The Liberty Café—Short Orders at All Hours—Give Us a Try!" and some gigantic rectangle advertising tires or beer. Large billboards are now springing up along U. S. 40 even in the vastnesses of the Nevada sagebrush country. They are an abomination! Personally, I try to buy as little as possible of anything that is so advertised.
George R. Stewart (U.S. 40: Cross Section of the United States of America)
Birch bark lends a mild wintergreen flavor to brewed sodas. Birch beer, flavored with sassafras and birch, is a classic American brew. Birch bark is usually sold in homebrew stores. Bitter Orange (Bergamot) s highly aromatic, and its dried peel is an essential part of cola flavor. The dried peel and its extract are usually available in spice shops, or any store with a good spice selection. They can be pricey. Burdock root s a traditional ingredient in American root beers. It has a mild sweet flavor similar to that of artichoke. Dried burdock root is available in most Asian groceries and homebrew stores. Cinnamon has several species, but they all fall into two types. Ceylon cinnamon is thin and mild, with a faint fragrance of allspice. Southeast Asian cinnamon, also called cassia, is both stronger and more common. The best grade comes from Vietnam and is sold as Saigon cinnamon. Use it in sticks, rather than ground. The sticks can be found in most grocery stores. Ginger, a common soda ingredient, is very aromatic, at once spicy and cooling. It is widely available fresh in the produce section of grocery stores, and it can be found whole and dried in most spice shops. Lemongrass, a perennial herb from central Asia, contains high levels of citral, the pungent aromatic component of lemon oil. It yields a rich lemon flavor without the acid of lemon juice, which can disrupt the fermentation of yeasted sodas. Lemon zest is similar in flavor and can be substituted. Lemongrass is available in most Asian markets and in the produce section of well-stocked grocery stores. Licorice root provides the well-known strong and sweet flavor of black licorice candy. Dried licorice root is sold in natural food stores and homebrew stores. Anise seed and dried star anise are suitable substitutes. Sarsaparilla s similar in flavor to sassafras, but a little milder. Many plants go by the name sarsaparilla. Southern-clime sarsaparilla (Smilax spp.) is the traditional root-beer flavoring. Most of the supply we get in North America comes from Mexico; it’s commonly sold in homebrew stores. Wild sarsaparilla (Aralia spp.) is more common in North America and is sometimes used as a substitute for true sarsaparilla. Small young sarsaparilla roots, known as “root bark” are less pungent and are usually preferred for soda making, although fully mature roots give fine results. Sassafras s the most common flavoring for root beers of all types. Its root bark is very strong and should be used with caution, especially if combined with other flavors. It is easily overpowering. Dried sassafras is available in homebrew stores. Star anise, the dried fruit of an Asian evergreen, tastes like licorice, with hints of clove and cinnamon. The flavor is strong, so use star anise with caution. It is available dried in the spice section of most grocery stores but can be found much more cheaply at Asian markets.
Andrew Schloss (Homemade Soda: 200 Recipes for Making & Using Fruit Sodas & Fizzy Juices, Sparkling Waters, Root Beers & Cola Brews, Herbal & Healing Waters, Sparkling ... & Floats, & Other Carbonated Concoctions)
You like waffles, root beer, and Dr. Pepper. You only drink light beer. You put cinnamon in your coffee. You eat too much cheese. Your left knee always aches. You have three sisters I hope I never meet and one brother. You were born in El Paso. You’re obsessed with your work. You start picking at the corner of your eye when you feel uncomfortable or fool around with your glasses. You can’t see things up close, and you’re terrified of the dark.” He raised those thick eyebrows. “Anything else?
Mariana Zapata (The Wall of Winnipeg and Me)
That afternoon, as I went to vote and then returned, that impoverished, rundown, ebulliently multiracial neighborhood was also an unbroken forest of pro-Trump signage. Trump’s name and his slogan “Make America Great Again” were everywhere. And Clinton? If you wanted to see any of her signs you had to walk uphill to a different part of town. That way lies one of Cumberland’s few well-to-do neighborhoods, where you won’t see friends tipping back beers on porches or mixed-race couples walking down the street holding hands. That’s where you found the Clinton campaign signs—“ I’m With Her”—on that pleasant November afternoon. They were with her. The workingclass people down the hill, struggling to get by after decades of increasingly bleak times in America’s flyover states, were with Trump.
John Michael Greer (The King in Orange: The Magical and Occult Roots of Political Power)
So if you are looking for the roots of the war, they lie in discontent—and discontent always rises up like froth on beer. Look
Jacqueline Winspear (A Dangerous Place (Maisie Dobbs, #11))
Ugh,” Chance groaned dramatically, rolling his eyes. “You and your books. Remember the summer the last Harry Potter novel came out? You dragged me to that midnight release party and forced me to drink that God-awful, lukewarm butterscotch-and-root-beer monstrosity that Barnes and Noble tried to pass off as butterbeer.
Tiffany Pitcock (Just Friends)
I haven’t had a very good day. I think I might still be hung over and everyone’s dead and my root beer’s gone.” Horrifyingly, she felt her eyes prick with sudden tears. He bent down and picked up Aidan, slinging him over one shoulder. “We’ll get you another day,” Gavriel said, with such odd sincerity that she had to smile.
Holly Black (The Coldest Girl in Coldtown)
The question revives Kropp, more particularly as he hears there’s no more beer in the canteen. “It’s not only Himmelstoss, there are lots of them. As sure as they get a stripe or a star they become different men, just as though they’d swallowed concrete.” “That’s the uniform,” I suggest. “Roughly speaking it is,” says Kat, and prepares for a long speech; “but the root of the matter lies somewhere. For instance, if you train a dog to eat potatoes and then afterwards put a piece of meat in front of him, he’ll snap at it, it’s his nature. And if you give a man a little bit of authority he behaves just the same way, he snaps at it too. The things are precisely the same. In himself man is essentially a beast, only he butters it over like a slice of bread with a little decorum. The army is based on that; one man must always have power over the other. The mischief is merely that each one has much too much power. A non-com. can torment a private, a lieutenant a non-com., a captain a lieutenant, until he goes mad. And because they know they can, they all soon acquire the habit more or less. Take a simple case: we are marching back from the parade-ground dog-tired. Then comes the order to sing. We sing spiritlessly, for it is all we can do to trudge along with our rifles. At once the company is turned about and has to do another hour’s drill as punishment. On the march back the order to sing is given again, and once more we start. Now what’s the use of all that? It’s simply that the company commander’s head has been turned by having so much power. And nobody blames him. On the contrary, he is praised for being strict. That, of course, is only a trifling instance, but it holds also in very different affairs. Now I ask you: Let a man be whatever you like in peacetime, what occupation is there in which he can behave like that without getting a crack on the nose? He can only do that in the army. It goes to the heads of them all, you see. And the more insignificant a man has been in civil life the worse it takes him.
Erich Maria Remarque (All Quiet on the Western Front)
It’s the Smear! He’s here! Never fear! He’s holding root beer!
Michael Fry (How to Be a Supervillain: Born to Be Good)
Mammoth columns were rooted in the flagstones and the sawdust. Arches flew in broad hoops from capital to capital; crossing in diagonals, they groined the barrel-vaults that hung dimly above the smoke. The place should have been lit by pine-torches in stanchions. It was beginning to change, turning now, under my clouding glance, into the scenery for some terrible Germanic saga, where snow vanished under the breath of dragons whose red-hot blood thawed sword-blades like icicles. It was a place for battle-axes and bloodshed and the last pages of the Nibelungenlied when the capital of Hunland is in flames and everybody in the castle hacked to bits. Things grew quickly darker and more fluid; the echo, the splash, the boom and the road of fast currents sunk this beer-hall under the Rhine-bed; it became a cavern full of more dragons, misshapen guardians of gross treasure; or the fearful abode, perhaps, where Beowulf, after tearing the Grendel's arm out of its socket, tracked him over the snow by the bloodstains and, reaching the mere's edge, dived in to swim many fathoms down and slay his loathsome water-hag of a mother in darkening spirals of gore.
Patrick Leigh Fermor (A Time of Gifts (Trilogy, #1))
For those who could afford a visit to the sanitarium that John Harvey Kellogg was building in Battle Creek, Michigan, food innovation was under way, but primarily with existing ingredients, not new ones. In 1884, Kellogg, a doctor, was clumping together oats for something he'd later call granola. He pureed peanuts into butter, and soy into milk. Visitors to Kellogg's dining room found potatoes baked, mashed, or boiled. Eggs, for the most elite, came with the deluxe option of being poached, floated, runny, scrambled, made into cream, or drunk as nog. Food companies brought new products that demanded, for the first time, a type of culinary marketing. Chocolate milk and root beer excited young people in the summer of 1872, followed by margarine, its original name "butterine" (a name producers of real butter fought until it was changed). In 1876 at the World's Fair in Philadelphia, a delicacy called a banana, originally a crop of the Malay Islands, made its public debut in the United States, selling for a dime apiece and wrapped in tinfoil to prevent its phallic shape from offending the crowd's Victorian sensibilities. How else to eat one but with a fork and knife?
Daniel Stone (The Food Explorer: The True Adventures of the Globe-Trotting Botanist Who Transformed What America Eats)
Like I said, New York is out of control when it comes to chocolate chip cookies. City Bakery, Levain, and Momofuku are my top three. (Maury, as much a hippie as a Francophile, opened several City Bakery offshoots called Birdbath, where all the fixtures are recycled and green, the ingredients are local and organic, and the cookies are still giant and delicious). Ruby et Violette is an Oprah-endorsed, closet-sized outpost in Hell's Kitchen with over one hundred crazy flavors (only about twenty are served at any one time) like root beer float, peach cobbler, or French vanilla.
Amy Thomas (Paris, My Sweet: A Year in the City of Light (and Dark Chocolate))
It’s more than possible that the world’s first mixed drinks were created in order to mask the bad flavors of the base ingredient. Alcoholic potions of our dim and distant past were far inferior to the technologically clean products we enjoy today. Archeological evidence shows that the ancient Egyptians used dates and other fruits to flavor their beer, and that Wassail, a spiced drink originally made with a base of hard cider, dates back to pagan England—it was served to celebrate a bountiful apple harvest. We also know that the Romans drank wine mixed with honey and/or herbs and spices. The practice could have arisen from the inferior quality of the wine, but it probably also had roots in the medicinal, restorative, or digestive qualities attributed to the various ingredients.
Gary Regan (The Joy of Mixology: The Consummate Guide to the Bartender's Craft)
Growing up outside of Philadelphia, I never wanted for diner food, whether it was from Bob's Diner in Roxborough or the Trolley Car Diner in Mount Airy. The food wasn't anything special- eggs and toast, meat loaf and gravy, the omnipresent glass case of pies- but I always found the food comforting and satisfying, served as it was in those old-fashioned, prefabricated stainless steel trolley cars. Whenever we would visit my mom's parents in Canterbury, New Jersey, we'd stop at the Claremont Diner in East Windsor on the way home, and I'd order a fat, fluffy slice of coconut cream pie, which I'd nibble on the whole car ride back to Philly. I'm not sure why I've always found diner food so comforting. Maybe it's the abundance of grease or the utter lack of pretense. Diner food is basic, stick-to-your-ribs fare- carbs, eggs, and meat, all cooked up in plenty of hot fat- served up in an environment dripping with kitsch and nostalgia. Where else are a jug of syrup and a bottomless cup of coffee de rigueur? The point of diner cuisine isn't to astound or impress; it's to fill you up cheaply with basic, down-home food. My menu, however, should astound and impress, which is why I've decided to take up some of the diner foods I remember from my youth and put my own twist on them. So far, this is what I've come up with: Sloe gin fizz cocktails/chocolate egg creams Grilled cheese squares: grappa-soaked grapes and Taleggio/ Asian pears and smoked Gouda "Eggs, Bacon, and Toast": crostini topped with wilted spinach, pancetta, poached egg, and chive pesto Smoky meat loaf with slow-roasted onions and prune ketchup Whipped celery root puree Braised green beans with fire-roasted tomatoes Mini root beer floats Triple coconut cream pie
Dana Bate (The Girls' Guide to Love and Supper Clubs)
Her beer of choice is Coors Light, which tastes like tap water that someone accidentally spilled a couple of drops of stale beer into while cleaning up the day after a party.
Scott Crawford (Where's Me Plaid?: A Scottish Roots Odyssey)
root of the Wallace magic was a cynical, showbiz instinct for knowing exactly which issues would whip a hall full of beer-drinking factory workers into a frenzy—and then doing exactly that, by howling down from the podium that he had an instant, overnight cure for all their worst afflictions: Taxes? Nigras? Army worms killing the turnip crop? Whatever it was, Wallace assured his supporters that the solution was actually real simple, and that the only reason they had any hassle with the government at all was because those greedy bloodsuckers in Washington didn’t want the problems solved, so they wouldn’t be put out of work.
Hunter S. Thompson (Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72)
Because for all my massive appetite, I cannot cook to save my life. When Grant came to my old house for the first time, he became almost apoplectic at the contents of my fridge and cupboards. I ate like a deranged college frat boy midfinals. My fridge was full of packages of bologna and Budding luncheon meats, plastic-wrapped processed cheese slices, and little tubs of pudding. My cabinets held such bounty as cases of chicken-flavored instant ramen noodles, ten kinds of sugary cereals, Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, and cheap canned tuna. My freezer was well stocked with frozen dinners, heavy on the Stouffer's lasagna and bags of chicken tenders. My garbage can was a wasteland of take-out containers and pizza boxes. In my defense, there was also always really good beer and a couple of bottles of decent wine. My eating habits have done a pretty solid turnaround since we moved in together three years ago. Grant always leaved me something set up for breakfast: a parfait of Greek yogurt and homemade granola with fresh berries, oatmeal that just needs a quick reheat and a drizzle of cinnamon honey butter, baked French toast lingering in a warm oven. He almost always brings me leftovers from the restaurant's family meal for me to take for lunch the next day. I still indulge in greasy takeout when I'm on a job site, as much for the camaraderie with the guys as the food itself; doesn't look good to be noshing on slow-roasted pork shoulder and caramelized root vegetables when everyone else is elbow-deep in a two-pound brick of Ricobene's breaded steak sandwich dripping marinara.
Stacey Ballis (Recipe for Disaster)
In the beginning, they had thought all the curled lips, cut eyes, turned-up noses—even the shaking heads—signified a bad scent emanating from their bodies because of the toil in the barn. The odor of swill alone had often made them strip bare and spend nearly an hour in the river bathing. Daily, just before sundown, when the others were bent out of shape from fieldwork and tried to find an elusive peace in their shacks, there Samuel and Isaiah were, scrubbing themselves with mint leaves, juniper, sometimes root beer, washing away the layers of stink. But the baths didn't change the demeanor of the sucked teeth that held The Two of Them in contempt.
Robert Jones Jr. (The Prophets)
The following foods often contain gluten: baked beans (canned) beer blue cheeses bouillons/broths (commercially prepared) breaded foods cereals chocolate milk (commercially prepared) cold cuts communion wafers egg substitute energy bars flavored coffees and teas French fries (often dusted with flour before freezing) fried vegetables/tempura fruit fillings and puddings gravy hot dogs ice cream imitation crabmeat, bacon, etc. instant hot drinks ketchup malt/malt flavoring malt vinegar marinades mayonnaise meatballs/meatloaf non-dairy creamer oat bran (unless certified gluten-free) oats (unless certified gluten-free) processed cheese (e.g., Velveeta) roasted nuts root beer salad dressings sausage seitan soups soy sauce and teriyaki sauces syrups tabbouleh trail mix veggie burgers vodka wheatgrass wine coolers
David Perlmutter (Grain Brain: The Surprising Truth about Wheat, Carbs, and Sugar--Your Brain's Silent Killers)
Ellie: "What was your favourite food before root beer floats were invented?" Will: "I dont know. Food was terrible before people started putting lots of chemicals and artifiacal flavours into it to make it taste better. I guess Ive always like carrots a lot." Ellie: "Carrots?" "Your other favourite food is carrots? What is wrong with you?
Countney Allison Moulton
French fries (often dusted with flour before freezing) fried vegetables/tempura fruit fillings and puddings gravy hot dogs ice cream imitation crabmeat, bacon, etc. instant hot drinks ketchup malt/malt flavoring malt vinegar marinades mayonnaise meatballs/meatloaf non-dairy creamer oat bran (unless certified gluten-free) oats (unless certified gluten-free) processed cheese (e.g., Velveeta) roasted nuts root beer salad dressings sausage seitan soups soy sauce and teriyaki sauces syrups tabbouleh trail mix veggie burgers vodka wheatgrass wine coolers The following are miscellaneous sources of gluten: cosmetics lipsticks/lip balm medications non-self-adhesive stamps and envelopes Play-Doh shampoos/conditioners vitamins and supplements (check label) The following ingredients are often code for gluten: amino peptide complex Avena sativa brown rice syrup caramel color (frequently made from barley) cyclodextrin dextrin fermented grain extract Hordeum distichon Hordeum vulgare hydrolysate hydrolyzed malt extract hydrolyzed vegetable protein maltodextrin modified food starch natural flavoring phytosphingosine extract Secale cereale soy protein Triticum aestivum Triticum vulgare vegetable protein (HVP) yeast extract
David Perlmutter
You’re taking a drink from a stranger, dude.” I say. “I could be a mad scientist and put something inside your root beer.” “Well, you’re giving a beer to a stanger, there’s a possibility that we both mad scientist.
Rea Lidde (Haven (Clockwork #0.5))
Rad drew in a breath of the universe, which was like root beer poured over vanilla ice cream. Rad exhaled all time, space, and matter in a great burp, expelling the carbonation of the cosmos through his nose.
Emm Oh (The Spies of Thurber Hall: Bod Squad 17: Non-Company Business)
Vegetable seed catalogs have replaced the penny candy store. The fireballs, the root-beer barrels, and the licorice whips aren't sold at the corner anymore. Now the sweets are sold by seed companies instead. There's "candystick" and "sweet slice" and "sugar rock" but these aren't types of candy, they are varieties of sweet corn, cucumber and musk melon.
Roger B. Swain
Mark came home late one frozen Sunday carrying a bag of small, silver fish. They were smelts, locally known as icefish. He’d brought them at the store in the next town south, across from which a little village had sprung up on the ice of the lake, a collection of shacks with holes drilled in and around them. I’d seen the men going from the shore to the shacks on snowmobiles, six-packs of beer strapped on behind them like a half dozen miniature passengers. “Sit and rest,” Mark said. “I’m cooking.” He sautéed minced onion in our homemade butter, added a little handful of crushed, dried sage, and when the onion was translucent, he sprinkled n flour to make a roux, which he loosened with beer, in honor of the fishermen. He added cubed carrot, celery root, potato, and some stock, and then the fish, cut into pieces, and when they were all cooked through he poured in a whole morning milking’s worth of Delia’s yellow cream. Icefish chowder, rich and warm, eaten while sitting in Mark’s lap, my feet so close to the woodstove that steam came off my damp socks.
Kristin Kimball (The Dirty Life: On Farming, Food, and Love)
Look into the future with me. People will tire of colas. Their color is dark, ominous. They bring to mind shadows and doubt, things untrustworthy, the hidden rivers of the mind.* In this more optimistic decade, under the leadership of The Great Communicator, Americans will demand a beverage that is clear, something that steers us away from the turbulent sixties and all the turbid years that followed. Seltzer water. It is a beacon of purity. Observing its clear, colorless liquid and believing it will work on the soul, consumers will drink three, maybe four units a day. This is no false Cassandra’s cry. Raspberry. Root beer. Vanilla. Black Cherry. Shoppers will leave the supermarket with multiple six-packs and go home to tell their friends and families what they have found.
Stephan Eirik Clark (Sweetness #9)
Root Beer 2 c. sugar 1 gallon lukewarm water 4 tsp. root beer extract 1 tsp. yeast Mix the above ingredients together. Put in jars and cover. Set in the sun for 4 hours. Chill. Ready to serve in 24 hours. Health Benefits Wild Cherry Bark Extract in most Root Beer Extract, known to help thin mucus, aid in respiratory and digestive ailments.
Karen Anna Vogel (The Herbalist's Daughter Trilogy (Smicksburg Amish Herb Shop #1))
Food critic and writer Waverley Root described the common American near beer as "such a wishy-washy, thin, ill-tasting, discouraging sort of slop that it might have been dreamed up by a Puritan Machiavelli with the intent of disgusting drinkers with genuine beer forever."[21]
Waverly Root
Root Beer For each gallon of water to be used, take hops, burdock,  yellow dock, sarsaparilla, dandelion, and spikenard roots, bruised, of each 1/2 oz.; boil about 20 minutes, and strain while hot, add 8 or 10 drops of oils of spruce and sassafras mixed in equal proportions, when cool enough not to scald your hand, put in 2 or 3 table-spoons of yeast; molasses 2/3 of a pint, or white sugar 1/2 lb. gives it about the right sweetness. Keep these proportions for as many gallons as you wish to make. You can use more or less of the roots to suit your taste after trying it; it is best to get the dry roots, or dig them and let them get dry, and of course you can add any other root known to possess medicinal properties desired in the beer. After all is mixed, let it stand in a jar with a cloth thrown over it, to work about two hours, then bottle and set in a cool place. This is a nice way to take alternatives, without taking medicine. And families ought to make it every Spring, and drink freely of it for several weeks, and thereby save, perhaps, several dollars in doctors' bills. Source: Dr. Chase's Recipes: or, Information
Julie Hutchins (Civil War Era Recipes)
The world is a book; those who do not travel read only one page. — Saint Augustine
J.W. "Bill" Marriott Jr. (Without Reservations How A Family Root Beer Stand Grew Into A Global Hotel Company)
Sweet Heat Mahogany Chicken Wings 6 SERVINGS The flavor palate of Southeast Asia — sweet, sour, salty, and hot — is captured in this one-pot chicken wing orgy. The streamlined method takes about half an hour and results in the gooiest, most pungent, sticky-fingered chicken wings you can imagine. They’re the perfect food for tailgating, afternoons watching ballgames, or just hanging out. Ingredients 1 tablespoon canola oil 2 garlic cloves, minced 1 dried hot chile pepper 1 tablespoon freshly grated gingerroot 1 cup root beer, any type, purchased or homemade 1⁄3 cup soy sauce 2 pounds chicken wings, sectioned, third joint discarded 1 tablespoon dark sesame oil Instructions Heat the oil in a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add the garlic, chile pepper, and ginger, and sauté until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Add the root beer and soy sauce. Bring to a boil, add the wings, cover, and let simmer for 5 minutes. Uncover the skillet and cook at a slow simmer until the liquid reduces enough to glaze the wings, about 20 minutes. Toss gently every few minutes near the end of cooking to prevent scorching, and stir in the sesame oil. Serve hot.
Andrew Schloss (Homemade Soda: 200 Recipes for Making & Using Fruit Sodas & Fizzy Juices, Sparkling Waters, Root Beers & Cola Brews, Herbal & Healing Waters, Sparkling ... & Floats, & Other Carbonated Concoctions)
Szechuan Ginger Beer The schizoid effect of ginger on the palate — at once hot and cooling — is reinforced in this recipe with an added kick of aromatic Szechuan peppercorns. This pepper, named after its native Szechuan province of China, is the dried berry of prickly ash (Zanthoxylum spp.) and is not related to the vine peppercorn (Piper nigrum) commonly served at tables. It has a fruity, floral fragrance that is a wonderful complement to the pungency of ginger. This recipe does not begin with a flavor base. Follow the complete brewing instructions to make one gallon of Szechuan Ginger Beer. TO BREW 1 GALLON 31⁄2 quarts water 4 ounces fresh gingerroot, coarsely grated 1 tablespoon Szechuan peppercorns 1 pound sugar 2 tablespoons unflavored rice vinegar 1⁄8 teaspoon champagne yeast (Saccharomyces bayanus) Combine the water, ginger, and peppercorns in a large pot. Bring to a simmer over medium heat. Let simmer for 5 minutes, then add the sugar and vinegar, stirring until the sugar dissolves. Remove from the heat and let cool until the mixture reaches warm room temperature, from 75 to 80°F. Strain out the ginger and peppercorns. Add the yeast, stirring until it is completely dissolved. Pour the mixture into sanitized plastic bottles (see here) using a sanitized kitchen funnel, leaving 11⁄4 inches of air space at the top of each bottle. Seal the bottles. Store for 3 to 5 days at room temperature. When the bottles feel rock hard, the soda is fully carbonated. Refrigerate for at least 1 week before serving; drink within 3 weeks to avoid overcarbonation.
Andrew Schloss (Homemade Soda: 200 Recipes for Making & Using Fruit Sodas & Fizzy Juices, Sparkling Waters, Root Beers & Cola Brews, Herbal & Healing Waters, Sparkling ... & Floats, & Other Carbonated Concoctions)
with no idea what it was. Banana-flavored root beer? In any case, when the music changed, the Snow Maiden said it was time
E.G. Foley (Jake & The Gingerbread Wars (The Gryphon Chronicles, #3.5))
Beersheba is Giza; since the Jew identity is not Semitic in origins, it also confused Semitic words during its process of Plagiarism & Cultural Appropriation. The word 'Beer' stems from the Semitic root of the word 'See' in reference to 'Sight' here; and the word 'Sheba' refers to Wolfs, Hyenas and Lions. Therefore, the 'Sight' of the 'Lion' expresses the 'Well of the Sphinx' which is the Sun's eastern horizon & the platform of Giza functions as a Mill directly behind the location of the Sphinx.
Ibrahim Ibrahim (The Calendar of Ancient Egypt: The Temporal Mechanics of the Giza Plateau)
He shrugged and sipped his root beer. It came in a bottle. He liked holding a bottle to his lips much more than a can. He was exhausted from worrying about everybody.
Caroline B. Cooney (What Janie Found (Janie Johnson, #4))
When you're in the clutches of a drinking problem you don't really sit around thinking, I should really knock this shit off and go get my Eastern philosophy on. On your to-do list, pursuing a higher state of consciousness doesn't really rank. It's more like, put on Led Zeppelin 4 and hand me some of that Root Beer Schnapps.
Anne Clendening (Bent: How Yoga Saved My Ass)
Do you have any soda?" he asked. "I have sarsaparilla," offered Belden. "What's that?" asked Jody. "It's kind of like root beer," answered Spud, pre-empting Belden. "That's a really old drink, but I used to like it when I was a kid. Where do you get it?" "I order it from
Steven Heitmeyer (Seeking Symby: Book 2- Symby)
Mr. Nobley was walking briskly from one room to the next, his eyes up as though trying to avoid eye contact. He looked scrumptious in his black jacket and white tie. Even better when he saw her and stopped. Really looked. Zing. Hello, Nobley. “Mr. Nobley!” A stranger woman of retirement age waved a handkerchief gleefully and bustle-jogged toward him. Mr. Nobley fled. And then, Martin was there, in tails, cravat, and all, and scanning the crowd. For my face, she thought. It was Martin’s turn to look up, to see her. His expression was--whoa, she knew now that she was looking pretty good. Others noticed his expression and turned as well. The murmuring hushed and music swirled from the other room. She was Cinderella entering alone. What, no trumpets? Martin rushed up several steps to escort her down. “I’m fine,” she whispered. He took her arm anyway. “That’s a crackin’ dress, Jane. I mean…Miss Erstwhile. Might I have the pleasure of obtaining your hand for the next two dances?” Ah, his smell! She was in his room again, static on the TV, a can of root beer so cold it was sweating, his hands touching her face. She wanted him close. She wanted to feel as real as she had those nights. Her sleeves pinched her shoulders, her dress felt heavy in the skirts. “I can’t, Martin,” she said. “I already promised--” “Miss Erstwhile,” Mr. Nobley was standing at her elbow. He bowed civilly. “The first dance is beginning, if you care to accompany me.” Was there a look that passed between the two men? Some heated past? Or would they (wahoo!) have a jealous tussle over Jane’s attentions? Nope. Mr. Nobley led her away. Martin stayed put, watching her go, something of a puppy dog in his eyes. She tried to say with her own, “I’m sorry I ignored you the night of the theatrical and I understand why you judged me for being the kind of woman to fall in love with this fantasy and I’ll be back and maybe we can talk then or just make out,” though she didn’t know how much of that she actually communicated. Maybe just a part, like “I’m sorry” or “you judged me” or “make out.
Shannon Hale (Austenland (Austenland, #1))
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.
Tammy Falkner (Tall, Tatted and Tempting (The Reed Brothers, #1))
Raspberry iced tea for Irving, water for Tom, a soda for me, and Hans insisted that I bring Mr. Addison a nice chilled root beer." She handed them over, then leaned against Rick's arm as she popped the tab of her Diet Coke and took a drink. "Anything yet?" she whispered. "Not so far," Richard answered, careful not to move. Sometimes he felt like a hunter trying to lure a deer into a trap. Don't move, or she'll remember you're there and run away .
Suzanne Enoch
I really thought I wanted magic - for God to do big dramatic miracles, fix my family, Daniel's lungs, everything, but the ordinary mess and the spoon-worthy, *beep-click-beep* moments are actually sort of cool - a different kind of perfect" -Bailey
Shari Green (Root Beer Candy and Other Miracles)
Maybe I really can see the face of God. Maybe it's there when I sit with my patched-together family for pancake breakfast. Maybe it's in the power oft he sea, or in the driftwood that gets hurled about by storms. Maybe it's in the words of an ice-cream man or the joyful leaps of a dolphin. It might even be in the pain of leaving my new best friend, or maybe it's especially in that. Maybe all these things show me the face of God, or maybe they just show me a bit of light or love or happiness. And maybe that's exactly the same thing." -Bailey
Shari Green (Root Beer Candy and Other Miracles)
Our hero, McGee, never let harsh reality get in the way of living the good life. Molly pinpointed her husband’s mindset accurately on November 5, 1940 when she asked for a present of “a big, beautifully-colored, handsomely-framed Rand McNally map of the dream world you live in.” That dream world is ours each time we press “play.” When it opens before us, we see a magical place where every business is located at 14th and Oak, all calls have to go through a smooth operator named Myrt, streetcar conductors speak in garbled tongues, and the only drink in town is hot-buttered root beer. Over there on the back steps there’s a short man saying, “Oh, no you don’t” and a little girl replying, “Oh, yes I do.” But isn’t that him by the side of the house telling his wife that if their neighbor doesn’t keep his dadratted lawn mower in better shape, he’ll borrow one from someone else? And that’s the same gabby fellow on the front sidewalk who is boring a portly gent holding a doctor’s bag about some Fred Nitney that he used to have a vaudeville act with back in nineteen-aught-sixteen. It seems that no matter which way we turn we can’t get away from Fibber McGee and Molly. May it always be so.
FOXY’S FAMOUS CHEESEBURGERS were calling Lars as the Sirens had Ulysses, and fate was not on his side. The bastards in the booths on both sides had ordered and received the house specialty, complete with curly fries that still steamed a salty fragrance. And just to rub it in, one had added a milkshake, the other a root beer float.
Tim Tigner (The Price of Time (Watch What You Wish For #1))
It doesn't make sense but sometimes the most wonderful things don't." -Bailey
Shari Green (Root Beer Candy and Other Miracles)
Tuesday it rains of course- a perfect day for books." -Bailey
Shari Green (Root Beer Candy and Other Miracles)
OLOTB: Do you know what my favorite creatures are? Bailey: ... OLOTB: Sea stars. I'm very fond of them. Can you guess why? Bailey: Their colors? OLOTB: They regenerate - if they lose and arm, they grow a new one. Amazing! It's just a little bud at first, but in a year or so, they've got a whole new arm. Bailey: A year? OLOTB: You don't suppose growing something new is easy, do you?
Shari Green (Root Beer Candy and Other Miracles)
When Mom calls after dinner, I tell her about the good party gone bad. She says that can happen to even the best of things." -Bailey
Shari Green (Root Beer Candy and Other Miracles)
...fear makes people hold tight to things, whether it makes sense or not." -Nana Marie
Shari Green (Root Beer Candy and Other Miracles)
What good is truth if you bury it?" -Jasper
Shari Green (Root Beer Candy and Other Miracles)
Isn't *up* where hopes are supposed to be?" -Bailey
Shari Green (Root Beer Candy and Other Miracles)
I guess you never know how brave you are until you let go of the rope." -Bailey
Shari Green (Root Beer Candy and Other Miracles)
How can a person look sad even though he's smiling? Like rain from a clear blue sky." -Bailey
Shari Green (Root Beer Candy and Other Miracles)
You drink root beer while you watch an NBA game? You are an American wannabe, aren’t you?” “That is perhaps the most horrid thing you could say to an Englishman.” “Worse than French wannabe?” “Well, there is that.” He sipped his soda. “I spent a summer in America and one night drank two six-packs of root beer on a dare. After that, the formerly vile-cough-syrupy taste suddenly became appealing. But wait just a moment, Miss I’ve-Just-Come-From-A-Rather-Dull-Game-Of-Whist, who’s pointing fingers and calling me a wannabe of anything?” “Yeah…” She smoothed the front of her empire waist and laughed at herself as best she could. “It’s, um, a Halloween costume. You know, trick or treat.” “Ah,” he said. “And my interest in basketball is just, you know, research into a curious cultural phenomenon.” “Pure research.” “Absolutely.” “But of course. Besides, you ruined me, you know. No wonder Wattlesbrook forbids anything modern to clash with the nineteenth century. Five minutes of conversation with you in the garden and I went cross-eyed trying to take myself seriously again in this getup.” “I have that effect on a lot of women. All it takes is five minutes with me and--er…that didn’t sound right.” “You’d better stop while you’re behind, there, sport.
Shannon Hale (Austenland (Austenland, #1))
The television seemed to grow quieter, and they moved closer to it, from the couch to the carpet, and sitting on the floor with her corset still stiffening her back, she had to lean against him to be comfortable. And then his arm was around her shoulder, and his smell was delicious. She felt drunk on root beer, and soothed by the twitching of the tiny television. He started to play with her fingers, and she turned her head. Their breaths touched. Then their lips. And then, they really made out. It was fun, kissing a guy she barely knew. She’d never done this before, and it made her feel rowdy and pretty and miles removed from her issues. She didn’t think or fret. She just played. “Good shot,” she said, her eyes closed, pretending to watch the game. “Watch that defense,” he whispered, kissing her neck. An evening dress allowed for a lot of neck, and somehow he got it all. “Get the rebound, you clumsy oaf.” And it was fun to stop kissing and look at each other, breathless, feeling the thrill and anticipation of the undone. “Good game,” she said. The television buzzed with static. She didn’t know how long the game had been over, but her heavy eyes and limbs told her that it was very late. She thought if she stayed longer, she would fall asleep on his chest, and because that idea pleased her, she left immediately. Her torso stiff inside her corset exoskeleton, he had to help her to her feet. With one hand, he pulled her onto her toes as though she were the weight of a pillow. He walked her to the door and swatted her on the butt. “Good game, coach. See you tomorrow.” “Um, who won?” she asked, indicating the television still droning angrily at having no picture to show. “We did.
Shannon Hale (Austenland (Austenland, #1))
OLOTB: You should look at it under a microscope. Bailey: Look at what? OLOTB: The sand. You'd think it would be boring bits of gray nothingness, but it's not. It's minerals--quartz, fragments of sea shells, all sorts of delightful things. Exquisite, really. Bailey: So, I just ran across a bunch of minerals? OLOTB: Who'd have thought you were tromping on such beauty?
Shari Green (Root Beer Candy and Other Miracles)
You're taking down your fence? I say. Got enough things Keeping people apart Without adding a crooked fence.
Shari Green (Root Beer Candy and Other Miracles)
FISHERMAN’S NET The dreadlocks from Little Bay did not worry about worry. Chilled by the sea breeze, icy beer and a spliff, I could tell as he turned to the music, he was irie with the rhythm of the rising tide. I selected a yellow-tail snapper from his catch. “Come home and cook for you,” he smiled, flashing a gold-capped tooth. I laughed that throaty unnerving laugh, but he never flinched. Can’t be sure of the sequence; the music lapped us into knee-high grass, and the sea spray settled like the skin round my nipples, and thighs knotted like mangrove roots giving in to the deep, held by the strength of his arms and the cry of the snapper, caught.
Peekash Press (Coming Up Hot: Eight New Poets from the Caribbean)
Figuring I might entertain myself with heckling, I walked to the bar. I never made it through the door. Instead, I leaned against the doorway, crossed my arms, and enjoyed the spectacle of Raven, Bailey, and Sawyer singing horribly along with Steve Perry. The three blondes sang their talentless hearts out with Sawyer on a stool in the middle. Bailey wasn’t singing as much as yelling to the music. Sawyer was talking the song. Raven though was really trying to sound good. Unfortunately, her sexy voice didn’t translate well into song. The few people in the bar clapped when the song ended. Mainly because Bailey and Raven were hot. Sawyer ran to the bar and ordered a beer. The bartender nodded and gave her a big glass of root beer. She winked at him and told Bailey to pay the man. The kid was going to rule the world one day.
Bijou Hunter (Damaged and the Outlaw (Damaged, #4))
You drink root beer while you watch an NBA game? You are an American wannabe, aren’t you?” “That is perhaps the most horrid thing you could say to an Englishman.” “Worse than French wannabe?” “Well, there is that.
Shannon Hale (Austenland (Austenland, #1))
Two pairs of strangers performed. Jane watched them. Mr. Nobley watched her. Then it was her turn. She curtsied to the audience, to Mr. Nobley, and faced him in the center of the floor. All eyes watched them. Jane looked for Martin in the crowd. Maybe I really don’t want this, she thought. This is summer camp. This is a novel. This isn’t home. I need something real. Root beer and disposable umbrellas and bare feet real. “I believe we must say something.” It was Mr. Nobley who spoke. “Sorry,” she said. “Are you unwell tonight?” “Do I look unwell?” He smiled. “You are baiting me. It will not work tonight, Miss Erstwhile. I am completely at ease. I might even say, I am quite content.” Jane pushed the air out of her lungs. Part of her very much wanted to banter and play, to twirl and laugh, to be Miss Erstwhile and fall in love with Mr. Nobley (fall back in love?), but she felt herself on that razor’s edge, talking toe to heel like a gymnast, and when she fell this time, she wanted to be on the real world side, away from heartless fantasy, into the tangible. Then, with his hand on her waist to lead her through another figure, Mr. Nobley smiled at her again, and she clean forgot what she wanted. Him, him, him! she thought. I want him and this and everything, every flower, every strain of music. And I don’t want it wrapped up in a box--I want it living, around me, real. Why can’t I have that? I’m not ready to give it up. The first number ended, the group applauded the musicians. Mr. Nobley seemed to applaud Jane. “You look flushed,” he said. “I will get you a drink.” And he was gone. Jane smiled at his back. She liked a man in tails. Something bumped her elbow. “Excuse me…of, it is you, Jane, dear,” said Aunt Saffronia. She’d been watching Mr. Nobley as well, and her expression was still misty with contemplation. “Where is your partner off to?” “He is fetching me a drink,” said Jane. “I’ve never seen him so attentive. Or so at ease.” “Nor I, not in the four years I have known him. He is acting like a proper gentleman in love, is he not? I might almost say that he looks happy.” Aunt Saffronia was thoughtful, and while she stared, she idly bit her fingernail right through her glove. “Is he in love?” asked Jane. She was feeling bold in her bridal gown. “Hm, a question only hearts can answer.” She looked fully at Jane now and smiled approvingly. “Well, you are a confection tonight! And no wonder.” Aunt Saffronia leaned in to touch cheeks and kiss, and Jane caught a trace of cigarette smoke. Could the dear lady be the unseen smoker? What a lot of secrets in this place, thought Jane. She’d never before considered that Austen didn’t just write romances and comedies, but mysteries as well.
Shannon Hale (Austenland (Austenland, #1))
So, what are you doing here?” She couldn’t help it if her tone sounded a little tired. This was becoming farcical. “I came to tell you that I--” he rushed to speak, then composed himself, looked around, and stepped closer to her so he did not need to raise his voice to be heard. The brunette leaned forward just a tad. “I apologize for having to tell you here, in this busy, dirty…this is not the scene I would set, but you must know that I…” He took off his cap and rubbed his hair ragged. “I’ve been working at Pembrook Park for nearly four years. All the women I see, week after week, they’re the same. Nearly from the first, that morning when we were alone in the park, I guessed that you might be different. You were sincere.” He reached for her hand. He seemed to gain confidence, his lips started to smile, and he looked at her as though he never wished to look away. Zing, she thought, out of habit mostly, because she wasn’t buying any of it. Martin groaned at the silliness. Nobley immediately stuck his cap back on and stepped back, and he seemed unsure if he’d been too forward, if he should still play by the rules. “I know you have no reason to believe me, but I wish you would. Last night in the library, I wanted to tell you how I felt. I should have. But I wasn’t sure how you…I let myself speak the same tired sort of proposal I used on everyone. You were right to reject me. It was a proper slap in the face. No one had ever said no before. You made me sit up and think. Well, I didn’t want to think much, at first. But after you left this morning, I asked myself, are you going to let her go just because you met her while acting a part?” Nobley paused as if waiting for the answer. “Oh, come on, Jane,” Martin said. “You’re not going to buy this from him.” “Don’t talk to me like we’re friends,” Jane said. “You…you were paid to kiss me! And it was a game, a joke on me, you disgusting lurch. You’ve got no right to call me Jane. I’m Miss Erstwhile to you.” “Don’t give me that,” Martin said. His patience was fraying. “All of Pembrook Park is one big drama, you’d have to be dense not to see that. You were acting too, just like the rest of us, having a fling on holiday, weren’t you? And it’s not as though kissing you was odious.” “Odious?” “I’m saying it wasn’t.” Martin paused and appeared to be putting back on his romancing-the-woman persona. “I enjoyed it, all of it. Well, except for the root beer. And if you’re going to write that article, you should know that I believe what we had was real.” The brunette sighed. Jane just rolled her eyes. “We had something real,” Nobley said, starting to sound a little desperate. “You must have felt it, seeping through the costumes and pretenses.” The brunette nodded. “Seeping through the pretenses? Listen to him, he’s still acting.” Martin turned to the brunette in search of an ally. “Do I detect any jealousy there, my flagpole-like friend?” Nobley said. “Still upset that you weren’t cast as a gentleman? You do make a very good gardener.” Martin took a swing. Nobley ducked and rammed into his body, pushing them both to the ground. The brunette squealed and bounced on the balls of her feet.
Shannon Hale (Austenland (Austenland, #1))
But we have to get our thrills somewhere. Some men have a weakness for fast women. I have a soft spot for eighty-year-old heretics who buy me pancakes and root beer.
Philip Gulley (Hometown Tales: Recollections of Kindness, Peace and Joy)
I had a dream where I was in a place that served steak and mashed potatoes and the soup! The pasta soup was heavenly even better than my mother’s homemade recipe. Every spoonful of the soup reminded me of the sun. The mashed potatoes were so smooth that they could slide down my gullet. The steak was medium-rare, my favorite, and every bite reminded me of the steak my mom made but it was one hundred and one times better.  And there was also iced tea and every sip of it felt refreshing like a cold, winter morning with the sun shining merrily and my mom and I throwing snowballs at each other. I  ate and drank until I could eat no more. I felt as if my stomach was about to combust. But then in came the tiramisu. It was better than anything I had ever tasted. The rich smell of coffee wafted up from it. It reminded me of the coffee shop my mom went to when I was little. Despite the fact that my stomach was about to explode I managed to fit in three more slices of tiramisu before I could eat no more. But then came the Ice cream. It was my favorite flavor, mango. The ice cream was silky and sweet. It was like I was on a sunny June morning, a ray of sunlight shining in my face. The sensation intensified as mango juice dribbled down my chin like sunlight itself. I managed six scoops before I was sure my belly would explode. Every moment of eating the ice cream was sunsational. Finally came the float. It was vanilla ice cream on top of some Fanta even though my mom insisted root beer was one hundred times better. It tasted amazing. It was like the early spring making our ice crack in the pond on which my mother and I go ice skating every winter. It was happy but also sad at the same time as if my old life called back for me.
Zining Fan (The Fall of Naquinn)
Love isn’t roses. It’s those little square caramels and a root beer from the gas station because he knows that’s your favorite snack. It’s watching a musical with you without groaning. It’s handing you your glasses at night because he knows you’re too blind to find your way
R.K. Ryals (The Story of Awkward)
5 × 5 × 5 Daily Worksheet—Preferred Foods List Choose one item from each defense category to eat each day. Defense: Angiogenesis Antiangiogenic Almonds Anchovies Apple peel Apples (Granny Smith, Red Delicious, Reinette) Apricot Arctic char Arugula Bamboo shoots Barley Beer Belgian endive Bigeye tuna Black bass Black beans Black plums Black raspberries Black tea Blackberries Blueberries Blueberries (dried) Bluefin tuna Bluefish Bok choy Bottarga Broccoli Broccoli rabe Cabbage Camembert cheese Capers Carrots Cashews Cauliflower Caviar (sturgeon) Chamomile tea Cherries Cherries (dried) Cherry tomatoes Chestnuts Chia seeds Chicken (dark meat) Chile peppers Cinnamon Cloudy apple cider Cockles (clam) Coffee Cranberries Cranberries (dried) Dark chocolate Eastern oysters Edam cheese Eggplant Emmenthal cheese Escarole Fiddleheads Fish roe (salmon) Flax seeds Frisee Ginseng Gouda cheese Gray mullet Green tea Guava Hake Halibut Jamón iberico de bellota Jarlsberg cheese Jasmine green tea John Dory (fish) Kale Kimchi Kiwifruit Licorice root Lychee Macadamia nuts Mackerel Mangoes Manila clams Mediterranean sea bass Muenster cheese Navy beans Nectarine Olive oil (EVOO) Onions Oolong tea Oregano Pacific oysters Peaches Pecans Peppermint Pine nuts Pink grapefruit Pistachios Plums Pomegranates Pompano Proscuitto di Parma Pumpkin seeds Puntarelle Radicchio Rainbow trout Raspberries Red black-skin tomatoes Redfish Red-leaf lettuce Red mullet Red wine (Cabernet, Cabernet Franc, Petit Verdot) Romanesco Rosemary Rutabaga Salmon San Marzano tomatoes Sardine Sauerkraut Sea bream Sea cucumber Sencha green tea Sesame seeds Soy Spiny lobster Squash blossoms Squid ink Stilton cheese Strawberries Sultana raisins Sunflower seeds Swordfish Tangerine tomatoes Tardivo di Treviso Tieguanyin green tea Tuna Turmeric Turnips Walnuts Watermelon Yellowtail (fish)
William W. Li (Eat to Beat Disease: The New Science of How the Body Can Heal Itself)
We'll drink horse bark root beer And sit on your back stairs And I'll whisper in your hair In the summer air In the summer air And the sweat will roll down our backs And we'll follow animal tracks To a tree in the woods And a hole in the leaves we'll see The bright baby eyes of a chickadee How will I know How will I know And the sweat will roll down our backs And we'll follow animal tracks To a tree in the woods And a hole in the leaves we'll see The bright baby eyes of a chickadee The bright baby eyes of a chickadee
Mountain Man
did Jacinth serve just root beer, in his saloon, or did he perhaps serve things that were stronger in the back?
Elise Hyatt (A French Polished Murder (Daring Finds Mysteries Book 2))
... and I think all it really takes for different people to get along is a common rooting interest and a few beers.
Matthew Quick (The Silver Linings Playbook)
Some of the wives had already put their names on the waiting list for Pan Am’s first commercial flight to the Moon, but now that wasn’t going to happen. There would be no “orbital newspapers, updated every hour” per Arthur C. Clarke’s dream; no Lunar Hilton, which Barron Hilton had proposed; no Lunar Disney; and no chain of A&W Root Beer stands that Pete Conrad and Jim Lovell had planned, half jokingly, to open on the Moon after we colonized.
Lily Koppel (The Astronaut Wives Club)
In a different era, Ignatius would have been terrific at the Internet. You can picture him tucked into his Constantinople Street bedroom with an empty case of root beer at his feet, crouched over a grungy, glowing laptop, posting screeds to his blog, adding pointed and overwrought comments below news articles.
Margaret Eby (South Toward Home: Travels in Southern Literature)
all it really takes for different people to get along is a common rooting interest and a few beers.
Matthew Quick (The Silver Linings Playbook)
It tastes like you,” he said. The heat rushed into my face. “Uh, yeah, my lip balm…same flavor.” “I think it just became my favorite ice cream.” Ookaay. So was that an endorsement of my kiss? “You say that like you’d never tried it before.” “I hadn’t.” I stared at him. “It’s one of their most famous. How could you not try it?” “I’m not into trends. Just because someone else is doing it, doesn’t mean I want to.” I glanced down at the ice cream melting in the carton. I remembered his taste--root beer. And Mac’s? I really couldn’t say. It was rare when I didn’t delve into ice cream with gusto. “Earlier you said you and Mac had talked about me. What exactly?” “Just usual guy stuff.” “Like what?” “How much he likes you.” My insecurities were circling. “Did he like me before Dave and Bubba’s, before Tiffany put me through the extreme makeover?” “Why wouldn’t he?” He sounded completely baffled, like maybe I’d just asked a Tiffany-style question. “Okay, look, earlier, when I mentioned being honest, I just wanted to say that it was weird kissing Mac in front of you, because I don’t kiss guys in front of people. So, anyway, I just wanted you to know that.” “Consider it known.” “Okay then.” I got up. “Do you want me to leave this with you?” “Sure you don’t mind?” “Nah.” I handed him the carton and spoon. “Enjoy.” My offer wasn’t totally generous. I took perverse pleasure at the thought he’d think about me with each bite. I wondered if maybe he might have been my date tonight if he wasn’t living in my house. Would it be rude to ask him to move out?
Rachel Hawthorne (The Boyfriend League)
I sold a Multimixer to a guy named Willard Marriott, who had just opened a drive-in called A & W Root Beer. His method of operation fascinated me. I considered myself a connoisseur of kitchens; after all, selling Multimixers took me into thousands of them. I prided myself on being able to tell which operations would appeal to the public and which would fail. Willard Marriott looked like a winner to me from the start. I had no more idea than he did back then, though, of what a giant his Marriott Corporation would become in hotels and restaurants.
Ray Kroc (Grinding It Out: The Making of McDonald's)
You want to dance with me?” “Now? Here?” “Sun’s almost gone. In my book it couldn't get more perfect, throwing back a vanilla root beer while I dance in the glow of my headlights with you.” “After all this time, now you want to dance with me?” “Do I have to let you go after?” “No, you don’t have to let me go.” “Then yes, after all this time, I can finally dance with you.
Christina Coryell (Written in the Dust (Backroads #2))
There are many oppressed people across the border, people who are dirt poor and have little chance in life. Then there are those who don’t want them anywhere near the table, let alone sitting at the feast. In 1931 the people of Spain voted in their first free election in sixty years. Until that point the country had been controlled by the rich—the landed aristocracy, the church, and the industrialists. But the new Republic had its problems, though the poor saw more in the way of education and public money. So if you are looking for the roots of the war, they lie in discontent—and discontent always rises up like froth on beer. Look at Russia. The revolution is a fine example of what might happen in such a society.
Jacqueline Winspear (A Dangerous Place (Maisie Dobbs, #11))
added up to Fellinger’s.” I said, “Did they seem to know Fellinger?” “Not that Sean could tell. Brief chitchat, Fellinger pays for a room with cash, rides up to the fifth floor. The girls finish their Cosmos and do the same. Sean drinks root beer and gets all nervous about what’s going on up there, figures he’ll give it forty-five minutes then hazard a look. At forty-one, both girls are back in the lobby, leave the hotel and walk up Sunset. Fellinger appears fifteen minutes later, gets his Challenger from the valet, and drives west. Sean’s choice is either talk to the girls or stick with the surveillance. He follows Fellinger home, nothing else happens all night. I know it’s not profound but it confirms that Grant’s a bald-faced phony. Moment his wife steps into
Jonathan Kellerman (Motive (Alex Delaware #30))
But that's fatalism." "The illusion which man has that his will is free is so deeply rooted that I am ready to accept it. I act as though I were a free agent. But when an action is performed it is clear that all the forces of the universe from all eternity conspired to cause it, and nothing I could do could have prevented it. It was inevitable. If it was good I can claim no merit; if it was bad I can accept no censure." "My brain reels," said Philip. "Have some whiskey," returned Cronshaw, passing over the bottle. "There's nothing like it for clearing the head. You must expect to be thick-witted if you insist upon drinking beer." Philip shook his head, and Cronshaw proceeded: "You're not a bad fellow, but you won't drink. Sobriety disturbs conversation. But when I speak of good and bad..." Philip saw he was taking up the thread of his discourse, "I speak conventionally. I attach no meaning to those words. I refuse to make a hierarchy of human actions and ascribe worthiness to some and ill-repute to others. The terms vice and virtue have no signification for me. I do not confer praise or blame: I accept. I am the measure of all things. I am the centre of the world." "But there are one or two other people in the world," objected Philip. "I speak only for myself. I know them only as they limit my activities. Round each of them too the world turns, and each one for himself is the centre of the universe. My right over them extends only as far as my power. What I can do is the only limit of what I may do. Because we are gregarious we live in society, and society holds together by means of force, force of arms (that is the policeman) and force of public opinion (that is Mrs. Grundy). You have society on one hand and the individual on the other: each is an organism striving for self-preservation. It is might against might. I stand alone, bound to accept society and not unwilling, since in return for the taxes I pay it protects me, a weakling, against the tyranny of another stronger than I am; but I submit to its laws because I must; I do not acknowledge their justice: I do not know justice, I only know power. And when I have paid for the policeman who protects me and, if I live in a country where conscription is in force, served in the army which guards my house and land from the invader, I am quits with society: for the rest I counter its might with my wiliness. It makes laws for its self-preservation, and if I break them it imprisons or kills me: it has the might to do so and therefore the right. If I break the laws I will accept the vengeance of the state, but I will not regard it as punishment nor shall I feel myself convicted of wrong-doing. Society tempts me to its service by honours and riches and the good opinion of my fellows; but I am indifferent to their good opinion, I despise honours and I can do very well without riches." "But if everyone thought like you things would go to pieces at once." "I have nothing to do with others, I am only concerned with myself. I take advantage of the fact that the majority of mankind are led by certain rewards to do things which directly or indirectly tend to my convenience." "It seems to me an awfully selfish way of looking at things," said Philip. "But are you under the impression that men ever do anything except for selfish reasons?" (324)
W. Somerset Maugham
Nothing is as important as having managers in place who possess the people skills to support, encourage, lead, inspire and listen to associates. A
J.W. "Bill" Marriott Jr. (Without Reservations How A Family Root Beer Stand Grew Into A Global Hotel Company)
I grabbed a snack-sized bag of Cooler Ranch Doritos, a box of gummy worms, and a can of root beer. “What’d you get?” I asked, looking over at Brit. “Sprite, M&M’s, and chips,” she said. “All of the essentials.” She grinned at my snack choices, and we walked toward the door.
Jessica Burkhart (Elite Ambition)
I didn’t even know you could eat lotus root.” Fiona gripped one of her chopsticks as if it were a dagger, stabbed a slice of lotus root, and waved it under Meryl’s nose. “Eat anything you like. Even live shrimp if you want. Called dancing shrimp.” “Because their legs,” Darryl said, “wiggle as they go down.” “That’s here?” “Relax,” Elliot told Meryl. “That fish bait is at a sushi bar. We’re at a robatayaki. Take a whiff. Everything’s grilled. Goes well with the beer. There’s also chilled sake.” Meryl said she didn’t drink alcoholic beverages. “Whaaawt? Byron always does.” Fiona took great satisfaction at the surprise and uncertainty in Meryl’s eyes. Elliot passed Meryl a cup of sake. “Your son’s favorite, nice and cold.” “No, thank you. But I’d like some water, please.” Fiona drank Meryl’s sake. “You crossed the ocean for water? Next thing you’ll want a cheeseburger.
B. Jeanne Shibahara (Kaerou Time to Go Home)
Thoughts on a Tree (as it might have been written by Robert Frost) When I walk out alone at night to pubs, Is it the moaning of the trees I hear, The soft, subdued lament of leafy shrubs That are outsiders from the world of beer? For how unsociable, how sad they are, These rooted things, fated to stand and watch And know that they can never reach a bar Themselves, that they will never taste a scotch. And yet we are alike in many ways – I tend to be an introvert when drunk, Just as the tree, on harsh and snowy days, Takes refuge in its sturdiness of trunk. Oh tree, unable as you are to frolic, At least you won’t become an alcoholic.
Sophie Hannah (Marrying the Ugly Millionaire: New and Collected Poems)
The show is alright. It’s just not my cup of tea, probably because I don’t like tea. If it was a root beer float, it might be different, but it wasn’t.
Marcus Emerson (Kid Youtuber 3: The Struggle is Real (a hilarious adventure for children ages 9-12): From the Creator of Diary of a 6th Grade Ninja)