Roti Quotes

Listen to your kuya, sister. Got three type kilikili.” He raises his finger. “One, that kano armpit smell like butter, burger, dollar; two, that Chinese intsik one smell like noodles, siopao, yuan; three, that bumbay one bad smell like roti, curry, rupee. Next time, find a kano who smells like butter, burger, or dollar. Curry not good. Rupee also not good, ba.

Kalau mahu melihat kehebatan seseorang, lihatlah perlakuannya apabila dia sedang marah. Apakah dia akan membalas balik kemarahan tersebut dengan kemarahan atau sebaliknya.

Manto's take on Ismat: "Ismat’s pen and tongue both run fast. When she starts writing, her ideas race ahead and the words cannot catch up with them. When she speaks, her words seem to tumble over one another. If sheenters the kitchen to show her culinary skill, everything will be in a mess. Being hasty by nature, she would conjure up the cooked roti in her mind even before she had finished kneading the dough. The potatoes would note yet be peeled although she would have already finished making the curry in her imagination. I feel sometimes she may just go into the kitchen andcome out again afer being satiated by her imagination.

Bagaimana cantik, bijak, kaya dan datang dari keluarga yang bagus sekalipun, jika perempuan itu bukan seorang yang beragama dan solehah, maka nilainya kosong

Kenangan perlu ada dalam hidup untuk dikenang, ditertawakan dan menjadi warisan ingatan kepada anak keturunam

Kita hanyalah remah-remah roti yang dikerbuti sesemut dalam stoples semesta (yang hanya bisa berpasrah pada bagaimana takdir bekerja sesuai tugasnya.

Bukan berarti karena tinggal di jalanan lantas tidak bisa berpikir lebih dari sekedar teh dan dua potong roti.

Lelaki yang tengah menyetubuhi si gadis segera mencabut kemaluannya, meninggalkan bunyi "splosh" yang menjijikan, dan berlari dengan wajah sepucat roti busuk, diikuti ketiga temannya.

Sebelum Pergi: Ketika senja mulai larut, roti ini kupotong menjadi dua bagian sama banyak dan kuletakan di atas meja sana; satu untuk aku simpan satu lagi aku tinggalkan, lalu aku pergi tak harap kembali.

One day my ama will die. Everything that she ever was will die with her. The way she walked quickly, and flour in her hair when she made roti, the lines in her forehead when she yelled at me for doing something stupid. Her Saturday morning parathas and her smell, cardamom and Pine-sol and lotion.

Biju stepped out of the airport into the Calcutta night, warm, mammalian. His feet sank into dust winnowed to softness at his feet, ad he felt an unbearable feeling, sad and tender, old and sweet like the memory of falling asleep, a baby on his mother's lap. Thousands of people were out though it was almost eleven. He saw a pair of elegant bearded goats in a rickshaw, riding to slaughter. A conference of old men with elegant goat faces, smoking bidis. A mosque and minarets lit magic green in the night with a group of women rushing by in burkas, bangles clinking under the black and a big psychedelic mess of colour from a sweet shop. Rotis flew through the air as in a juggling act, polka-dotting the sky high over a restaurant that bore the slogan "Good food makes good mood". Biju stood there in that dusty tepid soft sari night. Sweet drabness of home - he felt everything shifting and clicking into place around him, felt himself slowly shrink back to size, the enormous anxiety of being a foreigner ebbing - that unbearable arrogance and shame of the immigrant. Nobody paid attention to him here, and if they said anything at all, their words were easy, unconcerned. He looked about and for the first time in God knows how long, his vision unblurred and he found that he could see clearly.

Maybe what a son evoked in a father was different than what a daughter evoked? It would be all right. She was only afraid that when time passed, it would not be these trips to the library he would remember, or his eagerness to learn how she made roti in the kitchen with him as her helper, but how upset he would become when Rafiq scolded him.

oie rotie aux pruneaux

So do I have to teach you all over again how to make the rotis round?” Asha teased her daughter, merrily holding one of them up. “Come on! Who will marry you when you make such ridiculous bread?” The

Aku ingin melihat kehidupan. Aku milik rakyat. Aku harus melihat mereka, aku harus mendengarkan mereka, dan bersentuhan dengan mereka. Aku merasa bahagia kalau berada di tengah mereka. Bagiku mereka adalah roti kehidupan. Aku membutuhkan massa rakyat.

«Cel care caută uşor se pierde. Orice singurătate e o vină», aşa grăieşte turma. Iar tu de multă vreme ţii de turmă. Şi încă multă vreme vocea turmei va răsuna în tine. Iar când vei vrea să zici: «Eu nu mai am aceeaşi conştiinţă ca a voastră» va fi un plâns şi o durere. Uite, durerea aceasta însăşi se naşte încă din aceeaşi conştiinţă: şi cel din urmă licăr al acestei conştiinţe luceşte încă în mâhnirea ta. Vrei însă tu să mergi pe calea mâhnirii tale, care e calea înspre tine însuţi? Atunci arată-mi cu ce drept şi cu ce forţă? Eşti tu o nouă forţă şi-un nou drept? O primă punere-n mişcare? O roată ce se-nvârte prin ea însăşi? Poţi tu supune chiar şi stelele, spre-a se roti-mprejurul tău? Ah, există-atât de multă lăcomie de-nălţimi! Există-atâtea spasme-ale ambiţioşilor! Arată-mi că nu eşti lacom, nici ambiţios! Ah, există-atât de multe gânduri mari, care nu fac nimic mai mult ca nişte foi: se umflă, sporindu-şi golul dinlăuntru.

Decorated in exotic tones of saffron, gold, ruby, and cinnamon with accent walls representing the natural movement of wind and fire, and a cascading waterfall layered with beautiful landscaped artificial rocks and tiny plastic animals, the restaurant was the embodiment of her late brother's dream to re-create "India" in the heart of San Francisco. The familiar scents- cinnamon, pungent turmeric, and smoky cumin- brought back memories of evenings spent stirring dal, chopping onions, and rolling roti in the bustling kitchen of her parents' first restaurant in Sunnyvale under the watchful army of chefs who followed the recipes developed by her parents. What had seemed fun as a child, and an imposition as a teenager, now filled her with a warm sense of nostalgia, although she would have liked just one moment of her mother's time.

Tuhan, lindungilah keraguan-keraguan kami, sebab Keraguan pun sebentuk doa. Keraguan-lah yang membuat kami bertumbuh dan memaksa kami untuk tak takut melihat sekian banyak jawaban yang tersedia untuk satu pertanyaan. Kabulkanlah doa kami… Tuhan, lindungilah keputusan-keputusan kami, sebab membuat Keputusan pun sebentuk doa. Setelah bergulat dengan keraguan, beri kami keberanian untuk memilih antara satu jalan dengan jalan lainnya. Biarlah kiranya pilihan YA tetap YA dan pilihan TIDAK tetap TIDAK. Setelah kami memilih jalan kami, kiranya kami tidak pernah menoleh lagi atau membiarkan jiwa kami digerogoti penyesalan. Kabulkanlah doa kami… Tuhan, lindungilah tindakan-tindakan kami, sebab Tindakan pun sebentuk doa. Kiranya makanan kami sehari-hari menjadi buah dari segala yang terbaik dalam diri kami. Kiranya kami bisa berbagi walau sedikit saja dari Kasih yang kami terima, melalui karya dan perbuatan. Kabulkanlah doa kami… Tuhan, lindungilah impian-impian kami, sebab Bermimpi pun sebentuk doa. Kiranya usia maupun keadaan-keadaan tidak menghalangi kami untuk tetap mempertahankan nyala api harapan dan kegigihan yang suci itu di dalam hati kami. Kabulkanlah doa kami… Tuhan, berikanlah antusiasme kepada kami, sebab Antusiasme pun sebentuk doa. Antusiasme-lah yang memberitahu kami bahwa hasrat-hasrat kami penting dan layak diperjuangkan semaksimal mungkin. Antusiasme-lah yang mengukuhkan kepada kami bahwa segala sesuatu tidaklah mustahil asalkan kami sepenuhnya berkomitmen pada apa yang kami lakukan. Kabulkanlah doa kami… Tuhan, lindungilah kami, sebab Hidup ini adalah satu-satunya cara bagi kami untuk mengejawantahkan kuasa keajaibanMu. Kiranya bumi tetap mengolah benih menjadi gandum, kiranya kami bisa tetap mengubah gandum menjadi roti. Dan semua ini hanya dimungkinkan apabila kami memiliki Kasih; karenanya, janganlah kami ditinggalkan seorang diri. Biarlah selalu ada Engkau di sisi kami, dan ada orang-orang lain—laki-laki dan perempuan-perempuan—yang menyimpan keraguan-keraguan, yang bertindak dan bermimpi dan merasakan antusiasme, yang menjalani setiap hari dengan sepenuhnya membaktikannya kepada kemuliaanMu. Amin.

Such good relations we had that if there was any function that we had, then we used to call Musalmaans to our homes, they would eat in our houses, but we would not eat in theirs and this is a bad thing, which I realize now. If they would come to our houses we would have two utensils in one corner of the house, and we would tell them, pick these up and eat in them; they would then wash them and keep them aside and this was such a terrible thing. This was the reason Pakistan was created. If we went to their houses and took part in their weddings and ceremonies, they used to really respect and honour us. They would give us uncooked food, ghee, atta, dal, whatever sabzis they had, chicken and even mutton, all raw. And our dealings with them were so low that I am even ashamed to say it. A guest comes to our house and we say to him, bring those utensils and wash them, and if my mother or sister have to give him food, they will more or less throw the roti from such a distance, fearing that they may touch the dish and become polluted ... We don’t have such low dealings with our lower castes as Hindus and Sikhs did with Musalmaans.

Now Janie ordered a drink and glanced at the bar menu, choosing the goat curry because she'd never had it before. "You sure about that?" the barman said. He was a boy, really, no more than twenty, with a slim body and huge, laughing eyes. "It's spicy." "I can take it," she said, smiling at him, wondering if she might pull an adventure out of her hat on her next-to-last night, and what it would be like to touch another body again. But the boy simply nodded and brought her the dish a short time later, not even watching to see how she fared with it. The goat curry roared in her mouth. "I'm impressed. I don't think I could eat that stuff," remarked the man sitting two seats down from her. He was somewhere in the midst of middle age, a bust of a man, all chest and shoulders, with a ring of blond, bristling hair circling his head like the laurels of Julius Caesar and a boxer's nose beneath bold, undefeated eyes. He was the only other guest that wasn't with the wedding party. She'd seen him around the hotel and on the beach and had been uninspired by his business magazines, his wedding ring. She nodded back at him and took an especially large spoonful of curry, feeling the heat oozing from every pore. "Is it good?" "It is, actually," she admitted, "in a crazy, burn-your-mouth-out kind of way." She took a sip of the rum and Coke she'd ordered; it was cold and startling after all that fire. "Yeah?" He looked from her plate to her face. The tops of his cheeks and his head were bright pink, as if he'd flown right up to the sun and gotten away with it. "Mind if I have a taste?" She stared at him, a bit nonplussed, and shrugged. What the hell. "Be my guest." He moved quickly over to the seat next to hers. He picked up her spoon and she watched as it hovered over her plate and then dove down and scooped a mouthful of her curry, depositing between his lips. "Jee-sus," he said. He downed a glass of water. "Jee-sus Christ." But he was laughing as he said it, and his brown eyes were admiring her frankly over the rim of his water glass. He'd probably noticed her smiling at the bar boy and decided she was up for something. But was she? She looked at him and saw it all instantaneously: the interest in his eyes, the smooth, easy way he moved his left hand slightly behind the roti basket, temporarily obscuring the finger with the wedding ring.

Masala paste 2 teaspoons garam masala or curry powder 2 teaspoons red pepper flakes 2 teaspoons smoked paprika 1 teaspoon cumin seeds, toasted and ground 1 teaspoon coriander seed, toasted and ground 3/4-inch piece fresh ginger, peeled and grated 1 tablespoon peanut oil 2 tablespoons tomato paste Salt and pepper A handful of fresh cilantro Curry 11/2 tablespoons peanut oil 1 red onion, diced 1 clove garlic, minced 2 tablespoons masala paste (from above) One 14-ounce/400g can diced tomatoes 1 cup/250ml vegetable stock 7 ounces/200g red lentils, rinsed 7 ounces/200g baby spinach leaves 2 tablespoons unflavored low-fat yogurt Rye Barley Roti (recipe follows), for serving Pulse the masala paste ingredients in a mini food processor till well combined and fairly smooth.

Ein ser seg sjølv, kjenner det som ein har eit landskap i seg med tørre moar, og skrånande fjellsider med vandrande skuggar over. Dessutan veit ein om stygge og avgøymde stup. Ein går utanom dei, ferdast ikkje på den kanten. Der er ting på botnen av vatnet. La det ligge der. Ingen skal få visst det. La det ligge på havsens botn. – Så kjem det ei minning: Det skal koma ein dag då alt som – Å langt ifrå! svarar ein hastig, og bit det av. Prøver bite det av, for det hjelper ikkje overfor det einvise mælet, det fullfører det som det skal ha sagt: Det kjem ein dag då havet ditt skal gje frå seg alt som det gøymer no. Ditt vesle djupe stygge hav. Der er roti der nede. Slam og mørker. Ta deg i akt. Ein skubbar det frå seg. Arg, som ein blir overfor alt som er påtrengande. Og svarar frank: eg er slett ikkje redd. Ein reknar aldri med skredet, raset som riv all nådig dekning av. Så går raset. Og tek med seg. Ikkje berre det ein visste måtte gå i vasken om det skulle prøvast, men òg alt det som det er sviande skam at blir nækt: Det at folk ser kva som verkeleg har vori der heile tida.

Rumah itu menjadi penuh cinta. Aureliano mencoba menyatakan cinta itu lewat sebuah puisi yang ternyata tak berawal dan tak berakhir. Ia menulis puisi itu di atas sepotong perkamen kasar yang diberikan Melquíades padanya: Puisi itu juga ditulis pada tembok kamar mandi dan di atas kulit lengannya dan di atas segala-galanya itu Remedios tampil dalam perubahan bentuk: Remedios dalam obat tidur di senja hari, Remedios dalam alunan napas lembut bunga mawar, Remedios dalam tetesan liur rahasia ngengat-ngengat, Remedios dalam uap roti pagi, Remedios di mana-mana dan Remedios untuk selama-lamanya.

Lihat, Layla. Al-Quds, kota paling indah di dunia. Kota kita. Lihatlah betapa terang dan cerah batu itu di bawah sinar matahari pagi; ciumlah aroma za'atar dan roti yang baru dipanggang, dengarlah panggilan muazin dan teriakan para penjual tamar hindi. Ingatlah semua ini, Layla, simpan di dalam hatimu.

God, she misses Delhi. Misses roti and pickle and curd in the winter sun. Girls fussing over her in tiny, windowless salons. Golgappas in Khan Market. The crowds of Old Delhi. Sweet corn on the side of the road, dressed with chilli and chaat masala and lemon. Misses her dad so much just to think of him makes her cry. Misses her mum. But they barely speak.

At her final dinner in Imperial Heights, she notices afresh all that a week has made familiar: the silk runner, the brass casseroles, and the many little bowls on her plate that Sita, already turning invisible, keeps refilling. The meal is elaborate. There is saag paneer because it is her favourite Indian dish; corn bake, should the curry get too spicy; what she now knows is dal, not soup; yogurt, rotis, pilaf rice and pickle. Her first night here, she asked what order to eat things in, and everyone laughed like it was the most charming thing to say. Tonight, she folds her roti into a roll, one bite for each spoonful of curry, and as the subject of her new rental in Santacruz leads to a discussion on the city's suburbs, she feels reassured that Nana is right, people are people; no matter where you go and how confusing or daunting or hilarious they seem, there is always room to be kindred.

Saya suka lihat kamu ngelamun di tengah rapat, cuma mau makan roti sobek rasa cokelat, bahkan waktu kamu lari-lari dari parkiran ke gedung utama karena telat. Dari semua hal yang berkaitan sama kamu dan saya lihat, saya suka.

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But when to consume the fat? Just before an exercise session? No, the night before, if you work out in the morning. And if you work out in the evening, then the lunch should be wholesome and ghee on your rotis is a must.

Shohar Ka Mizaj Naram Karne Ka Wazifa ," Aslamwalekum Friends, Jis Kisi Meri Bahan Ka Shohar Usse Pyar Na Karta Ho Uski Koi Baat Na Sunta Ho Ya Ladai Jagda Karta Aisi Aurat Jiske Shohar Ka Mizaj Bahut Sakht Ho Aur Baat Baat Par Naajayaz Gusse Ka Izhaar Karta Ho Aise Halat Me Aurat Ki Jindgi Bahut Preshani Bhri Ho Jati Hai To Aisi Aurat Ko Yeh Wazifa Karna Chahiye Ki Jab Shohar Ko Roti Dene Lage To Us Aurat Ko Pahle 111 Baar Ya-Affu Padh Le

The aloo gobi is perhaps to North India what apple pie is to America. It is cheap and easy to make. Like most Indian dishes, you can make aloo gobi in as complex or rudimentary a fashion as you wish. You can eat it with rice, rotis, parathas or even with sliced white bread. A little leftover aloo gobi between two slices of white bread, toasted in one of those clamp sandwich-makers, and served with ketchup and mint chutney, is one of the greatest breakfast achievements of our species.

Jadi kaya tak salah. Yang salah makan roti kaya tak baca basmalah.

Chicken and vegetable pakoras, chickpea fritters with delicate spices. Aloo samosas filled with spicy potatoes, peas, and cilantro, with a fiery green sauce. Goat curry. Tandoori chicken. Mutton biryani. White lentil dal with onions and spices, potatoes and eggplant fried with onions and tomatoes, and four kinds of bread, naan, tandoor roti, chapati, and paratha.

In the last few months, as Ama got sicker, as it finally sank in, I thought: One day my ama will die. Everything that she ever was will die with her. The way she walked quickly, and flour in her hair when she made roti, the lines in her forehead when she yelled at me for doing something stupid. Her Saturday morning parathas and her smell, cardamom and Pine-Sol and lotion. I figured that such thoughts would prepare me for her death. They didn’t.

Umeed Pe Duniya Kayam Hai! Roti ke bina insaan chaar hafte jee sakta hai, Pani ke bina chaar din aur hawa ke bina shayad chaar minute... lekin umeed ke bina insaan chaar second bhi nahi jee sakta hai A person can live for 4 weeks without food, 4 days without water and may be 4 minutes without air... but a person cannot survive for 4 seconds without hope.

and used the dough to make wheat tortillas, which Biba labelled “flat rotis no self-respecting Punjabi would ever make.

The scant menu had done the food a disservice. As the dishes arrived, ferried from the kitchen by a team of waiters, she surveyed the food. She swallowed at the sight. It was a lot. There were katoris filled with daal, as thick and silky as rice pudding but yellowed with turmeric, finished with cream; a dark, oily, goat curry, chunks of meat blackened by a tandoor; neatly cubed paneer swathed in spinach; prawns, pink and black and glistening, scattered with coriander, sitting spikily in their dish; grilled chicken thighs, reddened with spice, scattered with chilli. Among the plates were little bowls of rice and folded naan, roti, and feather-layered paratha.