Sack Lunch Quotes

The whole world is a sack of shit ripping open. I can´t save it.

The size of a challenge should never be measured by what we have to offer. It will never be enough. Furthermore, provision is God's responsibility, not ours. We are merely called to commit what we have - even if it's no more than a sack lunch.

This is an ode to all of those that have never asked for one. A thank you in words to all of those that do not do what they do so well for the thanking. This is to the mothers. This is to the ones who match our first scream with their loudest scream; who harmonize in our shared pain and joy and terrified wonder when life begins. This is to the mothers. To the ones who stay up late and wake up early and always know the distance between their soft humming song and our tired ears. To the lips that find their way to our foreheads and know, somehow always know, if too much heat is living in our skin. To the hands that spread the jam on the bread and the mesmerizing patient removal of the crust we just cannot stomach. This is to the mothers. To the ones who shout the loudest and fight the hardest and sacrifice the most to keep the smiles glued to our faces and the magic spinning through our days. To the pride they have for us that cannot fit inside after all they have endured. To the leaking of it out their eyes and onto the backs of their hands, to the trails of makeup left behind as they smile through those tears and somehow always manage a laugh. This is to the patience and perseverance and unyielding promise that at any moment they would give up their lives to protect ours. This is to the mothers. To the single mom’s working four jobs to put the cheese in the mac and the apple back into the juice so their children, like birds in a nest, can find food in their mouths and pillows under their heads. To the dreams put on hold and the complete and total rearrangement of all priority. This is to the stay-at-home moms and those that find the energy to go to work every day; to the widows and the happily married. To the young mothers and those that deal with the unexpected announcement of a new arrival far later than they ever anticipated. This is to the mothers. This is to the sack lunches and sleepover parties, to the soccer games and oranges slices at halftime. This is to the hot chocolate after snowy walks and the arguing with the umpire at the little league game. To the frosting ofbirthday cakes and the candles that are always lit on time; to the Easter egg hunts, the slip-n-slides and the iced tea on summer days. This is to the ones that show us the way to finding our own way. To the cutting of the cord, quite literally the first time and even more painfully and metaphorically the second time around. To the mothers who become grandmothers and great-grandmothers and if time is gentle enough, live to see the children of their children have children of their own. To the love. My goodness to the love that never stops and comes from somewhere only mothers have seen and know the secret location of. To the love that grows stronger as their hands grow weaker and the spread of jam becomes slower and the Easter eggs get easier to find and sack lunches no longer need making. This is to the way the tears look falling from the smile lines around their eyes and the mascara that just might always be smeared with the remains of their pride for all they have created. This is to the mothers.

Charlie Brown: I think lunchtime is about the worst time of day for me. Always having to sit here alone. Of course, sometimes, mornings aren't so pleasant either. Waking up and wondering if anyone would really miss me if I never got out of bed. Then there's the night, too. Lying there and thinking about all the stupid things I've done during the day. And all those hours in between when I do all those stupid things. Well, lunchtime is among the worst times of the day for me. Well, I guess I'd better see what I've got. Peanut butter. Some psychiatrists say that people who eat peanut butter sandwiches are lonely...I guess they're right. And when you're really lonely, the peanut butter sticks to the roof of your mouth. There's that cute little red-headed girl eating her lunch over there. I wonder what she would do if I went over and asked her if I could sit and have lunch with her?...She'd probably laugh right in my face...it's hard on a face when it gets laughed in. There's an empty place next to her on the bench. There's no reason why I couldn't just go over and sit there. I could do that right now. All I have to do is stand up...I'm standing up!...I'm sitting down. I'm a coward. I'm so much of a coward, she wouldn't even think of looking at me. She hardly ever does look at me. In fact, I can't remember her ever looking at me. Why shouldn't she look at me? Is there any reason in the world why she shouldn't look at me? Is she so great, and I'm so small, that she can't spare one little moment?...SHE'S LOOKING AT ME!! SHE'S LOOKING AT ME!! (he puts his lunchbag over his head.) ...Lunchtime is among the worst times of the day for me. If that little red-headed girl is looking at me with this stupid bag over my head she must think I'm the biggest fool alive. But, if she isn't looking at me, then maybe I could take it off quickly and she'd never notice it. On the other hand...I can't tell if she's looking, until I take it off! Then again, if I never take it off I'll never have to know if she was looking or not. On the other hand...it's very hard to breathe in here. (he removes his sack) Whew! She's not looking at me! I wonder why she never looks at me? Oh well, another lunch hour over with...only 2,863 to go.

The next day was much the same, including Ben eating a silent lunch with him on the corner of campus. The third day, Drew looked up at Ben at the end of their lunch. "You always know just what to say." Ben smiled. "When did you start eating sack lunches?" "When my friend did," Ben said without hesitation.

I had been so terrorized by scientific statistics (if ten million people each leave over three grains of rice from their lunch, how many sacks of rice are wasted in one day; if ten million people each economize one paper handkerchief a day, how much pulp will be saved?) that whenever I left over a single grain of rice, whenever I blew my nose, I imagined that I was wasting mountains of rice, tons of paper, and I fell prey to a mood dark as if I had committed some terrible crime. But these were the lies of science, the lies of statistics and mathematics: you can't collect three grains of rice from everybody.

Decker looked at his sack lunch, sitting on the passenger’s seat of his unmarked. Guess he was going to eat in the car

Woman . . . I do the best I can do. I come in here every Friday. I carry a sack of potatoes and a bucket of lard. You all line up at the door with your hands out. I give you the lint from my pockets. I give you my sweat and my blood. I ain't got no tears. I done spent them. We go upstairs in that room at night . . . and I fall down on you and try to blast a hole into forever. I get up Monday morning . . . find my lunch on the table. I go out. Make my way. Find my strength to carry me through to the next Friday.

Having ferned for an hour, we take a break for our lunch and I eat, unwisely, quite an enormous meal....

I never got to take you to the prom. You went with Henry Featherstone. And you wore a peach-colored dress.” “How could you possibly know that?” Callie asked. “Because I saw you walk in with him.” “You didn’t know I was alive in high school,” Callie scoffed. “You had algebra first period, across the hall from my trig class. You ate a sack lunch with the same three girls every day, Lou Ann, Becky and Robbie Sue. You spent your free period in the library reading Hemingway and Steinbeck. And you went straight home after school without doing any extracurricular activities, except on Thursdays. For some reason, on Thursdays you showed up at football practice. Why was that, Callie?” Callie was confused. How could Trace possibly know so much about her activities in high school? They hadn’t even met until she showed up at the University of Texas campus. “I don’t understand,” she said. “You haven’t answered my question. Why did you come to football practice on Thursdays?” “Because that was the day I did the grocery shopping, and I didn’t have to be home until later.” “Why were you there, Calllie?” Callie stared into his eyes, afraid to admit the truth. But what difference could it possibly make now? She swallowed hard and said, “I was there to see you.” He gave a sigh of satisfaction. “I hoped that was it. But I never knew for sure.” Callie’s brow furrowed. “You wanted me to notice you?” “I noticed you. Couldn’t you feel my eyes on you? Didn’t you ever sense the force of my boyish lust? I had it bad for you my senior year. I couldn’t walk past you in the hall without needing to hold my books in my lap when I saw down in the next class.” “You’re kidding, right?” Trace chuckled. “I wish I were.” “Then it wasn’t an accident, our meeting like that at UT?” “That’s the miracle of it,” Trace said. “It was entirely by accident. Fate. Kisma. Karma. Whatever you want to call it.

I'm not sure I handled it well," he sais,his face so open,gaze filled with such raw regret,my heart aches on his behalf. "Considering the circumstances, I think you did fine.Besides,it's not like you stood a chance,her mind was make up the moment she saw you." Dace jerks back,his expression slighted,voice unsure when he says, "I don't understand..." I fumble with my lunch sack,wondering why I can never say the right thing around him.Having no way to explain in a way that won't sound completely embarrassing,when Xotichl steps in. "What's not to get? You're hot-Daire's gorgeous-it's a recipe for parental distress if there ever was one.

Martin had a period of relishing the Boston thug-writer George V. Higgins, author of The Friends of Eddie Coyle. Higgins’s characters had an infectious way of saying ‘inna’ and ‘onna,’ so Martin would say, for example, ‘I think this lunch should be onna Hitch’ or ‘I heard he wasn’t that useful inna sack.’ Simple pleasures you may say, but linguistic sinew is acquired in this fashion and he would not dump a trope until he had chewed all the flesh and pulp of it and was left only with pith and pips. Thus there arrived a day when Park Lane played host to a fancy new American hotel with the no less fancy name of ‘The Inn on The Park’ and he suggested a high-priced cocktail there for no better reason than that he could instruct the cab driver to ‘park inna Inn onna Park.’ This near-palindrome (as I now think of it) gave us much innocent pleasure.

Yes, men and women eat meals. But they also ingest nutrients. They grind and sculpt them into a moistened bolus that is delivered, via a stadium wave of sequential contractions, into a self-kneading sack of hydrochloric acid and then dumped into a tubular leach field, where it is converted into the most powerful taboo in human history. Lunch is an opening act.

Yes, men and women eat meals. But they also ingest nutrients. They grind and sculpt them into a moistened bolus that is delivered, via a stadium wave of sequential contractions, into a self-kneading sack of hydrochloric acid and then dumped into a tubular leach field, where it is converted into the most powerful taboo in human history. Lunch is an opening act. M

Deep blue like the hour between the dog and the wolf. An attractively scooped neckline. Sleeves and hemline a length and cut you would call kind. Buttons in back like discreetly sealed lips. Good give in the fabric. Double lined. The sort of dress that looks like nothing but a sad dark sack on the hanger, but on the body it’s a different story. Takes extremely well to accessories. My mother loved this sort of dress. At whatever weight she was—thin, fat, middling—she owned an iteration. I saw her wear it to work, lunch with friends, on dates, to movies, parties, funerals. I saw her wear it alone in her apartment for days on end. Scratch at a stain on the boob. Shit. The hemline begin to unravel. Fuck fuck fuck. Do you have a safety pin? Holes begin to appear in the armpits. Jesus. The sleeves fray. Well. That’s that, isn’t it? She wore it so much she’d wear it out and then she’d have to hunt for another, whip through the plus-size racks for something that fit just as impossibly well, that was just as dignified, just as forgiving in its plain dark elegance.

At Angelita’s, my favorite food was a plain bean burrito in a flour tortilla. It was simple, but tasty! I loved bean burritos. They were my comfort food. They were my “little friends!” For my first day at school, my aunt made me three of them. She wrapped them up tightly in aluminum foil and then packed them in a brown paper sack. At lunchtime, in the cafeteria, I got ready to greet my little friends. I was nervous, as it was my first day of school, but I knew the burritos would soon warm my stomach and comfort me. I looked around the lunch room and saw other kids with their cafeteria trays and their perfect peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with the crust neatly trimmed off and their bottle of juices and bags of Fritos and then . . . I pulled out a burrito. “Hey! What’s that?” A gringa girl shouted at me, pointing at my burrito. “Uh . . . nothing! Nada!” I replied as I quickly shoved it back into the sack. I was hungry, but every time I got ready to pull one out, it seemed as if there was another kid ready to stare and point at me. I was embarrassed! I loved my burritos, but in that cafeteria, I was ashamed of them. They suddenly felt very heavy and cold. They suddenly felt very Mexican. I was ashamed of my little friends and so . . . I went hungry.

She leaned over the basket again, taking in the mouthwatering aromas wafting out of it. "Fried chicken? Oh, I'm thinking buttermilk fried chicken?" Dylan was once again amused. "How do you do that?" "I like food." "You don't say." "And I love Southern fried chicken." She tried to open the basket, and he tapped her hand jokingly. "Sit," he said. And she did, crossing her legs and plopping down on the blanket. Opening the basket and playing waiter, Dylan began removing flatware and plates and red-checkered napkins, and then wrapped food. "For lunch today in Chez Orchard de Pomme, we have some lovely cheese, made from the milk of my buddy Mike's goat Shelia." He removed the plastic wrap, which covered a small log of fresh white cheese on a small plate, and handed it to her. Grace put her nose to the cheese. It was heavenly. "Oh, Shelia is my new best friend." "It's good stuff. And we have some fresh chili corn bread. The corn, I think, is from Peter Lindsey's new crop, just cut out from the maze, which is right down this hill." He motioned with his head toward the field, and then he handed her a big loaf of the fresh corn bread wrapped loosely in wax paper. "It's still warm!" Delighted, she held it to her cheek. Then he pulled out a large oval Tupperware container. "And, yes, we have Dolly's buttermilk fried chicken." Grace peeled open the top and smelled. "Fabulous." "It is!" He also pulled out a mason jar of sourwood honey, a sack of pecans, and a couple of very cold bottles of a local mountain-brewed beer.

AT THE SOUND of the bell, Sir John forgot all ills. “Squire Shallow,” he shouted merrily, “the lunch bell calls. Come along and don’t forget to bring the bottle of sack. We shall share a celebratory glass over the wizard’s hide. High Ho! Off to R-O-O-O-ASTING a wizard we must go!

I have never before gathered eggs from under a hen. Fernando has never before seen a hen. We bend low into the shed where perch a dozen or so fat lady birds. There's no shrieking or fluttering at all. I approach one and ask if she has an egg or two. Nothing. I ask in Italian. Still nothing. I ask Fernando to pick her up but he's already outside the shed smoking and pacing, telling me he really doesn't like eggs at all and he especially doesn't like frittata. Both bold-faced lies. I start to move the hen and she plumps down from her perch quite voluntarily, uncovering the place where two lovely brown eggs sit. I take them, one at a time, bend down and nestle them in my sack. I want two more. I peruse the room. I choose the hen who sits next to the docile one. I pick her up and she pecks me so hard on my wrist that I drop her. I see there is nothing in her nest and apologise for my insensitivity, thinking her nastiness must have been caused by embarrassment. I move on to another hen and this time find a single, paler brown-shelled beauty, still warm and stuck all over with bits of straw. I take it and leave with an unfamiliar thrill. This is my first full day in Tuscany and I've robbed a henhouse before lunch. Back home in the kitchen I beat the eggs, the yolks of which are orange as pumpkin, with a few grindings of sea salt, a few more of pepper, adding a tablespoon or so of white wine and a handful of Parmigliano. I dig for my flat broad frying pan, twirl it to coat its floor with a few drops of my tourist oil, and let it warm over a quiet flame. I drop in the rinsed and dried blossoms whole, flatten them a bit so they stay put, and leave them for a minute or so while I tear a few basil leaves, give the eggs another stroke or two. I throw a few fennel seeds into the pan to scent the oil, where the blossoms are now beginning to take colour on their bottom sides. Time to liven up the flame and add the egg batter. I perform the lift-and-tilt motions necessary to cook the frittata without disturbing the blossoms, which are now ensnared in the creamy embrace of the eggs. Next, I run the lush little cake under a hot grill to form a gold blistery skin on top before sliding it onto a plate, strewing it with torn basil. The heat of the eggs warms the herbs so they give up a double-strength perfume. Now I drop a thread of find old balsamico over it. And finally, let it rest.

Oy!” bellowed Ron, finally losing patience and sticking his head out of the window, “I am a prefect and if one more snowball hits this window — OUCH!” He withdrew his head sharply, his face covered in snow. “It’s Fred and George,” he said bitterly, slamming the window behind him. “Gits . . .” Hermione returned from Hagrid’s just before lunch, shivering slightly, her robes damp to the knees. “So?” said Ron, looking up when she entered. “Got all his lessons planned for him?” “Well, I tried,” she said dully, sinking into a chair beside Harry. She pulled out her wand and gave it a complicated little wave so that hot air streamed out of the tip; she then pointed this at her robes, which began to steam as they dried out. “He wasn’t even there when I arrived, I was knocking for at least half an hour. And then he came stumping out of the forest —” Harry groaned. The Forbidden Forest was teeming with the kind of creatures most likely to get Hagrid the sack. “What’s he keeping in there? Did he say?” asked Harry. “No,” said Hermione miserably. “He says he wants them to be a surprise. I tried to explain about Umbridge, but he just doesn’t get it. He kept saying nobody in their right mind would rather study knarls than chimaeras — oh I don’t think he’s got a chimaera,” she added at the appalled look on Harry and Ron’s faces, “but that’s not for lack of trying from what he said about how hard it is to get eggs. . . .

My mom was a devoted wife and mother. The first up every morning, she would don her very practical apron, which was usually made out of floral feed-sack material and went over her head and buttoned or tied behind her back. She'd prepare lunches for my five sisters and me, and one for Dad, too... About three o'clock in the afternoon, Mom would straighten the house, vacuuming and dusting, and by the time we walked in from school, she'd be in the kitchen with her apron on, preparing the evening meal. Every dinner was complete with meat, potatoes, salad, two vegetables, and bread and butter. And the dining table was always set with a vase of fresh flowers or green cuttings. When dinner was just about ready, she'd go freshen up, changing clothes and putting on makeup. When one of my sisters once asked her how come she "got ready" and changed clothes right before dinner, Mom smiled and said, "Because my husband is coming home." When our father walked into the house from work, he was greeted with a delicious home-cooked meal on the table and Mom, all decked out in a fresh, pretty apron. [Dick Amman]

The size of a challenge should never be gauged in terms of our capability. What we have to offer will never be enough. God never calls us to provide; that’s His responsibility. Instead, He calls us to commit whatever we have—even if it’s no more than a sack lunch. His call comes with a promise:

Please tell me you didn’t bring work again,” Lester mumbled weakly. “It’s Sunday, you know—supposed to be a day of rest.” Emory laughed it off. “Yeah, right. That day-of-rest business flew out my window years ago.” “Never too late to change.” Lester’s words lost volume and seemed to evaporate as he closed his eyes and his head slowly rolled to the side.

After paying Lisen what Alice owed her, I was cash poor. And the full rent for the apartment sat on my shoulders like a lead weight. I had to find a reliable roommate who would share expenses and accept that an infant lived in the place, too. I started by posting a notice on the bulletin board at the hospital. Soon after, a nurse who was interested contacted me and we met over lunch. Dot and I sat in the green-walled hospital cafeteria on slatted chairs and opened our sack lunches. A saucy brunette who wore cat-eye glasses and red lipstick along with her fashionably bobbed hair and tweezed, blackened eyebrows, Dot had been sharing an apartment with four other women and wanted more space to herself. I

was holding a large, insulated lunch sack.

In the early evening of the second day, Andrea Gell-Man introduced the 8th to the concept of profanity, which she picked up at lunch and shared just before dinner. At dinner members of the 8th enthusiastically told each other to pass the fucking salt, you fucking sack of shit, until Brahe told them to quit that goddamn shit, cock-suckers, because it gold old pretty goddamn quick. There was a general agreement that Brahe was correct, until Gell-Man taught the squad to swear in Arabic.

RUSH HOUR   So many of us find the morning as a rush hour. Various family members scurry in different directions with various needs and diverse timetables. One has lost a sock; another can’t find last night’s homework. One needs a sack lunch; another needs lunch money. One leaves with a kiss, another with a shout, and another needs encouragement to open her eyes as she stumbles out the door. A “quiet time” in the morning to center ourselves and to renew our relationship with our Heavenly Father stands in sharp contrast. Carving out that time for yourself may be your supreme challenge of the day, but it is an effort worth its weight in gold, as so aptly stated by Bruce Fogarty: THE MORNING HOUR Alone with God, in quiet peace, From earthly cares, I find release; New strength I borrow for each day As there with God, I stop to pray. Alone with God, my sins confess’d, He speaks in mercy, I am blest. I know the kiss of pardon free, I talk to God, He talks to me. Alone with God, my vision clears, I see my guilt, the wasted years. I plead for grace to walk His way And live for Him, from day to day. Alone with God no sin between, His lovely face so plainly seen; My guilt all gone, my heart at rest With Christ, my Lord, my soul is blest. Lord, keep my life alone for Thee; From sin and self, Lord, set me free. And when no more this earth I trod, They’ll say, “He walked alone with God.”5   BE STILL, AND KNOW THAT I AM GOD; I WILL BE EXALTED AMONG THE NATIONS, I WILL BE EXALTED IN THE EARTH! PSALM 46:10 NKJV

Jesus was not a godlike man, nor a manlike God. He was God-man. Midwifed by a carpenter. Bathed by a peasant girl. The maker of the world with a bellybutton. The author of the Torah being taught the Torah. Heaven’s human. And because he was, we are left with scratch-your-head, double-blink, what’s-wrong-with-this-picture? moments like these: A cripple sponsoring the town dance. A sack lunch satisfying five thousand tummies. What do we do with such moments? What do we do with such a person? We applaud men for doing good things. We enshrine God for doing great things. But when a man does God things? One thing is certain, we can’t ignore him.

All of a sudden there was a scampering sound. A small furry hand grabbed my food. The hand had fingernails just like mine, and they were just as dirty. The monkey-thief was fast. He didn’t even look back as he shot back up the tree to enjoy my lunch. Another rhesus monkey reached into my day-sack, and cantered away awkwardly with a bigger prize.

Everything about this place made my skin crawl. The power plays and posturing. The snobbish cliques and haughty entitlement. I’d had an idea how things would be when I arrived, but living it was another story. Walking into the school cafeteria, I felt like I was cast in an over-the-top coming-of-age movie where each character had its very own stereotype to portray and not a single person was multidimensional. I’d only ever been to public school before, where kids bought square slices of generic pizza or brought brown paper sack lunches of PB&J and a bag of chips. Not at Xavier. There was a fucking sushi station, for Christ’s sake. How could any of these people be substantive when they’d never even stepped foot in the real world?

Back then, rice was in short supply, and the government was waging a campaign to encourage people to eat more flour and mixed grains. At school, our lunchboxes were inspected daily, and anyone caught bringing white rice had their palms strapped. Flour, donated as food aid by the United States and stamped on each sack with a picture of a handshake, was distributed by the neighbourhood office and eventually found its way into the marketplace. Lunch in every home consisted of sujebi, knife-cut noodles, or banquet noodles — the extra-thin soup noodles that were extruded by machine and so insubstantial that you’d barely even chewed them before they were slipping down your throat. They were called banquet noodles because we used to eat them only on special days, but they were ubiquitous in our neighbourhood since you could prepare them many different ways, including in soup or tossed in a spicy sauce.

I would curl up in a chair and become so absorbed in what I was reading that all sense of time would be lost. Whenever I was late for lunch or dinner I could be found, completely enthralled by a book, in the library. I learned to read early, at three or four, and books, and our library, are among my first memories.

In this part of the country, in this time, no amount of sack lunches would ever be enough.

You want something to drink or perhaps part of this wonderful fast food lunch?” “Oh, thank you, no, I ate earlier.” As he took a long sip of his drink, he pulled a sandwich from the paper sack.

OW: I’ve worked with advertising agencies all my life. In the old days in radio, you worked for them, because they were the boss, not the network. And I have never seen more seedier, about-to-be-fired sad sacks than were responsible for those Paul Masson ads. The agency hated me because I kept trying to improve the copy. HJ: Whoever heard of Paul Masson before you

Several groups of male students were caught punching each other in the testicles with great force during lunch. They claimed they were playing a game called ‘sack tapping.

A sack of salami, black bread, hard-boiled eggs, thick-skinned tomatoes, peaches, and apples: lunch on the beach. One afternoon, I was so dazed from the sun that I drained the water in the cup the adults had left out before they headed down to the water. But Soviet people didn't drink water with their meals - 'It'll just take up room in your stomach,' Faina had explained once - and I, smashed from the vodka, collapsed under the little table and was snoring like a hopeless drunk, sand in my mouth, when the big people returned.

LaQuana Alexander eased her ailing beige sedan past Efficiency’s busted security gate, waving at a cluster of young men hanging out nearby. They stared blankly back at her. It was a Saturday morning in early May, and LaQuana—or LA Pink, as she was known—had set aside the next several hours to give away food and clothing at the hotel. Efficiency’s residents were accustomed to such activities: a few area churches had begun making sporadic visits to the extended-stays lining Candler Road, dropping off nonperishables and sack lunches for the kids. But the residents had never met anybody like LA Pink. Her