Salad Related Quotes

The chef turned back to the housekeeper. “Why is there doubt about the relations between Monsieur and Madame Rutledge?” The sheets,” she said succinctly. Jake nearly choked on his pastry. “You have the housemaids spying on them?” he asked around a mouthful of custard and cream. Not at all,” the housekeeper said defensively. “It’s only that we have vigilant maids who tell me everything. And even if they didn’t, one hardly needs great powers of observation to see that they do not behave like a married couple.” The chef looked deeply concerned. “You think there’s a problem with his carrot?” Watercress, carrot—is everything food to you?” Jake demanded. The chef shrugged. “Oui.” Well,” Jake said testily, “there is a string of Rutledge’s past mistresses who would undoubtedly testify there is nothing wrong with his carrot.” Alors, he is a virile man . . . she is a beautiful woman . . . why are they not making salad together?

Potato salad in the South is nothing less than the principal smuggler of cholesterol into the festive, careless heart. It is pure poison beneath the facade of bland puritan propriety. It is the food of choice at any food banquet of smiling relatives who celebrate tacitly among themselves the dark twining of two of their promising youth.

Hawai'i has often been called a melting pot, but I think of it more as a 'mixed plate'---a scoop of rice with gravy, a scoop of macaroni salad, a piece of mahi-mahi, and a side of kimchi. Many different tastes share the plate, but none of them lose their individual flavor, and together they make up a uniquely 'local' cuisine. This is also, I believe, what America is at its best---a whole greater than the sum of it's parts.

All along the river, the people I spoke to were hard-working and deeply attached to the mental security blanket of having a decent house, clean car and steady job. They were relatively wealthy, but at the same time quite ambivalent about wealth, and disdainful of anything which smacked of excessive consumption. Family was important, but having expensive jewellery or a fancy haircut usually were not. People considered it essential to be productive and efficient, but would also think it an outrage to be expected to reply to a work email on the weekend. From Rotterdam to Ludwigshafen, they counted pennies and returned empty bottles, avoided running up debts, and were careful to save for rainy days. Food was enjoyed but unimportant, and a 'salad' was anything covered with mayonnaise, preferably fried first.

I chose to have only salads and fruits.This was a matter of concern for all my overly concerned relatives. “Maya, why isn’t Amira eating anything?” asked aconcerned distant relative, someone I had spoken to maybe once in my entire life. All I felt like saying to Monisha Auntyat that moment was, “Aunty, before worrying about my food habits, worry about your cokehead son, Tarun.” But I held my tongue and let the grownups carry on with their banter. “Oh Monisha, don’t worry about her. You know this generation. They all have these phases. In no time, she will again be hogging her junk food.” my motherreplied. But was I going to be? Why did my own mother’s words sting me to such an extent that I considered it to be my first trigger towards the journey of a lifetime of making excuses to run away from social situations that involved food or running far, far away from the slightest smell of food?

He thought about the stats in a way appropriate for a non-gamer. Tomatoes. Why tomatoes?  Think of it like this: Strength was how hard you could throw a tomato. Dexterity was how fast you could get to a tomato and allowed you to slice the fruit without hurting yourself. Constitution let you eat rotten tomatoes without getting sick. Intelligence let you know that a tomato was a fruit, while wisdom let you know not to put it in a fruit salad. Charisma allowed you to sell a tomato-based fruit salad. Perception let you spot tomatoes among strawberries. Luck was your likelihood of finding a tomato in a place that only grew potatoes. Karmic luck? No idea how it related, but it sounded dangerous. He

The coast of Austria-Hungary yielded what people called cappuzzo, a leafy cabbage. It was a two-thousand-year-old grandparent of modern broccoli and cauliflower, that was neither charismatic nor particularly delicious. But something about it called to Fairchild. The people of Austria-Hungary ate it with enthusiasm, and not because it was good, but because it was there. While the villagers called it cappuzzo, the rest of the world would call it kale. And among its greatest attributes would be how simple it is to grow, sprouting in just its second season of life, and with such dense and bulky leaves that in the biggest challenge of farming it seemed to be how to make it stop growing. "The ease with which it is grown and its apparent favor among the common people this plant is worthy a trial in the Southern States," Fairchild jotted. It was prophetic, perhaps, considering his suggestion became reality. Kale's first stint of popularity came around the turn of the century, thanks to its horticultural hack: it drew salt into its body, preventing the mineralization of soil. Its next break came from its ornamental elegance---bunches of white, purple, or pink leaves that would enliven a drab garden. And then for decades, kale kept a low profile, its biggest consumers restaurants and caterers who used the cheap, bushy leaves to decorate their salad bars. Kale's final stroke of luck came sometime in the 1990s when chemists discovered it had more iron than beef, and more calcium, iron, and vitamin K than almost anything else that sprouts from soil. That was enough for it to enter the big leagues of nutrition, which invited public relations campaigns, celebrity endorsements, and morning-show cooking segments. American chefs experimented with the leaves in stews and soups, and when baked, as a substitute for potato chips. Eventually, medical researchers began to use it to counter words like "obesity," "diabetes," and "cancer." One imagines kale, a lifetime spent unnoticed, waking up one day to find itself captain of the football team.

We are not referring here to the garden-variety kind of self-justification that we are all inclined to use when we make a mistake or disagree about relatively trivial matters, like who left the top off the salad dressing or who forgot to pay the water bill or whose memory of a favorite scene in an old movie is correct. In those circumstances, self-justification momentarily protects us from feeling clumsy, incompetent, or forgetful. The kind that can erode a marriage, however, reflects a more serious effort to protect not what we did but who we are, and it comes in two versions: “I’m right and you’re wrong” and “Even if I’m wrong, too bad; that’s the way I am.

Buckwheat: Buckwheat is not related to wheat, so it is a favorable grain for wheat-sensitive people. It is also rich in protein and fiber and has been shown to lower cholesterol. Buckwheat groats can be soaked in advance and then used to make porridge, a seasoned side dish, or crackers. Kasha is toasted buckwheat. Millet: This versatile, gluten-free grain is a staple crop in India and Africa. Mildly sweet and nutty, it can be used in both main dishes and desserts. Depending on the length of time it is cooked, it can be slightly crunchy or soft and creamy. Serve it with stir-fried dishes, add it to salads, or make a breakfast porridge with cooked millet, nuts, seeds, and fruit. Quinoa: Although quinoa is usually considered a whole grain, it is actually a seed. It is a good protein source and cooks in just ten to fifteen minutes. Rinse quinoa before cooking because it is coated with a bitter compound called saponin. Quinoa tastes great by itself, or for a substantial salad, toss it with veggies, nuts, and a flavored vinegar or light dressing. It makes a great addition to veggie burgers and even works well in breakfast or dessert puddings.

One thing an early-on writer has to learn, is to be comfortable with and responsive to critique. When five people in a group tell you this chapter sucks; don’t snap back at them with, “Sure, but it gets better in another 6 or 7 chapters!” Listen. – Thank them. – Consider. They can look from a fresh perspective, and catch things that you might be too close to see. But, you will also learn along the way that not everyone in a group of relative amateurs themselves, is going to catch everything, and there will be a few who seem to never understand much of anything. Some will always want paragraphs chopped down to explosive missiles of passion, while others are more used to long composite paragraphs that I myself find impossible to wade through. You may, once you have hit your full stride and power, feel comfortable telling a few of them, “Look. This isn’t a diner. I don’t take orders: ‘I’m gluten intolerant; he can’t do salt; she’s allergic to peanuts ...’ “If what I offer is a salad bar, then No; I am not going to fry you up a cheesesteak!

Girls eat vengefully. Have you noticed this? Girls eat salads for revenge on their shorts. Girls eat cheeseburgers for revenge on their judgmental great-aunts. I once gagged while eating a slab of carrot cake that I did not want because an elderly relative had patted my leg with her dry hand and reminded me that I'd soon need to fit into my wedding dress. Boy, I showed her.

Have you noticed nothing odd about their relationship, Valentine?” “No, and it’s not appropriate for us to discuss it.” Monsieur Broussard regarded Mrs. Pennywhistle with keen interest. “I’m French,” he said. “I have no problem discussing it.” Mrs. Pennywhistle lowered her voice, mindful of the scullery maids who were washing pots in the adjoining room. “There is some doubt as to whether they’ve had conjugal relations yet.” “Now see here—” Jake began, outraged at this violation of his employer’s privacy. “Have some of this, mon ami,” Broussard said, shoving a pastry plate at him. As Jake sat and picked up a spoon, the chef gave Mrs. Pennywhistle an encouraging glance. “What gives you the impression that he has not yet, er . . . sampled the watercress?” “Watercress?” Jake repeated incredulously. “Cresson.” Broussard gave him a superior look. “A metaphor. And much nicer than the metaphors you English use for the same thing.” “I never use metaphors,” Jake muttered. “Bien sur, you have no imagination.” The chef turned back to the housekeeper. “Why is there doubt about the relations between Monsieur and Madame Rutledge?” “The sheets,” she said succinctly. Jake nearly choked on his pastry. “You have the housemaids spying on them?” he asked around a mouthful of custard and cream. “Not at all,” the housekeeper said defensively. “It’s only that we have vigilant maids who tell me everything. And even if they didn’t, one hardly needs great powers of observation to see that they do not behave like a married couple.” The chef looked deeply concerned. “You think there’s a problem with his carrot?” “Watercress, carrot—is everything food to you?” Jake demanded. The chef shrugged. “Oui.” “Well,” Jake said testily, “there is a string of Rutledge’s past mistresses who would undoubtedly testify there is nothing wrong with his carrot.” “Alors, he is a virile man . . . she is a beautiful woman . . . why are they not making salad together?

You have to love a nation that celebrates its independence every July Fourth, not with a parade of guns, tanks, and soldiers who file by the White House in a show of strength and muscle, but with family picnics where kids throw Frisbees, the potato salad gets iffy, and the flies die from happiness. You may think you have overeaten, but it is patriotism.”–ERMA BOMBECK