Schnitzel Quotes

All I want to do is make serious movies that explore social issues and turn a profit, and slip the schnitzel to Jane DePugh.

I wasn’t in the mood for therapy, I was about to get my period and it was schnitzel night,

Irgendwer hatte mal hier, mal dort ein paar Tannenzweige, silberne Christbaumkugeln und rote Schleifchen in die Auslage gelegt. Als ob so ein Schnitzel oder ein Steak, wenn es erst mal hier gelandet war, noch einen Grund zum Feiern hätte.

»Vermutlich ist Ihnen das Leben dieses afrikanischen Jungen egal. Wahrscheinlich erschrecken Sie jetzt viel mehr, wenn ich Ihnen verrate, dass das Fleisch auf Ihrem Porzellanteller kein Ibaiona-Schwein ist, sondern aus herkömmlicher Massentierhaltung stammt.« Auch wenn es kein Witz war, nutzten einige der Anwesenden den Moment für ein befreiendes Auflachen. »Ich bitte Sie, einmal den Teller zu heben.« Geschäftige Unruhe machte sich breit. Lautes Gemurmel brandete auf, als die Gäste ein Stück Papier fanden, das auf Wunsch Zaphires unter jedes Gedeck gelegt worden war. Lakonisch sagte er: »Was Sie jetzt in den Händen halten, ist ein Beipackzettel, wie er in Millionen von Medikamentenpackungen steckt. Und wie er jedem im Supermarkt gekauften Schnitzel beiliegen müsste: Tylosinphosphat, Olaquindox, Aminosidin, Clorsulon, Clavulansäure, Levamisol, Azaperon – die Liste ist endlos. Sogar Aspirin wurde von unserem Labor nachgewiesen. Und das ist ja auch ganz logisch.« Er räusperte sich und nippte kurz an dem bereitstehenden Wasserglas. »Wenn ich Sie hier alle anketten und in einem lichtlosen Raum auf wenigen Quadratmetern zusammenpferchen würde, wenn ich Ihnen wie den Schweinen im Stall unserer Fleischfabriken die Eckzähne herausbräche, damit Sie Ihren Platznachbarn nicht totbeißen können, und wenn ich Sie dann mit genmanipuliertem Billigfraß und Wachstumshormonen in Blitzgeschwindigkeit bis zur Schlachtreife hochmästen würde, die nebenbei bemerkt viele der Anwesenden hier im Saal schon längst überschritten haben, dann ist es klar, dass mein Massenmenschschlachtungs-Geschäftsmodell ohne Einsatz von Schmerzmitteln, Antibiotika, Psychopharmaka und Antiparasitika nicht auskommen könnte, ganz zu schweigen von den Tonnen an Sedativa, damit Sie auf dem Transport zum Schlachthof nicht randalieren, bevor ich Sie dort lebendig in ein Brühbad kippen kann.«

And at this very moment, like a miracle, the rail-bus appeared. We waved our arms frantically, hardly daring to hope that it would stop. It did stop. We scrambled thankfully on board. That is the irony of travel. You spend your boyhood dreaming of a magic, impossibly distant day when you will cross the Equator, when your eyes will behold Quito. And then, in the slow prosaic process of life, that day undramatically dawns—and finds you sleepy, hungry and dull. The Equator is just another valley; you aren’t sure which and you don’t much care. Quito is just another railroad station, with fuss about baggage and taxis and tips. And the only comforting reality, amidst all this picturesque noisy strangeness, is to find a clean pension run by Czech refugees and sit down in a cozy Central European parlor to a lunch of well-cooked Wiener Schnitzel.

„Als ich und meine Kollegen begriffen, dass sich das Phänomen Kannibalismus hier bereits etabliert hatte und nichts mehr dagegen zu unternehmen war, beschlossen wir, uns wenigstens um die kulinarische Seite der Angelegenheit zu kümmern. Und da erinnerte sich einer von uns daran, wie in Korea Hunde zubereitet werden: Man steckt sie lebend in einen Sack und schlägt sie mit Prügeln tot. Das Fleisch gewinnt dadurch an Qualität. Es wird weich und zart. Was für den einen multiple Hämatome sind, ist für den anderen sozusagen ein geklopftes Schnitzel. Also nehmt es uns bitte nicht übel. Ich könnte mir ja durchaus vorstellen, zuerst den Exitus herbeizuführen und dann prügeln zu lassen, aber leider sind innere Blutungen ein absolutes Muss. Rezept ist Rezept.«

You'll come with me to Vienna, of course," I said. It wasn't a question. Käthe blinked, surprised by my sudden turn in conversation. "What?" "You'll be coming with me to Vienna," I repeated. "Won't you?" "Liesl," she said, eyes shining with tears. "Are you sure?" "Of course I'm sure," I said. "It'll be just like the Ideal Imaginary." She laughed again, and the sound was as pure as a spring morning. The what-if games my little sister and I had played as girls had been ways to pass the time, a space we created untouched by the grime and grief of ordinary drudgery. A world where we were princesses and queens, a world as beautiful and as magical as any my brother and I had made together. "Just imagine, Käthe." I took her hand mine. "Bonbons and handsome swains waiting on us hand and foot." She giggled. "And all the silks and velvets and brocades to dress ourselves in!" "An invitation to a different ball every night!" "Masques and operas and parties and dancing!" "Schnitzel and Apfelstrudel and Turkish coffee!" "Don't forget the chocolate torte," Käthe added. "It's your favorite." I laughed, and for a moment, I allowed myself to pretend we were little girls again, when our wants and dreams were as closely entwined as our fingers. "What if," I said softly. "Not a what-if," my sister said fiercely. "A when." "When," I repeated. I could not stop smiling.

walked back to Wood with a Wiener schnitzel on a stick and two Diet Cokes. He sat on the curb next to Wood, handed him a Diet Coke, and said, “For your own good.” “Fuck you very much,” Wood said. “But I suppose you’re right.

For different reasons, pork is also a poor choice in meat. Owing to the pig's omnivorous diet, pork is even more acidifying than other meats. Pork is also very hard on the liver, largely because lard is difficult to digest. Researchers in Canada have established a close link between cirrhosis of the liver and pork consumption in sixteen countries studied. In countries where pork is consumed together with alcohol (beer and sausage, wine and schnitzel, etc.), the likelihood of liver cirrhosis rises by a factor of 1,000.

(1) Girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes. (2) Wild geese that flew with the moon on their wings. (3) Bright copper kettles. (4) Doorbells and sleighbells and schnitzel with noodles.

Crisp Cumin Chicken Served with Tangy Orange and Avocado Salsa   Serves: 4 Total Cooking Time: 20 min   Ingredients for the salsa: 1 large orange, preferably seedless 1 ripe avocado, preferably firm 1 plum tomato 2 tbsp chopped cilantro   Ingredients for the chicken: Olive oil 11/4 lb (625 g) chicken 1/2 tsp (2 ml) ground cumin Salt and cayenne or black pepper to taste   Method: 1. Salsa: Peel the orange and remove its white pith.  Get rid of the membrane such that only the soft juicy part of the orange is there. Slice the avocado in half and scoop out the soft buttery flesh from the peel. Chop a tomato and remove its seeds. 2. Now mix in the orange, avocado flesh, and tomato in a medium size bowl. To this add the coarsely chopped cilantro. Toss well. Lightly drizzle with oil. Sprinkle a pinch of salt for taste. 3. Cut the chicken into 4 serving-sized pieces. Thinly coat both sides of chicken cutlets with cumin, salt, and pepper. 4. Heat oil in a frying pan and slide in the chicken pieces. Cook until the pieces are lightly golden. Flip the pieces and cook for 3-5 min per side. When the chicken pieces are nicely cooked, remove from heat. Top the chicken pieces with salsa. Best served with naans.   Nutrition information: 34 g protein,11 g fat, 9 g carbohydrates, 4 g fiber, 32 mg calcium, 84 mg sodium, 270 calories.   Back to Table of Contents The Forever Famous Classic Schnitzel   Serves: 6 Total Cooking Time: 35 min   Ingredients: 1/4 teaspoon garlic salt 1/2 cup all-purpose flour 1/4 teaspoon celery salt 1/4 teaspoon paprika 1/4 teaspoon salt 1/8 teaspoon pepper 1 slightly beaten egg 1/2 cup milk 2 to 3 tablespoons cooking oil 6  4-ounce pork sirloin cutlets about 1/2-inch in thickness

you put the you with the thingamabob a schnitzel pretzel with the pizza pocket and xbocket rocket spocket pringles jingles

I take it we like the chef?” She picks up her glass of viognier and swirls it around, sniffing the bouquet. “Girl, I would break that schnitzel in half, but he sure is cute. Did you see those dimples?” She makes the yummy noise again. “He’s lucky I swore off chefs, or I guarantee I’d be making his skinny ass sing tonight!” A disturbing visual of his singing ass pops into my head, momentarily silencing the wolves and leaving the serial killers looking confused. I quickly change the subject.

La vista che si offre allo sguardo dall'alto dei rilievi circostanti è di grande bellezza: migliaia di ville, il vecchio e il nuovo Schloss, la Stiftskirche, l'Opera, i musei e quelli che un tempo erano i parchi reali. Ovunque un'infinità di Höhenrestaurants, sulle cui ampie terrazze la gente di Stoccarda soleva trascorrere le calde sere d'estate, bevendo vino del Neckar o del Reno e ingozzandosi di enormi quantità di cibo: insalate di carne e patate, Schnitzel Holstein, Bodenseefelchen, trote della Foresta Nera, salsicce calde di fegato e sanguinaccio con i crauti, Rehrücken con Preiselbeeren, tournedos in salsa bernese e Dio sa cos'altro, il tutto seguito da una straordinaria scelta di torte farcite, guarnite di panna montata. Se i cittadini di Stoccarda si fossero dati la pena di alzare gli occhi dal piatto, avrebbero visto, tra gli alberi e i cespugli di alloro, la foresta che si stendeva per chilometri e chilometri, e il Neckar che scorreva lento tra i dirupi, i castelli, i pioppeti, le vigne e le antiche città, verso Heidelberg, il Reno e il Mare del Nord.

What happened to you?” Monica accused over a tray of leafy greens. “What?” Joy said. “Nothing.” “Well, that nothing has you eating your salad with a spoon.” Embarrassed, Joy switched utensils, tucking her hair behind her ear and letting her fingers linger there. She grinned again. “I’m just thinking,” she said, poking the lettuce, “about stuff.” “Thinking stuff.” Monica nodded and chewed. “Sounds dangerous.” “Not yet,” Joy chirped. Monica slapped both hands on her tray, “Okay, that’s it— spill.” “What?” “What ‘what?’ Don’t give me ‘what’ and expect me not to ask ‘what?’” Monica pointed her fork at Joy’s nose. “You’ve been a total nut job ever since that night at the Carousel, and what with breaking windows and random notes and skipping off after school, you think I don’t know there’s a ‘what?’” Monica sounded angry, which was her protective-sisterhood thing. Joy tried not to laugh. “Is it drugs?” Monica hissed over her salad. “Because if it’s drugs, so help me, I will beat your sorry pale pink butt from here to next Thursday. I will call your dad, I will call the cops and I will even call Gordon and cancel our date!” “Whoa.” Joy waved a napkin in surrender. “It’s not drugs. No drugs. I swear. Remember? No Stupid,” Joy said, but had to add, “But there is a someone.” “A someone?” “A someone.” “A guy?” Joy rolled her eyes. “Yes, a guy. There’s a guy. I like guys.” Monica pursed her lips. “There’s a guy and you like guys and you met a guy, this Someone-A-Guy?” Joy prodded her lunch, picking at the crust of her sandwich. “There’s a guy and I don’t know what I think about him. I’m just…thinking about him. A lot.” “Mmm,” Monica said noncommittally. “So does this guy have a name?” Joy considered the question. “Yes.” “Yes?” Monica prompted with a wave of speared iceberg lettuce. “And?” “And there’s not much to talk about.” Joy shrugged and took a wide bite of sandwich, filling her mouth. She couldn’t decide whether Indelible was his first name or Ink, but neither sounded particularly normal. As opposed to Gordon Wiener-Schnitzel. Still, it was a subject best avoided. “Uh-huh.” Monica joined Joy in a long bout of chewing. They exchanged glances and evasions like fencing partners until Monica swallowed. “Okay,” she said. “So, this mysterious Someone-A-Guy that you can’t stop thinking about— would I, as your best friend, theoretically speaking, give him a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down?” Two thumbs down, definitely, for mysteryguywhostabbedmeintheeye. Joy swallowed. “He’s not your type,” she said diplomatically. “But he’s your type?” Monica said. “And, what is your type, exactly?” “He’s…” Joy stumbled, trying to find the words. “Exciting. Intellectual. A little sad, which can be sweet.” The flash in her eye inspired her. “He’s an artist.” “An artist?” Monica sneered around cukes. “Please do not tell me that you’re going to go all emo on me. That’s worse than drugs.

Die Asche von Millionen von Menschen verschwindet ja nicht einfach so. Weisst du, dass es zweieinhalb bis viereinhalb Kilogramm Asche pro Mensch sind? Also durchschnittlich dreieinhalb Kilogramm Asche pro ermordeten Juden. Es wurden ja nicht alle Juden verbrannt. Lass es die Hälfte sein. Drei Millionen verbrannte Juden. Das sind, meine Güte, zehneinhalb Millionen Kilogramm Asche. Zehntausendfünfhundert Tonnen Asche. Ich glaube, dass jeder Baum, jeder Grashalm, jede Blume in Deutschland diese Asche aufgenommen hat. Nicht nur die Pflanzen haben die Asche dieser Millionen Menschen über ihrer Wurzeln aufgenommen, auch die Tiere. Sie haben sie mit dem Grass gefressen und beim Trinken aus Bächen runtergeschluckt. Und die Deutschen nehmen die Asche dieser drei Millionen Juden mit jedem Schnitzel, in das sie beissen, mit jedem Schluck Käse, das sie zerkauen, in sich auf. Die Judenvernichtung hat die Juden zu einem Teil der Deutschen gemacht.

For two decades, our escape defined me. It dominated my personality and compelled my every decision. By college, half my life had led up to our escape and the other half was spent reliving it, in churches and retreats where my mother made it a hagiograpihc journey, on college applications where it was a plea, at sleepovers where it was entertainment, and in discussion groups after public viewings of xenophobic melodrama like China Cry and Not Without my Daughter, films about Christian women facing death and escaping to America. Our story was a sacred thread woven into my identity. Sometimes people asked, But don't a lot of Christians live there? or Couldn't your mother just say she was Muslim? It would take me a long time to get over those kinds of questions. They felt like a bad grade, like a criticism of my face and body...Once in an Oklahoma church, a woman said, "Well, I sure do get it. You came for a better life." I thought I'd pass out -- a better life? In Isfahan, we had yellow spray roses, a pool. A glass enclosure shot up through our living room, and inside that was a tree. I had a tree inside my house; I had the papery hand of Morvarid, my friend nanny, a ninety-year-old village woman; I had my grandmother's fruit leather and Hotel Koorosh schnitzels and sour cherries and orchards and a farm - life in Iran was a fairytale. In Oklahoma, we lived in an apartment complex for the destitute and disenfranchised. Life was a big gray parking lot with cigarette butts baking in oil puddles, slick children idling in the beating sun, teachers who couldn't do math. I dedicated my youth and every ounce of my magic to get out of there. A better life? The words lodged in my ear like grit. Gradually, all those retellings felt like pandering. The skeptics drew their conclusions based on details that I had provided them: my childhood dreams of Kit Kats and flawless bananas. My academic ambitions. I thought of how my first retelling was in an asylum office in Italy: how merciless that with the sweat and dust of escape still on our brows, we had to turn our ordeal into a good, persuasive story or risk being sent back. Then, after asylum was secured, we had to relive that story again and again, to earn our place, to calm casual skeptics. Every day of her new life, the refugee is asked to differentiate herself from the opportunist, the economic migrant... Why do the native-born perpetuate this distinction? Why harm the vulnerable with the threat of this stigma? ...To draw a line around a birthright, a privilege. Unlike economic migrants, refugees have no agency; they are no threat. Often, they are so broken, they beg to be remade into the image of the native. As recipients of magnanimity, they can be pitied. But if you are born in the Third World, and you dare to make a move before you are shattered, your dreams are suspicious. You are a carpetbagger, an opportunist, a thief. You are reaching above your station.

I envision a trendy upscale diner, not too expensive, where you can get well-made, beautifully presented homestyle cooking- savory meat loaf, steaks, roasted chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, wiener schnitzel, pie à la mode, little baskets of five different kinds of homemade bread.

...the predominant odors of sauerkraut and schnitzel that had always made me feel a part of my mother's life, the part before she met my father and the brackets of disappointment that marked each side of her mouth had become permanent.

People often speak of algorithms with reverence, with the respect appropriately owed to the sort of scientific or technical development that has changed lives. The reverence and the respect are well justified, but it is important to understand the nature of algorithms and be clear about their limits especially when we compare them to images. One should think of algorithms as recipes, as the way to prepare Wiener schnitzel or, as Michel Serres has suggested, tarte tatin.1 Recipes are helpful, of course, but they are not the thing that the recipes are meant to help you reach. You cannot taste a recipe of Wiener schnitzel or savor a recipe for tarte tatin. Thanks to your mind, you can anticipate the tastes and salivate accordingly, but given a recipe alone, you cannot really savor a nonexistent product. When people think of “uploading or downloading their minds” and becoming immortal, they should realize that their adventure—in the absence of live brains in live organisms—would consist in transferring recipes, and only recipes, to a computer device. Following the argument to its conclusion, they would not gain access to the actual tastes and smells of the real cooking and of the real food.