Sliced Quotes

How many slams in an old screen door? Depends how loud you shut it. How many slices in a bread? Depends how thin you cut it. How much good inside a day? Depends how good you live 'em. How much love inside a friend? Depends how much you give 'em.

Some kids get called 'bundles of joy' or 'slices of heaven' or 'dreams come true.' We got 'the fifty-fourth generation of DNA experiments.' Doesn't have the same warm and fuzzy feel. But maybe I'm oversensitive.

There was anger, occasionally. Sharp, hot anger that sliced her. But most of the time it was silence. Ringing, droning silence. She hadn’t felt anything in months.

Uncertain, she popped out the first of her test cakes, sliced off a corner, and offered it to him. Fort picked it up between the sides of his hands. He inspected it. Sniffed it. Tried it. Then cried. This type of response will send any artist into a panic. Tears wash away the middle ground - all the infinite permutations of mediocre are eliminated, and two options remain: one sublime, the other catastrophic. For a moment, both interpretations existed in a kind of quantum state for Tress. And people wonder why artists so often abuse drink.

The next dish arrived, a small bowl of morels cooked in brown butter served with maitake mushroom broth, complex and unctuous. The morels were harvested the year before, pickled and preserved, and served with a hand-carved appetizer fork. The concentration of flavor brought images of the woods to her mind, from the mossy forest floor to the tree canopy high above. This dish was followed by marigold flowers fried in an incredibly light tempura and then salted, served with an egg yolk dipping sauce. Then walnut "tofu," surrounded by grilled rose petals, topped with a sunflower seed mole, herbs, and tiny flowers, and a caramelized milk tart stuffed with cheese and thinly sliced black truffles, the flavor nutty and savory. "That's better than sex," Cassie overheard Eamon say from across the table, eyes closed and head back in rapture.

Then they were served a small beeswax cup filled with flowers and crunchy bee pollen, followed by a presentation of a large shawarma, or at least what looked like a shawarma, adorned with roasted onions and rosemary, cut tableside. Pia explained that it was not made from lamb or chicken, as is traditional, but instead from celery root and truffles, before it was cooked on a spit for hours. One of the chefs used a large knife to slice off thin pieces of the "meat," plating it with greens, roasted apple, and red currants, before smothering the plate in a brown "jus." Cassie cut off a small bite and was surprised by how much it tasted like meat. It was earthy, salty, sweet, rich, and incredibly delicious. "Well, this is way better than the shawarma cart in my neighborhood," said Rebecca, practically licking her plate. "No kidding," agreed Ben, soaking up the jus with a fat slice of sourdough bread.

Mystery INSTANTLY Frank grabbed the steering wheel held by his brother. He twisted it violently and pulled out the throttle at the same time. For a moment the Sleuth banked hard and balanced on her side, while the huge tilting sails hovered overhead! One-two-three-four-dark sailboat hulls sliced safely across the speedboat’s boiling wake as she shot outward into the bay. “Wow! That last one only missed us by a foot!” Biff exclaimed. “Oh, boy, let’s not do that again!” Chet said shakily. “You okay, Joe?” Frank asked as he slid back to his side of the boat. “Yes, thanks to you!

Grief can be a sneaky little bitch like that, cutting your heart open in the most unlikely places, and each slice as fresh as the first.

Waiters carried trays of Campari spritz cocktails that looked like glowing red orbs, served with slices of fresh orange, and guests nibbled on canapés as they visited the different tables covered in decadent displays: seafood towers filled with shrimp, snow crab, oysters, clams, and freshly boiled langoustine tails, six large copper pots filled with different kinds of risotto simmering at a low temperature, intricate, multicolored stained-glass raviolis stuffed with smoked salmon and cream cheese, and a bread display that looked like an abstract sculpture.

Listen. I’m a celebrity. I’m very used to asymmetry, to meeting someone for the first time when I know nothing about them, but they … but I’m a huge part of their lives, I’m someone they’ve loved, and been shaped by, and, you know, if you pie-charted their brain, their life, I’m a huge slice of it, while they’re nowhere in mine.” 9A: “Yeah. I guess it would happen a lot.” Sniper: “But they’re not nowhere in mine, not really. Because I love that I’m loved. Even if I don’t know the specific person, still that unknown, that”—quick smile—“anonymous love, knowing it’s out there, that’s a huge part of my pie chart. A huge part of my me. So, people I’ve never met are extremely important to me, the ones who care about me the way you do. Who love me. And I think that’s perfectly natural, that everyone has relationships with people far away, who inspire, entertain, role models, and also the people we work so hard for: fans, viewers, the next generation, kids somewhere, posterity. I think those asymmetrical relationships are part of what it means to be human, part of the teamwork. Humanity is teamwork. And the asymmetry doesn’t for a second make those relationships any less valid, or less important, or less real.