Spicy Girl Quotes

I don’t mind hot and spicy. Actually find that appealing in a girl. And chicken wings.

I stared at the doors and rewound the evening wondering how I got myself in this latest predicament. Without lemon drops to blame (I had diet with my spicy beef burrito), I could only blame the power tools. Now what normal girl got turned on by power tools? I was so weird!

You crazy girl,” Angela said. “Other people name their children after their best friends. I am going to name my ulcer after you! I am going to be forced to drink milk and take antacids and abstain from spicy food, and every time I want Indian takeout I will shake my fist at the sky and shout, ‘Damn you, Kami.’ Don’t ever do that again.

James dropped Cordelia’s hands. They were no longer dancing. James turned away from Cordelia without a word and strode across the room toward the newcomers. She stood, frozen in confusion, as James bent to kiss the hand of the stunningly beautiful girl who had just walked into the room. Titters rose on the dance floor. Lucie had stepped back from Matthew, her eyes wide. Alastair and Thomas both turned to look at Cordelia with expressions of surprise. At any moment, Cordelia knew, her mother would notice that she was drifting in the middle of the dance floor like an abandoned tugboat and charge toward her, and then Cordelia would die. She would die of the humiliation. Cordelia was scanning the room for the nearest exit, ready to flee, when a hand grasped her arm. She was spun around and into an expert grip: a moment later she was dancing again, her feet automatically following her partner’s. “That’s right.” It was Matthew Fairchild. Fair hair, spicy cologne, a blur of a smile. His hands were gentle as he swept her back into the waltz. “Just—try to smile, and no one will notice anything happened. James and I are practically interchangeable in the public consciousness anyway.” “James—left,” Cordelia said, in shock. “I know,” said Matthew. “Very bad form. One should not leave a lady on the dance floor unless something is actually on fire. I’ll have a word.” “A word,” Cordelia echoed. She was beginning to feel less stunned and more angry. “A word?” “Several words, if it will make you feel better?

I don’t mind hot and spicy. Actually find that appealing in a girl … And chicken wings.” Rylann turned her head and stared at him. “Did you really just compare me to chicken wings?” “You say that like it’s a bad thing. Chicken wings are the bomb.

A plate of roast duck, steamed dumplings, spicy noodles with beef gravy, pickled cucumbers, stewed tongue and eggs if you have them, cold please, and sticky rice pearls, too,' Ai Ling said, before the server girl could open her mouth. "I don't know what he wants." Ai Ling nodded toward Chen Yong. 'I'm not sure I have enough coins to order anything more,' he said, laughing.

What a face this girl possessed!—could I not gaze at it every day I would need to recreate it through painting, sculpture, or fatherhood until a second such face is born. Her face, at once innocent and feral, soft and wild! Her mouth voluptuous. Eyes deep as oceans, her eyes as wide as planets. I likened her to the slender Psyché and judged that the perfection of her face ennobled everything unclean around her: the dusty hems of her bunched-up skirt, the worn straps of her nightshirt; the blackened soles of her tiny bare feet, the coal-stained balcony bricks upon which she sat, and that dusty wrought-ironwork that framed her perch. All this and the pungent air!—almost foul, with so many odors. Ô, that and the spicy night! …Pungency, spice, filth and night, dust and light; all things dark did blossom in sight; flower and bloom, the night has its pearl too—the moon! And once a month it will make the face of this tender girl bloom.

What every girl should know: Your vagina is disgusting. It smells like the underside of a kangaroo pouch and he doesn't want to touch you because of the grossness. But thankfully, NEW brand douche, perfected by a leading gynecologist, gently cleanses and refreshes, making you feel feminine and special. Because what's more special than a vage filled with vinegar and chemical daisies? Also available in SPICY CINNAMON TACO, for the girl adventurer.

Xav sprinkled olive oil on his lettuce. 'Lola was very particular that it all had to fit properly.' 'Lola?' squeaked Diamond. I wanted to warn her not to rise to the bait Xav was dangling in front of her but it was too late. Xav added some Parmesan and pepper. 'Suspicious, Diamond? You should be. This is a bachelor party I'm organizing, not a school outing, and it is going to tick all of Trace's boxes. Lola is either a very efficient water sports instructor or an exotic dancing girl; I'll leave it your imagination.' I rolled my eyes at Diamond. 'Myabe she's both. I mean the guys will really go for that, I guess. Don't worry,Di, Luigi and his crew will not disappoint us girls.' Luigi was in fact Contessa Nicoletta's little bespectacled chef with whom I had been consulting about the menu for Friday, but the Benedicts weren't to know that. 'He has promised to provide something suitably spicy for our tastes.

Brooke stared in surprise. “You brought me lunch?” “I was in the neighborhood.” She checked out the label on the bag. “DMK is twenty minutes from here.” “I was in that neighborhood, and now I’m here,” he said in exasperation. “Seriously, woman, you are impossible to feed.” He strode over and set the bag on her desk. “One cheeseburger with spicy chipotle ketchup and a side of sweet potato fries—chosen specifically for a certain spicy and sweet girl I know—and a green dill pickle for your eyes. So there.” He crossed his arms over his chest. Brooke studied him. “You seem very ornery right now.” “As a matter of fact, I am.” “Why?” “I don’t know,” he huffed. “Just . . . eat your Brooke Burger. Stop asking so many questions. Sometimes a guy just wants to buy a girl lunch. Any objections to that? Good. Enjoy your Sunday, Ms. Parker.” He strode out of her office, gone as quickly as he’d appeared. Brooke stared at the doorway and blinked.

Oh God,” I gasped. The burn of his mouth on me was so deliciously wrong. “I knew you could be a good girl,” he crooned.

Now be a good girl and keep that pretty mouth quiet before I find use for it somewhere else.

I lower my chin to smell the shirt again. I want to wear this forever, without washing it. His dark, spicy aroma consumes the material. I peek at him from the corner of my eye, wondering if he spots me catching a whiff or if he knows how addicting his scent is to girls.

In the course of my life I have had pre-pubescent ballerinas; emaciated duchesses, dolorous and forever tired, melomaniac and morphine-sodden; bankers' wives with eyes hollower than those of suburban streetwalkers; music-hall chorus girls who tip creosote into their Roederer when getting drunk... I have even had the awkward androgynes, the unsexed dishes of the day of the *tables d'hote* of Montmartre. Like any vulgar follower of fashion, like any member of the herd, I have made love to bony and improbably slender little girls, frightened and macabre, spiced with carbolic and peppered with chlorotic make-up. Like an imbecile, I have believed in the mouths of prey and sacrificial victims. Like a simpleton, I have believed in the large lewd eyes of a ragged heap of sickly little creatures: alcoholic and cynical shop girls and whores. The profundity of their eyes and the mystery of their mouths... the jewellers of some and the manicurists of others furnish them with *eaux de toilette*, with soaps and rouges. And Fanny the etheromaniac, rising every morning for a measured dose of cola and coca, does not put ether only on her handkerchief. It is all fakery and self-advertisement - *truquage and battage*, as their vile argot has it. Their phosphorescent rottenness, their emaciated fervour, their Lesbian blight, their shop-sign vices set up to arouse their clients, to excite the perversity of young and old men alike in the sickness of perverse tastes! All of it can sparkle and catch fire only at the hour when the gas is lit in the corridors of the music-halls and the crude nickel-plated decor of the bars. Beneath the cerise three-ply collars of the night-prowlers, as beneath the bulging silks of the cyclist, the whole seductive display of passionate pallor, of knowing depravity, of exhausted and sensual anaemia - all the charm of spicy flowers celebrated in the writings of Paul Bourget and Maurice Barres - is nothing but a role carefully learned and rehearsed a hundred times over. It is a chapter of the MANCHON DE FRANCINE read over and over again, swotted up and acted out by ingenious barnstormers, fully conscious of the squalid salacity of the male of the species, and knowledgeable in the means of starting up the broken-down engines of their customers. To think that I also have loved these maleficent and sick little beasts, these fake Primaveras, these discounted Jocondes, the whole hundred-franc stock-in-trade of Leonardos and Botticellis from the workshops of painters and the drinking-dens of aesthetes, these flowers mounted on a brass thread in Montparnasse and Levallois-Perret! And the odious and tiresome travesty - the corsetted torso slapped on top of heron's legs, painful to behold, the ugly features primed by boulevard boxes, the fake Dresden of Nina Grandiere retouched from a medicine bottle, complaining and spectral at the same time - of Mademoiselle Guilbert and her long black gloves!... Have I now had enough of the horror of this nightmare! How have I been able to tolerate it for so long? The fact is that I was then ignorant even of the nature of my sickness. It was latent in me, like a fire smouldering beneath the ashes. I have cherished it since... perhaps since early childhood, for it must always have been in me, although I did not know it!

I took the jar of weed from its hiding place and started rolling a joint. I’d been smoking marijuana since university. I first encountered it during my first term, alone and friendless at a fresher party, too paralyzed with fear to initiate a conversation with any of the good-looking and confident young people around me. I was planning my escape when the girl standing next to me offered me something. I thought it was a cigarette until I smelled the spicy, pungent, curling black smoke. Too shy to refuse, I accepted it and brought the joint to my lips. It was badly rolled and coming unstuck, unraveling at the end. The tip was wet and stained red from her lipstick. It tasted different from a cigarette; it was richer, rawer, more exotic.

With their purchases in boxes the girls strolled down the street to a Spanish restaurant. Here they ate a delicious lunch of tacos and spicy chili. For dessert they had iced fresh fruit. Bess sighed. “Umm, that was super.” Afterward, they walked to a wide street beside a park where an outdoor painting exhibition was being held. The group stopped now and then to admire and compliment the artists who sat beside their work.

The usual. Soft focus, syrupy memories of April and her potential. Sad-faced pictures of her friends and family pondering all they've lost. Anecdotes about punting and May balls and bright futures. And then some spicy detail, just to add a prurient kick to the piece—a hint of scandal, maybe. A student rivalry. A sniff of drugs, or promiscuity, or some other act of disreputable behavior, to give the reader a frisson of disapproval and the safe knowledge that this would never have happened to them.

When it comes to getting down, I look at sex like food, and sensuality is its flavor. Like food, sex can be satiating. It feeds our hunger and nourishes our body—you might even argue we need it to live. But if you think about it, making food delicious to eat and crave-worthy relies on flavor. Flavor is unique to the chef preparing the food and then interpreted by the palate of the taster. A food’s flavor, and thus sensuality, can be simple or it can be sweet or spicy, or it can open up a variety of senses. Everyone is his or her own chef—with diners who crave their dishes.

When we turned off Carmel Valley Road south onto Highway 1 and entered Big Sur, nature woke up and suddenly started doing the can-can. Everywhere I looked, the jagged mountains were tumbling into the sea, like rockslides frozen in free fall—still yet dramatic at the same time. We navigated a thin, winding ribbon of road hundreds of feet above the exploding surf. I rolled the window down, and heard sea lions barking and waves booming into sea caves below. The spicy aroma of sage mixed with sea salt wafted into the truck. We dipped down into forests where the air dropped ten degrees and the massive redwood trees clustered together in tribal circles, then we burst back into the sun again. I twisted my head in every direction, trying not to miss a thing.

Where shall I put…?” A little maid stopped in the doorway, all but hidden behind a large bouquet of bright red carnations. Alas for my heart. Hazlit knew the sentiment associated with red carnations and had had them delivered anyway. He certainly wasn’t going to send the woman roses, for God’s sake. Carnations were durable, and they had a fresh, spicy scent that put Hazlit in mind of his hostess. She didn’t strike him as the type of lady to waste time decoding bouquets in any case. “On the sideboard, Millie.” Miss Windham’s lips turned up in a smile more sweet than any Hazlit had seen on her. “My youngest brother is temporarily returned to Town,” she said, taking the card from the bouquet. “Of all my siblings, Valentine is the one most likely to make the gallant gesture…” She fell silent while she read the card, her smile shifting to something heart-wrenchingly tentative. “This wasn’t necessary, Mr. Hazlit.” Regards, Hazlit. Not exactly poetry, but proof he’d upstaged at least her doting brother. “Perhaps not necessary, but a man can hope his small tokens are appreciated.” He glanced pointedly at the maid while he delivered that flummery, because the girl was lingering over the flowers unnecessarily. “That

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea, There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me; For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say: "Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!" Come you back to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay: Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay ? On the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! 'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat - jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen, An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot, An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot: Bloomin' idol made o' mud Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud! On the road to Mandalay... When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow, She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "Kulla-lo-lo! With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin my cheek We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak. Elephints a-pilin' teak In the sludgy, squdgy creek, Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak! On the road to Mandalay... But that's all shove be'ind me - long ago an' fur away An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay; An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells: "If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else." No! you won't 'eed nothin' else But them spicy garlic smells, An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells; On the road to Mandalay... I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones, An' the blasted English drizzle wakes the fever in my bones; Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand, An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand? Beefy face an' grubby 'and - Law! wot do they understand? I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land! On the road to Mandalay... Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst, Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst; For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea; On the road to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay, With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay! O the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay !

The menu is spectacular. Passed hors d'oeuvres include caramelized shallot tartlets topped with Gorgonzola, cubes of crispy pork belly skewered with fresh fig, espresso cups of chilled corn soup topped with spicy popcorn, mini arepas filled with rare skirt steak and chimichurri and pickle onions, and prawn dumplings with a mango serrano salsa. There is a raw bar set up with three kinds of oysters, and a raclette station where we have a whole wheel of the nutty cheese being melted to order, with baby potatoes, chunks of garlic sausage, spears of fresh fennel, lightly pickled Brussels sprouts, and hunks of sourdough bread to pour it over. When we head up for dinner, we will start with a classic Dover sole amandine with a featherlight spinach flan, followed by a choice of seared veal chops or duck breast, both served with creamy polenta, roasted mushrooms, and lacinato kale. Next is a light salad of butter lettuce with a sharp lemon Dijon vinaigrette, then a cheese course with each table receiving a platter of five cheeses with dried fruits and nuts and three kinds of bread, followed by the panna cottas. Then the cake, and coffee and sweets. And at midnight, chorizo tamales served with scrambled eggs, waffle sticks with chicken fingers and spicy maple butter, candied bacon strips, sausage biscuit sandwiches, and vanilla Greek yogurt parfaits with granola and berries on the "breakfast" buffet, plus cheeseburger sliders, mini Chicago hot dogs, little Chinese take-out containers of pork fried rice and spicy sesame noodles, a macaroni-and-cheese bar, and little stuffed pizzas on the "snack food" buffet. There will also be tiny four-ounce milk bottles filled with either vanilla malted milk shakes, root beer floats made with hard root beer, Bloody Marys, or mimosas.

A Mediterranean flatbread, the pita is baked at a high temperature so that puffy pockets form in the middle, which can then be stuffed with meat or beans. He did the same thing that Secretary Girl did with her turtle burger bun... ... picking something that would keep the meat juices from dripping out the bottom! Hmm. You used a handmade Tzatziki sauce to ameliorate the smelliness of the kebab meat and to create a mild base to make the spices stand out. And the burger patty... ... is kofta! A Middle Eastern meatloaf of ground beef and lamb mixed with onions and plentiful spices, its highly fragrant aroma hits the nose hard! Its scent and umami flavor are powerful enough to bring tears to the eyes!" W-what is going on here?! How could they eat all that greasy, heavy meat so quickly and easily?! "Here. Let me give you a lesson. Four things are required for a good burger. A bun, a patty, some kind of sauce and... ...pickles. The sharp smell and tart flavor of pickles is what highlights the meaty umami of the patty. Pickles are a hidden but key component of the best burgers! From what I could tell, you used ginger sticks as your pickle analogue... ... but that was a weak choice." "What?! Then what did you choose that's so much better?!" "The pickle type that I picked for my burger... ...is achaar." "Achaar?" "What kind of pickle is that?" ACHAAR South Asian in origin, achaar consists of fruits or vegetables pickled in mustard oil or brine, and then mixed with a variety of spices. Sometimes called Indian pickles, achaar is strongly tart and spicy. This is achaar I made with onions. The spicy scent of the mustard oil makes the meaty umami of the kofta patty really stands out. For the tartness, I used amchoor- also known as mango powder- a citrusy powder made from dried unripe mangoes. But that's just the base. I added lemon juice to bolster the citrusy flavor of the amchoor... ... and then some garlic, ginger and chili peppers to give it an aroma that tickles the nose. Cloves. Cumin seeds. Black pepper. Paprika. I even added a dab of honey to give it a hint of sweetness.

Breastfeeding mothers’ diet to escape allergies and colic. No babies in my closest family had allergies, gases or colic. I think that is to the result of a mother’s diet we recommend from generation to generation. We do not eat any gas-forming foods like broccoli or cabbage, and we avoid allergens like red fruits. I did, however, drink a lot of milk, which can cause gases. In addition, and contradicting advice on how to stay fit after birth, I ate tons of butter. It was an obsession during that time, for I do not usually consume dairy that much. It did not cause digestion problems for my baby, but it made my milk really thick. She got nice cheeks. I think my body knew more about needs of the baby than my brain. In general, I ate meat and neutral vegetables–no sweets, no soda, and not much shell fish. It may seem difficult to limit yourself to certain kinds of food, but it is not at all. Eat steaks with sweet potato, spring beans, or salad. It is tasty, balanced and quite habitual for many Americans. Sometimes mothers do have to give up some food preferences for several months to help their babies grow healthy and feel good. My cousin, a Korean girl, continued to eat spicy food during breastfeeding. It was not good for my newborn niece, who had an allergic reaction all over her face and body and was scratching herself badly. She had red spots all over.

You crazy girl. Other people name their children after their best friends. I am going to name my ulcer after you! I am going to be forced to drink milk and take antacids and abstain from spicy food, and every time I want Indian takeout I will shake my fist at the sky and shout, 'Damn you, Kami.' Don't ever do that again.

Steve loved the Singapore Zoo and always considered it a sister zoo to our own. Bindi and I enjoyed being in Singapore with Steve, because he had spent so much time in Southeast Asia and really knew his way around. Every morning Steve would head out into the streets of Singapore and discover a new and yummy local curry for breakfast. Bindi watched her daddy carefully. She would eat her mild curry while Steve ate his spicy one. She followed along with everything that he did. One morning at the hotel, Bindi came out in her pajamas while I was trying to get her dressed. She was halfway there and was prancing around in her little pajama top, with no bottoms. Suddenly she spotted the tea set in the room and decided to make tea. I helped her out. She made green tea for all of us, carefully poured it, and took it over to Steve with a big smile, bare bottom and all. “When was the last time you had a girl with no underpants fix you tea?” I asked Steve, laughing. Without missing a beat, Steve said, “The last time I was in Singapore.” “You’re a dag,” I said, knowing that the last time Steve was in Singapore was before we were married. Bindi didn’t get the joke, but Steve and I laughed and laughed.

I don’t know,” Tex said. “Maybe I want the girl who can make Spicy Mexican Chocolate cookies.

The servant girl presented her with slivers of spicy fowl roasted in cumin and jife nuts; fluffy barley cakes stuffed with yam, currants, and hekeh seeds; gingered lamb and tamban patties in rich gravy; and more.

He put one of his heavy crystal perfume bottles into her hand. A big one with an old-fashioned silk puffer spray. She looked at the label and saw it wasn't the one she'd sprayed on her wrist, but the first cap she'd smelled and hadn't liked so much. It was called the Darkest Hour. "I know you like Half Past Eight more," said Guy. "You think you're not a spicy-orientals girl, with your Celtic blood and your dry skin; I read your blog, I know about your fetish for chypre fragrances. It's the oakmoss and patchouli combo alongside the burned lemon you're responding to in Half Past Eight." Polly had to laugh. "Bang to rights," she said. "Halfway to chypre paradise...

Flavors are much more intense for people these days, so some of the old recipes don't stand up the way they used to. Think about what people are eating now, all kinds of hot sauces and spicy foods. Intensely spiced global cuisines. Bitter kale instead of buttery spinach, funky goat cheese instead of mild cheddar." He tilts his head at me, pondering. "So what you are saying is that because people are much more exposed to these things, the original recipes taste different to them?" "Exactly! Sriracha is as common as ketchup in most houses these days, so people's palates are used to more oomph in their flavors. Think about how it all used to be basic caramel, and now salted caramel is everywhere! When I was a kid it was all about milk chocolate, and now the darker and more intense the better.

You do seem to get on well with her, but I have an advantage, my lord. One you will never be able to compete with.” “An advantage?” “Yes.” Emmie said, feeling a little sorry for him, because he really would not be able to argue the point much further. “I am a female, you see. A girl. Well, a grown woman, but I was a girl, as Bronwyn is.” “You are a female?” The earl looked her up and down, and Emmie felt herself blushing. It was a thorough and thoroughly dispassionate perusal. “Why so you are, but how does this make yours the better guidance?” “There are certain things, my lord…” Emmie felt her blush deepening but refused to capitulate to embarrassment. “Things a lady knows a gentleman will not, things somebody must pass along to a little girl in due course if she’s to manage in this life.” “Things.” The earl’s brow knit. “Things like childbirth, perhaps?” Emmie swallowed, resenting his bluntness even while she admired him for it. “Well, yes. I doubt you’ve given birth, my lord.” “Have you?” he countered, peering down at her. “That is not the point.” “So no advantage to you there, particularly as I have attended a birth or two in my time, and I doubt you’ve managed that either.” “Why on earth would…?” Emmie’s mouth snapped shut before she could ask the obvious, rude, burning question. “I was a soldier,” he said gently. “And war is very hard on soldiers, but even harder on women and children, Miss Farnum. A woman giving birth in a war zone is generally willing to accept the assistance of whomever is to hand, regardless of standing, gender, or even what uniform he wears.” “So you’ve a little experience, but you aren’t going to tell me you’re familiar with the details of a lady’s bodily… well, that is to say. Well.” “Her menses?” The earl looked amused again. “You might have some greater degree of familiarity than I. I will grant that much, but as a man with five sisters, I am far more knowledgeable and sympathetic regarding female lunation than I had ever aspired to be. And surely, these matters you raise—childbirth and courses—they are a ways off for Miss Winnie?” “Bronwyn,” Emmie muttered. Standing so close to him, she could catch the earl’s scent, and it managed to combine both elegance and barbarism. It was spicy rather than floral, but also fresh, like meadows and breezes and cold, fast-running streams. “She answers to Winnie,” he said, “and she got away from you.” “She did.

Red lentil soup, although quite seductive in scent, is as simple to make as its name suggests. Marjan preferred to boil her lentils before frying the chopped onions, garlic, and spices with some good, strong olive oil. Covering the ready broth, lentils, and onions, she would then allow the luscious soup to simmer for half an hour or so, as the spices embedded themselves into the compliant onion skins. In the recipe book filed away in her head, Marjan always made sure to place a particular emphasis on the soup's spices. Cumin added the aroma of afternoon lovemaking to the mixture, but it was another spice that had the greatest tantric effect on the innocent soup drinker: 'siah daneh'- love in the midst- or nigella seed. This modest little pod, when crushed open by mortar and pestle, or when steamed in dishes such as this lentil soup, excites a spicy energy that hibernates in the human spleen. Unleashed, it burns forever with the unbound desire of an unrequited lover. So powerful is nigella in its heat that the spice should not be taken by pregnant women, for fear of early labor. Indigenous to the Middle and Near Easts of the girls' past lives, nigella is rarely used in Western recipes, its ability to soothe heartburn and abolish fatigue quite overlooked.

I wish Fin didn’t have such a fondness for low-cut blouses. “Could you put those things away?” I say crossly, waving a hand at her boobs. “They’re almost in my salsa.” I grab the dish of salsa out from under her hovering breasts, take a tortilla chip from a basket in the center of the table, and dunk the chip into the sauce. Then I pop it into my mouth, enjoying the spicy, satisfying crunch. Fin smiles serenely at me. “I know this is hard for you to understand, B Cups, but the girls need air.” “What they need is scaffolding.

I hand round the chocolates, and we all pick out our favorite. Nadia takes the Spicy Ginger one, infused with fresh grated ginger. A great chocolate for winter mornings with a strong cup of coffee. Autumn's next and she takes her time as she chooses the English Rose: a delicate classic flavor which Clive makes to perfection, filled with a ganache infused with distilled rose petals---bliss. Chantal selects the Earl Grey Tea with its distinctive bergamot flavor which releases in delicious waves, leaving a long, slow aftertaste, making it feel like two chocolates for the price of one. Now it's my turn. What shall I go for? As always, I'm spoiled for choice. My hand hovers over them---every single one loved and desired. Lemon and Thyme? Szechuan Pepper? I settle on one of the specialties of the house---Sea-Salted Caramel. Snuggling back down into Clive's cushions, I pause for a moment and enjoy the buzz of anticipation. Then I pop the chocolate into my mouth, savoring the soft, chewy texture of the caramel and the creaminess of the milk chocolate, until Clive's perfect twist kicks in and the taste of the unrefined sea salt from Brittany cuts through. The caramel melts deliciously in my mouth. Now, I truly am in Chocolate Heaven and I sigh with pleasure. Forget diamonds. Chocolate, I think you'll find, is a girl's best friend.

You could not have known he was going to leave Spicy Brunette at the altar for Cute Blondie unless you'd seen this before. I think I've been played," Benny huffs as he finishes off the last fry. "Think about what you're saying, Ben Kenobi. Spicy versus cute. We're never supposed to like the spicy woman in movies, not for the romantic hero to end up with. He's supposed to go with the aw-shucks, girl-next-door type who was right in front of his face all along. Spicy gal never had a chance, bless her heart." He scrunches his nose, mulling this over. "Then I have a dilemma, see," he says, and his feigned thoughtfulness makes me smirk. "Oh, do you?" "Yeah, because what if I'm into this girl who's cute but also spicy? Is she too good to be true? Can I really have one or the other?

About a mile beyond Tumbleweed he parked in a grove of willow trees beside a narrow stream. The grounds were set with many long wooden tables and benches, and overhead were strings of small electric lights. “Come on, gals,” said Tex. “We’re goin’ to put on a big feed!” He led them toward a long serving table. Four men passed by, each carrying a shovel bearing a big burlap-wrapped package. These were dumped onto the table. “There goes the meat,” said Bud. “It’s been buried in the barbecue pit since last night.” “Cookin’ nice an’ slow over hot stones,” Tex added. “When the burlap fell away, the fragrance of the steaming meat was irresistible. All the girls enjoyed generous servings, with a spicy relish and potato salad. By the time they had finished their desserts of ice cream and Nancy’s chocolate cake, the colored lights overhead came on. A stout middle-aged man mounted the dance platform in the center of the grove and announced that he was master of ceremonies. Seeing Bud’s guitar, he called on him for some cowboy songs. Bud played “I’m a Lonesome Cowboy,” and everyone joined in enthusiastically. He followed with a number of other old favorites. Finally he strummed some Gold Rush songs, including “Sweet Betsy from Pike.

The girl was almost nude! Miserably she tried to cover her sketchily brassiered breasts with her forearms. Her only other garment consisted of a sheer mesh step-in which clung to her hips with shy intimacy. Her body was a series of lilting feminine curves and creamy contours—curves and contours which set Frisco Freddie’s blood leaping up toward the boiling-point in his hammering veins.

Kacchan... hmm, he's a complete slut for really deadly spicy sauce. Tell him you accidentally bought some and binned it, and half an hour later you'll find him desperately searching through the rubbish.

Just what is your favorite subject, fetița mea picantă, my spicy girl?” he asked her. She was just taking a drink when he sent her the thoughts and she nearly spewed it out of her mouth. “Are you okay, Jacquelyn?” Fane asked her, his voice sounding a little too innocent. She glared at him as she answered, “Fine, thank you.” “I will have you know that I prefer contact sports to classes. I find that a little physical violence is good for the soul,” Jacque returned with a smirk. “Like I said, you’re fetița mea picantă.” Fane ran his tongue across his bottom lip as his gaze held hers.

There was a burly chap standing on the low platform, giving the spiel, in a pretty rough delivery. He had tight yellow curls, the colour of cheap lemonade but turning grey, and a big red face, with a splay nose, and very dark red lips. The ears didn’t seem exactly opposite one another. On the chap’s left a girl lay spread out facing us in an upright canvas chair, as faded and battered as everything else in the outfit. She was dressed up like a French chorus, in a tight and shiny black thing, cut low, and black fishnet stockings, and those shiny black shoes with super high heels that many men go for in such a big way. But the effect was not particularly sexy, all the same. The different bits of costume had all seen better days, like everything else, and the girl herself looked more sick than spicy.

page 46 "Good girl" That's far enough. I let go of her chin and get up.

Oh my gawd!” Dawn squealed, walking down the hallway with Jules filling her in on the night before. For a woman almost in her 50s, she sure had some energy and pep. Sometimes she sounded like a schoolgirl. “Shh!” Jules reached over, tugging on Dawn’s arm as they walked down the hall. “Don’t tell the whole world,” she chuckled. “Is it normal to feel like this? I mean, I get horny just thinking about it!” Jules whispered even more quietly. “Hot damn, girl!” Dawn was the first to grab their usual corner table in the breakroom. “Whaddya mean is it normal? To crave—” Her voice got church mouse quiet, “—sex?” “Honey, yes with a capital Y. It is if it’s that good!” Dawn replied. “Lord, have you not felt this way ever before?” she asked, her eyes widening in disbelief. Jules shook her head no. “But you know what keeps it so hot for me, Dawn? That I feel completely in control of the situation. I had him come over, we hung out and had fun, and I screwed him.” She said that part with a big grin. “I even wanted him to leave afterwards, and I have no desire to pursue it any further!” She didn’t believe herself, but hoped if she kept repeating this thought her feelings would soon follow.

Red and white wine (TBD) Victory Brewing Company Prima Pilsner Soft pretzel bread/spicy mustard sauce Cheesesteak arancini/homemade marinara sauce Deconstructed pork sandwich: braised pork belly, sautéed broccoli rabe, provolone bread pudding Lemon water ice Commissary carrot cake I'm particularly proud of my riff on the pork sandwich, one of Philadelphia's lesser-known specialties. Everyone presupposes the cheesesteak is Philadelphia's best sandwich, when, in fact, my favorite has always been the roast pork. Juicy, garlicky slices of pork are layered with broccoli rabe and sharp provolone on a fresh roll, the rich juices soaking into the soft bread while the crunchy crust acts like a torpedo shell, keeping everything inside. The flavors explode in your mouth in each bite: the bitter broccoli rabe, the assertive cheese, the combination of garlic and spices and tender pork.

Nesta gave you this?' Technically, Nesta had informed him, the House had given it to her. But she'd asked the House for these items, intending them to be brought here. 'She said it's a gift.' Emerie picked up a brass tin, pried open the top, and inhaled. The smoky, velvety scent of tea leaves floated out. 'Oh, this is good stuff.' She lifted a glass vial of finely ground powder. When she twisted the lid off, a nutty, spicy scent filled the shop. 'Cumin.' Her sigh was like a lover's. She moved to another and another, six glass containers in total. 'Turmeric, cinnamon, allspice, cloves, and...' She peered at the label. 'Black pepper.' Cassian laid the last container on the table, a large marble box that weighed at least two pounds. Emerie yanked off the lid and let out a laugh. 'Salt.' She pinched the flaky crystal between her fingers. 'A lot of salt.' Her eyes shone as a rare smile flitted across her face. It made her look younger, wiped away the weight and scars of all those years with her father. 'Please tell her I say thank you.' He cleared his throat, remembering the speech Nesta had drilled into him. 'Nesta says you can thank her by showing up to training tomorrow morning.' Emerie's smile wavered. 'I told her the other day: I have no means to attend.' 'She thought you'd say that. If you want to come, send word, and one of us will bring you.' It'd have to be Rhys, but he doubted his brother would object. 'If you can't stay the full time, that's fine. Come for an hour, before your shop opens.' Emerie's fingers fell away from the spices and tea. 'It's not the right time.' Cassian knew better than to push. 'If you ever change your mind, let us know.' He turned from the counter, aiming for the door. He knew Nesta had given the gift in part to tempt Emerie to join, but also from the kindness of her heart. He'd asked why she was sending these items, and she'd said, 'Emerie needs spices and good tea.' It had stunned him, just as it had stunned him earlier to hear her admit that she liked Gwyn. Nesta around Gwyn was a wholly different creature than who she was with the court. They didn't tease or laugh with each other, but an easiness lay between them that he'd never witnessed, even when Nesta was with Elain. She'd always been Elain's guardian, or Feyre's sister, or Cauldron-Made. With Gwyn... he wondered whether Nesta liked the girl because with her, she was simply Nesta. Perhaps she felt that way around Emerie, too. Had she gone into Velaris, night after night, not only to distract and numb herself, but to be around people who didn't know the weight of all she carried?

He plunged headlong into the tangle, hacking right and left with his curved blade. He saw the red-haired girl huddled in a narrow passageway between two houses. Her garments had been torn to shreds, and her flesh was raked and bruised. She was scrambling to her feet, still clutching the short dagger that had cut down a bandit. But before she could kick clear of her dead captor, another raider saw her and closed in.

The prison restaurant, just outside the barbed wire, is a big local draw, both for the built-in gimmick of being staffed by prisoners, as part of their culinary training, and for the quality of the food. Today there’s a popular local TV show filming here, interviewing officers stationed by the ladies’ room and hungry patrons devouring noodles. At the table, doily place mats, quilted pink menus, and matching pink chopstick holders mark each seat. Waitresses in pink dresses, sporting those same affectless looks I’d faced all day, take our order and place spicy papaya salad and pad thai before us. Next door the gift shop sells prisoner-made goods and also doubles as a massage parlor. Rifling through pillows, place mats, and purses embroidered with little Thai girls at the playground, trying to determine if making purchases would constitute supporting the prison system or, instead, the efforts to reform it, I spy one more framed royal photo. There’s the king’s nephew, pants rolled up, enjoying a foot massage from an incarcerated trainee.

What a good fucking girl,” I tell her as I pull out and slam back in, filling her. “I think you deserve something for good behavior, don’t you agree?