Tea And Biscuits Quotes

We can't sit around discussing pure evil without tea and biscuits, Iz. It's just not done.

In Britain, a cup of tea is the answer to every problem. Fallen off your bicycle? Nice cup of tea. Your house has been destroyed by a meteorite? Nice cup of tea and a biscuit. Your entire family has been eaten by a Tyrannosaurus Rex that has travelled through a space/time portal? Nice cup of tea and a piece of cake. Possibly a savoury option would be welcome here too, for example a Scotch egg or a sausage roll.

Sister Mary chose that moment to come in with the tea. Satanist or not, she'd also found a plate and arranged some iced biscuits on it.

realized that such small gestures – the way his mother had made me a cup of tea after our meal without asking, remembering that I didn’t take sugar, the way Laura had placed two little biscuits on the saucer when she brought me coffee in the salon – such things could mean so much.

For tea she went down to see Misses Spink and Forcible. She had three digestive biscuits, a glass of limeade, and a cup of weak tea. The limeade was very interesting. It didn't taste anything like limes. It tasted bright green and vaguely chemical. Coraline liked it enormously. She wished they had it at home. "How are your dear mother and father?" asked Miss Spink. "Missing," said Coraline. "I haven't seen either of them since yesterday. I'm on my own. I think I've probably become a single child family.

A warm feeling filled me. It was made of tea and biscuits and sudden gratitude.

Sweetened ice tea is one of the things I love about the South, right up there with homemade biscuits and cheese grits.

Well, come back and have tea with us," saidMoon-Face. "Silky's got some Pop Biscuits -andI've made some Google Buns. I don't often makethem-and I tell you they're a treat!

Sit down and tell me everything, child. Hurt feelings and hopeless despair are no match for tea and biscuits.

We lived for honey. We swallowed a spoonful in the morning to wake us up and one at night to put us to sleep. We took it with every meal to calm the mind, give us stamina, and prevent fatal disease. We swabbed ourselves in it to disinfect cuts or heal chapped lips. It went in our baths, our skin cream, our raspberry tea and biscuits. Nothing was safe from honey...honey was the ambrosia of the gods and the shampoo of the goddesses.

If the old lady who’s been giving me tea and biscuits for twenty-five years is a trained assassin, I suppose I might like assassins after all. I might have very positive and warm associations with assassins.

In 2010, the BBC spent nearly £230,000 on tea, but only £2000 on biscuits.

Nina sat down next to Alys. “Would you um … like some tea?” “With honey?” Alys asked. “I, uh … I think we have sugar?” “I only like tea with honey and lemon.” Nina looked like she might tell Alys exactly where she could put her honey and lemon, so Matthias said hurriedly, “How would you like a chocolate biscuit?” “Oh, I love chocolate!” Nina’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t remember saying you could give away my biscuits.” “It’s for a good cause,” Matthias said, retrieving the tin. He’d purchased the biscuits in the hope of getting Nina to eat more. “Besides, you’ve barely touched them.” “I’m saving them for later,” said Nina with a sniff. “And you should not cross me when it comes to sweets.” Jesper nodded. “She’s like a dessert-hoarding dragon.

Mrs. Earwig (pronounced Ar-wige, at least by Mrs. Earwig) believed in shiny wands, and magical amulets and mystic runes and the power of the stars, while Granny Weatherwax in cups of tea, dry biscuits, washing every morning in cold water and, well...mostly she believed in Granny Weatherwax.

Nicotine addicted, persecuted, her day is a maddening circle of tea and biscuits, baking, smoking, the necessary fiction of the housewife.

I grinned. "I'm anybody's for a cuppa and a biscuit.

I’ve learnt that you’ve got to be really non-apologetic... You’ve got to say, ‘Hi, I’m here, can I have a cup of tea? And one of those biscuits?’ If you say that, it’s fine. If you go in and say, ‘Excuse me, I’m a transvestite, I’ll be in the corner, I won’t be a problem, I’ll face away,’ everyone will go, ‘Oh-oh, problem case in the corner.’ So don’t apologise.

Villains. Stories are nothing without them. Heroes cannot rise to greatness without them. In the absence of an enemy, our beloved protagonists are left kicking rocks in the Shire or taking tea and biscuits in a mind-numbingly cheery Spare Oom. We love villains because they turn their aches into action, their bruises into battering rams. They push through niceties and against societal restraints to propel the story forward. Unlike our lovable protagonists, villains - for better or worse - stop at literally nothing to achieve their goals. It's why we secretly root for them, why we find ourselves hoping they make their grand escape, and it's why our shoulders sag with equal parts relief and disappointment when they are caught. After all, how can you not give it up to someone who works that damned hard for what they want?... Look into a villain's eyes long enough and we might find our shadow selves, our uncut what-ifs and unchecked ambitions, a blurry line if ever there was one.

As I am sure some of you know, I boast of the fact that for a couple of years I was a volunteer librarian, working weekends for no more reward than a cup of tea, a sweet biscuit, and a blind eye to the enormous number of books that I was taking home.

Eibhear and Rhi smiled at each other before Eibhear explained. "We can't sit around discussing pure evil without tea and biscuits, Iz. Its just not done.

Marshall,” he said levelly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but any organization that claims you for a member doesn’t get to call itself sinister, whether you’re left-handed or not. I would be insulted to be offered membership in such a namby-pamby organization. It would be like the Archbishop of Canterbury calling a select club of his compatriots ‘Bad, Bad Bishops’.” Marshall sniggered. “Watch out for the clergy,” Edward said. “They’re absolutely wild. Sometimes they have an extra biscuit at tea.

Why don’t we sit down and discuss this?” Éibhear offered. “What’s there to discuss?” Rhi demanded, flinging her arms in the air. “I’m doomed! We’re all doomed! What’s there to talk about?” “Well, to start . . . do you want biscuits with the tea I put out?” Rhi sniffed, nodded. “Biscuits would be nice.” “Excellent.” “Wait, wait.” Izzy gawked at them. “Biscuits? Tea? What are you two talking about?” Éibhear and Rhi smiled at each other before Éibhear explained, “We can’t sit around discussing pure evil without tea and biscuits, Iz. It’s just not done.

I do love a hotel room: adore it. What's not to love about everything you need in one room? Would you have a kettle on a tea tray with biscuits in a packet in your bedroom at home? No, you very likely wouldn't. And – please excuse me, MDRC, I'm getting a little giddy here – the kettle. The little tiny kettle on a little tiny stand! Admittedly it's hard to fill as it never quite fits under the basin taps, but that's all just part of the fun.

For me, once I've made a cup of tea I belong somehow. It's like I'm marking out my territory, and anyone attempting to come and make a cup of tea on my patch will be dealt with most severely, more likely than not with a counter attack into their territory and the seizure of their milk cartons and shortbread biscuits.

began to feel that queasy guilt that you can only know if you have lived among the English—a terrible suspicion that any pleasure involving more than a cup of milky tea and a chocolate digestive biscuit is somehow irreligiously excessive.

Why aren't you tired? Why don't you have to have a protein shake?" "Because I had a decent lunch and a little tea with biscuits a couple hours ago." "I was chasing a killer a couple hours ago." "Maybe if you'd eaten something you'd have caught him.

He went to the board to write lots of Greek symbols and calculus equations. The course had started with cute little things like how people choose between tea and biscuits. It had moved on to scary equations that would dominate exams. The class took mad notes. Kanyashree wrote so hard I could feel the seismic vibrations from her pen's nib.

The price? A cup of tea waiting for her every morning at seven, with a plate of biscuits next to it. ‘Posh ones, mind,’ she’d stipulated. ‘None of that Rich Tea rubbish.

I've tried praying. It gives me comfort. But not as much as a cup of tea and a ginger nut biscuit.

great plot twists of life will arrange themselves as they see fit, regardless of how much fretting and planning one does in advance. This is not cause for alarm. Quite the opposite; it is a comforting reminder that worrying serves little purpose. Worse, it takes up valuable time that could be better spent reading novels, taking walks in a shaded park, having friends over for tea and biscuits, and any number of equally pleasant pursuits.

Even if someone was your worst enemy, you invited them in and gave them tea and biscuits. In fact, the worser your enemy, the better the crockery you got out and the higher the quality of the biscuits. You might wish black hell on ’em later, but while they were under your roof you’d feed ’em till they choked.

It's in the bylaws. If we're not feedin' someone pork products, we get all twitchy and just start throwin' biscuits at innocent bystanders.

Aarti? She got me into trouble the first day we met,’ Gopal said. I dipped a biscuit in my tea and listened.

Hannah loved tea, although she sometimes wondered whether this was because of how well it went with cake and biscuits.

I always find a nice cup of tea and a few biscuits an excellent accompaniment to writing.

[On his success] It’s mad and bananas and amazing, but I can handle it for the simple reason that it genuinely feels like it’s not real. You know when you go to a fancy dress party and everyone looks incredible and there are crazy things hanging from the ceiling? For about five hours or so, you enter into another world and then, when you come out of it, you are sitting at home with a cup of tea and a biscuit and you’re thinking to yourself, “Well, that was weird. Fun, but weird.” That’s exactly what it feels like… Truly, everything that has happened to me has been beyond any reasonable expectations that I may have had.

In shame, I sipped my tea and nibbled at my biscuit. I had never had tea with milk in it before or a biscuit of such rocklike cheerlessness. It tasted like something you would give a budgie to strengthen its beak.

Have you forgotten me? by Nancy B. Brewer The bricks I laid or the stitches I sewed. I was the one that made the quilt; a drop of blood still shows from my needle prick. Your wedding day in lace and satin, in a dress once worn by me. I loaned your newborn baby my christening gown, a hint of lavender still preserved. Do you know our cause, the battles we won and the battles we lost? When our soldiers marched home did you shout hooray! Or shed a tear for the fallen sons. What of the fields we plowed, the cotton, the tobacco and the okra, too. There was always room at my table for one more, Fried chicken, apple pie, biscuits and sweet ice tea. A time or two you may have heard our stories politely told. Some of us are famous, recorded on the pages of history. Still, most of us left this world without glory or acknowledgment. We were the first to walk the streets you now call home, Perhaps you have visited my grave and flowers left, but did you hear me cry out to you? Listen, my child, to the voices of your ancestors. Take pride in our accomplishments; find your strength in our suffering. For WE are not just voices in the wind, WE are a living part of YOU!

been give a second chance, Nurse, an’ I’m grabbing it wi’ both hands.’ And presently, when the tea was finished and the biscuits crunched down, Rose snuggled under the covers, careful to keep her injured arm away from her body, and was soon fast asleep –

The policemen had clearly been there all morning: four big white tea mugs from the canteen were drained and drip-stained, red-and-gold wrappers from caramel log biscuits were folded into interesting shapes on one side of the table, rolled up into tight little balls on the other.

Business was doing well, because all the locals knew that dishes made from the flowers that grew around the apple tree in the Waverley garden could affect the eater in curious ways. The biscuits with lilac jelly, the lavender tea cookies, and the tea cakes made with nasturtium mayonnaise the Ladies Aid ordered for their meetings once a month gave them the ability to keep secrets. The fried dandelion buds over marigold-petal rice, stuffed pumpkin blossoms, and rose-hip soup ensured that your company would notice only the beauty of your home and never the flaws. Anise hyssop honey butter on toast, angelica candy, and cupcakes with crystallized pansies made children thoughtful. Honeysuckle wine served on the Fourth of July gave you the ability to see in the dark. The nutty flavor of the dip made from hyacinth bulbs made you feel moody and think of the past, and the salads made with chicory and mint had you believing that something good was about to happen, whether it was true or not.

Just like the strangers who'd fed me in El Salvador or South Africa, I was going to have to see and understand the hunger of other, different men and women, and make a gesture of welcome, and eat with them. And just as I hadn't "deserved" any of what had been given to me—the fish, the biscuits, the tea so abundantly poured out back in those years—I didn't deserve communion myself now. I wasn't getting it because I was good. I wasn't getting it because I was special. I certainly didn't get to pick who else was good enough, holy enough, deserving enough, to receive it. It wasn't a private meal. The bread on that Table had to be shared with everyone in order for me to really taste it.

I noticed him glance at me, and then he slowed his steps to match mine. I realized that such small gestures—the way his mother had made me a cup of tea after our meal without asking, remembering that I didn’t take sugar, the way Laura had placed two little biscuits on the saucer when she brought me coffee in the salon—such things could mean so much.

Anney makes the best gravy in the county, the sweetest biscuits, and puts just enough vinegar in those greens. Glenn nodded, though the truth was he’d never had much of a taste for greens, and his well-educated mama had always told him that gravy was bad for the heart. So he was not ready for the moment when Mama pushed her short blond hair back and set that big plate of hot food down in front of his open hands. Glenn took a bite of gristly meat and gravy, and it melted between his teeth. The greens were salt sweet and fat rich. His tongue sang to his throat; his neck went loose, and his hair fell across his face. It was like sex, that food, too good to waste on the middle of the day and a roomful of men too tired to taste. He chewed, swallowed began to come alive himself. He began to feel for the first time like one of the boys, a grown man accepted by the notorious and dangerous Earle Boatwright, staring across the counter at one of the prettiest woman he’d ever seen. His face went hot, and he took a big drink of ice tea to cool himself.

I realized that such small gestures—the way his mother had made me a cup of tea after our meal without asking, remembering that I didn’t take sugar, the way Laura had placed two little biscuits on the saucer when she brought me coffee in the salon—such things could mean so much. I wondered how it would feel to perform such simple deeds for other people.

Each year, Flore and I celebrate our wedding anniversary on 20 April - Hitler's birthday. We are still here; Hitler is down there. Sometimes, when we are sitting in the evening in front of the television with a cup of tea and a biscuit, I think, aren't we lucky? In my mind, this is really the best revenge, and it is the only revenge I'm interested in - to be the happiest man on earth.

Each year, Flore entice celebrate our wedding anniversary on 20 April - Hitler's birthday. We are still here; Hitler is down there. Sometimes, when we are sitting in the evening in front of the television with a cup of tea and a biscuit, I think, aren't we lucky? In my mind, this is really the best revenge, and it is the only revenge I'm interested in - to be the happiest man on earth.

Tell me the story," said Fenchurch firmly. "You arrived at the station." "I was about twenty minutes early. I'd got the time of the train wrong." "Get on with it." Fenchurch laughed. "So I bought a newspaper, to do the crossword, and went to the buffet to get a cup of coffee." "You do the crossword?" "Yes." "Which one?" "The Guardian usually." "I think it tries to be too cute. I prefer The Times. Did you solve it?" "What?" "The crossword in the Guardian." "I haven't had a chance to look at it yet," said Arthur, "I'm still trying to buy the coffee." "All right then. Buy the coffee." "I'm buying it. I am also," said Arthur, "buying some biscuits." "What sort?" "Rich Tea." "Good Choice." "I like them. Laden with all these new possessions, I go and sit at a table. And don't ask me what the table was like because this was some time ago and I can't remember. It was probably round." "All right." "So let me give you the layout. Me sitting at the table. On my left, the newspaper. On my right, the cup of coffee. In the middle of the table, the packet of biscuits." "I see it perfectly." "What you don't see," said Arthur, "because I haven't mentioned him yet, is the guy sitting at the table already. He is sitting there opposite me." "What's he look like?" "Perfectly ordinary. Briefcase. Business suit. He didn't look," said Arthur, "as if he was about to do anything weird." "Ah. I know the type. What did he do?" "He did this. He leaned across the table, picked up the packet of biscuits, tore it open, took one out, and..." "What?" "Ate it." "What?" "He ate it." Fenchurch looked at him in astonishment. "What on earth did you do?" "Well, in the circumstances I did what any red-blooded Englishman would do. I was compelled," said Arthur, "to ignore it." "What? Why?" "Well, it's not the sort of thing you're trained for is it? I searched my soul, and discovered that there was nothing anywhere in my upbringing, experience or even primal instincts to tell me how to react to someone who has quite simply, calmly, sitting right there in front of me, stolen one of my biscuits." "Well, you could..." Fenchurch thought about it. "I must say I'm not sure what I would have done either. So what happened?" "I stared furiously at the crossword," said Arthur. "Couldn't do a single clue, took a sip of coffee, it was too hot to drink, so there was nothing for it. I braced myself. I took a biscuit, trying very hard not to notice," he added, "that the packet was already mysteriously open..." "But you're fighting back, taking a tough line." "After my fashion, yes. I ate a biscuit. I ate it very deliberately and visibly, so that he would have no doubt as to what it was I was doing. When I eat a biscuit," Arthur said, "it stays eaten." "So what did he do?" "Took another one. Honestly," insisted Arthur, "this is exactly what happened. He took another biscuit, he ate it. Clear as daylight. Certain as we are sitting on the ground." Fenchurch stirred uncomfortably. "And the problem was," said Arthur, "that having not said anything the first time, it was somehow even more difficult to broach the subject a second time around. What do you say? "Excuse me...I couldn't help noticing, er..." Doesn't work. No, I ignored it with, if anything, even more vigor than previously." "My man..." "Stared at the crossword, again, still couldn't budge a bit of it, so showing some of the spirit that Henry V did on St. Crispin's Day..." "What?" "I went into the breach again. I took," said Arthur, "another biscuit. And for an instant our eyes met." "Like this?" "Yes, well, no, not quite like that. But they met. Just for an instant. And we both looked away. But I am here to tell you," said Arthur, "that there was a little electricity in the air. There was a little tension building up over the table. At about this time." "I can imagine.

Language is a traitor, a double agent who sleeps across borders without warning in the dead of night. It is a heavy snowfall in a foreign country, which hides the shapes and contours of reality beneath a cloak of nebulous whiteness. It is a crippled dog, never quite able to perform the tricks we ask of it. It is a ginger biscuit, dunked for too long in the tea of our expectations, crumbling and dissolving into nothingness. It is a lost continent.

Tiny finger sandwiches, biscuits and cakes, grapes and tangerines and of course my scones with jam and cream. Mr Phelps and Jimmy came to help me as I made shortbreads, ginger biscuits from Germany that were a favourite of the queen, macaroons and lemon curd tarts. At the last minute, we prepared cucumber, egg and cress, and smoked salmon sandwiches, wrapping them immediately into damp linen napkins to keep them moist. Flasks of tea were prepared.

I don’t know what you’re talking about, but any organization that claims you for a member doesn’t get to call itself sinister, whether you’re left-handed or not. I would be insulted to be offered membership in such a namby-pamby organization. It would be like the Archbishop of Canterbury calling a select club of his compatriots ‘Bad, Bad Bishops’.” Marshall sniggered. “Watch out for the clergy,” Edward said. “They’re absolutely wild. Sometimes they have an extra biscuit at tea.

Prep Time: 15 minutes Cook Time: 20 minutes Serves: 6 Ingredients BISCUITS 2 cups flour 1 tablespoon baking powder 1 teaspoon kosher salt 1/2 cup shortening (butter, lard or vegetable shortening) 3/4 cup milk or buttermilk SAUSAGE GRAVY 1-pound breakfast pork sausage 1/3 cup flour 3 cups milk salt and black pepper, as needed Preparation Preheat oven to 450°F. In a large bowl, combine flour, baking powder and salt; cut in shortening until mixture has a crumbly texture. Add milk and mix into a dough, adding flour as needed until dough pulls away from side of bowl. On a lightly floured surface, roll or pat dough ¾-inch thick. Using a biscuit cutter, cut out biscuits, place on a baking sheet. Bake for 15 minutes, or until lightly browned on top. To make gravy: pan fry breakfast sausage until fully cooked, breaking up large pieces. Using a slotted spoon, transfer cooked sausage to bowl. Add flour to pan dripping and whisk until golden. Slowly add milk and whisk over low heat until thickened. Add reserved sausage and stir to blend. Season to taste with salt and black pepper. Serve split biscuits topped with gravy.

overlooking the wharf. She couldn’t read the menu, but he told her most of it, and she ordered fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, white acre peas, and biscuits fluffy as fresh-picked cotton. He had fried shrimp, cheese grits, fried “okree,” and fried green tomatoes. The waitress put a whole dish of butter pats perched on ice cubes and a basket of cornbread and biscuits on their table, and all the sweet iced tea they could drink. Then they had blackberry cobbler with ice cream for dessert. So full, Kya thought she might get sick, but figured it’d be worth

I accepted another cup of tea. Watching her pour, I told her I could not imagine how hard it must have been. Winsome said well, nevermind and I decided one day I would ask her about it, but not then because there was more sadness in the way she said those two words than could be managed by either of us, sitting at her garden table, having afternoon tea. “Forgotten is forgiven.” For whatever reason, Winsome said it again. I repeated it after her. “Forgotten is forgiven.” “That’s right. Difficult but possible. Unless you want it, Martha, I might have this last biscuit.” *

SOOOOOOOO… THESE ARE DISAPPOINTING.” Keefe took a second bite from a round Digestive biscuit and crinkled his nose. “Are they supposed to suck up all the spit in your mouth and turn it into a paste? Is that, like, something humans find delicious?” “Maybe you’re supposed to dunk them in milk?” Sophie suggested, trying not to spray crumbs as she struggled to swallow the bite she’d taken. They really did win the prize for Driest. Cookies. Ever. “Actually, I think you’re supposed to eat them with tea.” “You think?” Keefe asked, shaking his head and stuffing the rest of the Digestive into his mouth. “You’re failing me with your human knowledge, Foster.” “For the thousandth time, I grew up in the U.S., not the U.K.!” she reminded him. “We had Chips Ahoy! and Oreos and E.L. Fudges!” “Hm. Those do sound more fun than a Digestive,” Keefe conceded. “I’m sure you’d especially enjoy the E.L. Fudges,” Sophie told him. “They’re shaped like tiny elves.” Keefe dropped the package of Jaffa Cakes he’d been in the process of opening and scanned the beach in front of them. “Okay, where’s the nearest cliff? You need to teleport me somewhere to get some of those immediately.

She does say the most amusing things, doesn’t she? ‘Pretty girl,’ and ‘yes,’ and—Do you hear that one? ‘Fancy a . . .’ what? I never can catch what she’s saying at the end. It’s certainly not biscuit. ‘Fancy a cuppa,’ perhaps? But who gives a parrot tea? It sounds a great deal like ‘fancy a foxglove,’ but that makes even less sense. I don’t mind saying the mystery is driving me a bit mad.” “Fuck.” She froze. “I’m not that upset about it.” He returned to the bedchamber, now clothed in a pair of trousers and an unbuttoned shirt. “It’s what the parrot’s saying. ‘Fancy a fuck, love.’ That bird came from a whorehouse.

I’m not sure what I believe, I say, sharply. No one deserves to go through this. That’s all I know. You’re lovely. I leave the room. I take my rage out on the kettle and cutlery drawer. The nurses can hear me make the tea, fucking London can hear me make the tea. Onto a plate, I pile biscuits that I don’t even feel like eating, and return to his room. How are you with food? I ask him. Not too good right now, he says. These are mine then, I say, and I sit down and place the chocolate bourbons on my lap. You’ll get fat, he says. I am fat, and I lift up my jumper. This wasn’t here yesterday, I say. This is trespassing.

Long story, But now, I think, tea?" "Tea? Tea started it all, sir. Don't talk to me about tea." Virgil sounded particularly gloomy. "Well, perhaps fetch us both some to be going on with anyway? There's a dear chap." "We're in the middle of an escape, sir." "You're absolutely correct. Crumpets are also required under such trying times. Tea and buttered crumpets, please, Virgil. And for Arsenic as well. We all need restoration." "Yes, sir. Right away, sir." Virgil tottered off, muttering something dark about Percy wanting dipped biscuits. As if Percy would ever do anything that shocking with biscuit integrity. He wasn't a monster.

By the time they'd finished their tea, they were almost in love with each other — not quite yet, because true love took time and memories, but as close to love as first impressions could take them. The days had not yet come when Ramy wore Victoire's sloppily knitted scarves with pride, when Robin learned exactly how long Ramy liked his tea steeped so he could have it ready when he inevitably came to the Buttery late from his Arabic tutorial, or when they all knew Letty was about to come to class with a paper bag full of lemon biscuits because it was a Wednesday morning and Taylor's bakery put out lemon biscuits on Wednesdays. But that afternoon they could see with certainty the kind of friends they would be, and loving that vision was close enough.

All about them the golden girls, shopping for dainties in Lairville. Even in the midst of the wild-maned winter's chill, skipping about in sneakers and sweatsocks, cream-colored raincoats. A generation in the mold, the Great White Pattern Maker lying in his prosperous bed, grinning while the liquid cools. But he does not know my bellows. Someone there is who will huff and will puff. The sophmores in their new junior blazers, like Saturday's magazines out on Thursday. Freshly covered textbooks from the campus store, slide rules dangling in leather, sheathed broadswords, chinos scrubbed to the virgin fiber, starch pressed into straight-razor creases, Oxford shirts buttoned down under crewneck sweaters, blue eyes bobbing everywhere, stunned by the android synthesis of one-a-day vitamins, Tropicana orange juice, fresh country eggs, Kraft homogenized cheese, tetra-packs of fortified milk, Cheerios with sun-ripened bananas, corn-flake-breaded chicken, hot fudge sundaes, Dairy Queen root beer floats, cheeseburgers, hybrid creamed corn, riboflavin extract, brewer's yeast, crunchy peanut butter, tuna fish casseroles, pancakes and imitation maple syrup, chuck steaks, occasional Maine lobster, Social Tea biscuits, defatted wheat germ, Kellogg's Concentrate, chopped string beans, Wonderbread, Birds Eye frozen peas, shredded spinach, French-fried onion rings, escarole salads, lentil stews, sundry fowl innards, Pecan Sandies, Almond Joys, aureomycin, penicillin, antitetanus toxoid, smallpox vaccine, Alka-Seltzer, Empirin, Vicks VapoRub, Arrid with chlorophyll, Super Anahist nose spray, Dristan decongestant, billions of cubic feet of wholesome, reconditioned breathing air, and the more wholesome breeds of fraternal exercise available to Western man. Ah, the regimented good will and force-fed confidence of those who are not meek but will inherit the earth all the same.

Ah reckon we can git us some rest'rant vittles," Pa said, and led her along the pier toward the Barkley Cove Diner. Kya had never eaten restaurant food; had never set food inside. Her heart thumped as she brushed dried mud from her way-too-short overalls and patted down her tangled hair. As Pa opened the door, every customer paused mid-bite. A few men nodded faintly at Pa; the women frowned and turned their heads. One snorted, "Well, they prob'ly can't read the shirt and shoes required." Pa motioned for her to sit at a small table overlooking the wharf. She couldn’t read the menu, but he told her most of it, and she ordered fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, white acre peas, and biscuits fluffy as fresh-picked cotton. He had fried shrimp, cheese grits, fried “okree,” and fried green tomatoes. The waitress put a whole dish of butter pats perched on ice cubes and a basket of cornbread and biscuits on their table, and all the sweet iced tea they could drink. Then they had blackberry cobbler with ice cream for dessert.

Once inside the confectioners, she was spellbound by sugared fruits hung in garlands and glass bottles sparkling with morsels of sugar. While Loveday spoke to the shop girl, Biddy trailed the shelves slowly, looking inside the glass jars, mouthing the words on the Bill of Fare. 'Look Mr Loveday, "Macaroons- As Made In Paris"', she sighed, staring at a heap of biscuits made in every color from blue to shiny gold. Carefully he ordered his goods from the jars of herbs behind the counter. First, there was Mr Pars' packet of coltsfoot that he smoked to ease his chest. Then a bag of comfrey tea for his mistress's stomach. Finally, boxes of the usual violet pastilles. Biddy came up behind him while the girl tied the parcel with ribbon. 'Begging your pardon, miss. Is it right you're selling that Royal Ice Cream?' The girl shrugged. 'That's what it says on the board if you can read it.' 'Aye, I've been studying it all right. I've only ever read of ices before. So I'll have a try of it.' When the girl reappeared Biddy sniffed at the glass bowl, and then cautiously licked the ice cream from the tiny spoon. 'Why, it is orange flowers.' She looked happy enough to burst. 'And something else, some fragrant nut- do you put pistachio in it too?

He just wanted a walk- and a few books. It had been an age since he'd even had free time to read, let alone do so for pleasure. But there she was. His mate. She was nothing like Jesminda. Jesminda had been all laughter and mischief, too wild and free to be contained by the country life that she'd been born into. She had teased him, taunted him- seduced him so thoroughly that he hadn't wanted anything but her. She'd seen him not as a High Lord's seventh son, but as a male. Had loved him without question, without hesitation. She had chosen him. Elain had been... thrown at him. He glanced toward the tea service spread on a low-lying table nearby. 'I'm going to assume that one of those cups belongs to your sister.' Indeed, there was a discarded book in the viper's usual chair. Cauldron help the male who wound up shackled to her. 'Do you mind if I held myself to the other?' He tried to sound casual- comfortable. Even as his heart raced and raced, so swift he thought he might vomit on the very expensive, very old carpet. From Sangravah, if the patterns and rich dyes were any indication. Rhysand was many things, but he certainly had good taste. The entire place had been decorated with thought and elegance, with a penchant for comfort over stuffiness. He didn't want to admit he liked it. Didn't want to admit he found the city beautiful. That the circle of people who now claimed to be Feyre's new family... It was what, long ago, he'd once thought life at Tamlin's court would be. An ache like a blow to the chest went through him, but he crossed the rug. Forced his hands to be steady while he poured himself a cup of tea and sat in the chair opposite Nesta's vacated one. 'There's a plate of biscuits. Would you like one?' He didn't expect her to answer, and he gave himself all of one more minute before he'd rise from this chair and leave, hopefully avoiding Nesta's return. But sunlight on gold caught his eye- and Elain slowly turned from her vigil at the window. He had not seen her entire face since that day in Hybern. Then, it had been drawn and terrified, then utterly blank and numb, her hair plastered to her head, her lips blue with cold and shock. Looking at her now... She was pale, yes. The vacancy still glazing her features. But he couldn't breathe as she faced him fully. She was the most beautiful female he'd ever seen. Betrayal, queasy and oily, slid through his veins. He'd said the same to Jesminda once. But even as shame washed through him, the words, the sense chanted, Mine. You are mine, and I am yours. Mate.

Recipes TOM PEPPER’S HOT BREW To soothe the throat or otherwise ease a long day. 1.4 drachm (1 tsp) local raw honey 16 drachm (1 oz) scotch or bourbon ½ pint (1 cup) hot water 3 sprigs fresh thyme Stir honey and bourbon at bottom of mug. Add hot water and thyme sprigs. Steep five minutes. Sip while warm. BLACKFRIARS BALM FOR BUGS AND BOILS To subdue angry, itchy skin caused by insect bites. 1 drachm (0.75 tsp) castor oil 1 drachm (0.75 tsp) almond oil 10 drops tea tree oil 5 drops lavender oil In a 2.7 drachm (10 ml) glass rollerball vial, add the 4 oils. Fill to top with water and secure cap. Shake well before each use. Apply to itchy, uncomfortable skin. ROSEMARY BUTTER BISCUIT COOKIES A traditional shortbread. Savory yet sweet, and in no way sinister. 1 sprig fresh rosemary 1 ½ cup butter, salted 2⁄3cup white sugar 2 ¾ cup all-purpose flour Remove leaves from rosemary and finely chop (approximately 1 Tbsp or to taste). Soften butter; blend well with sugar. Add rosemary and flour; mix well until dough comes together. Line 2 cookie sheets with parchment paper. Form dough into 1.25-inch balls; press gently into pans until 0.5-inch thick. Refrigerate at least 1 hour. Preheat oven to 375°F. Bake for 10–12 minutes, just until bottom edges are golden. Do not overbake. Cool at least 10 minutes. Makes 45 cookies.

Beatriz breathed in the sweet aromas that lately appealed to her. Those at the forefront were of various honeys in the wooden honey pots anchoring the tablecloth: lavender, orange blossom, and eucalyptus. But the room was a cornucopia of visual and olfactory treats. Marcona almonds were roasting in Reuben's old wood oven, and from the kitchen downstairs wafted scents of all the spices they would be offering their customers fresh over the counter in cloth bags: cinnamon stalks, cloves, anise, ground ginger, juniper berries, finely grated nutmeg. Nora and Beatriz packaged all the spices themselves. They would also offer ribbon-tied bags of Phillip's tea creations served in the café: loose leaves of lemon verbena, dried pennyroyal, black tea with vanilla. All around the room, on the floor, shelves, and counters, were baskets and baskets and baskets of irresistible delights: jars of marmalades and honeys and pure, dark, sugarless chocolate pieces ready to melt with milk at home for the richest hot chocolate. Customers could even buy jars of chocolate shavings, to sprinkle over warmed pears and whipped cream, or over the whipped cream on their hot chocolates. They sold truffles white and dark, with or without rum, biscuits with every variation of nuts and spices, bars small or large of their own chocolate, and dried fruits dipped in chocolate.

Lady Rose, you grow lovelier every time I see you.” Had it been a stranger who spoke she might have been flustered, but since it was Archer, Grey’s younger brother, she merely grinned in response and offered her hand. “And your eyesight grows poorer every time you see me, sir.” He bowed over her fingers. “If I am blind it is only by your beauty.” She laughed at that, enjoying the good-natured sparkle in his bright blue eyes. He was so much more easy-natured than Grey, so much more full of life and flirtation. And yet, the family resemblance could not be denied even if Archer’s features were a little thinner, a little sharper. How would Grey feel if she found a replacement for him in his own brother? It was too low, even in jest. “Careful with your flattery, sir,” she warned teasingly. “I am trolling for a husband you know.” Archer’s dark brows shot up in mock horror. “Never say!” Then he leaned closer to whisper. “Is my brother actually fool enough to let you get away?” Rose’s heart lurched at the note of seriousness in his voice. When she raised her gaze to his she saw only concern and genuine affection there. “He’s packing my bags as we speak.” He laughed then, a deep, rich sound that drew the attention of everyone on the terrace, including his older brother. “Will you by chance be at the Devane musicale next week, Lord Archer?” “I will,” he remarked, suddenly sober. “As much as it pains me to enter that viper’s pit. I’m accompanying Mama and Bronte. Since there’s never been any proof of what she did to Grey, Mama refuses to cut the woman. She’s better than that.” Archer’s use of the word “cut” might have been ironic, but what a relief knowing he would be there. “Would you care to accompany Mama and myself as well?” He regarded her with a sly smile. “My dear, Lady Rose. Do you plan to use me to make my brother jealous?” “Of course not!” And she was honest to a point. “I wish to use your knowledge of eligible beaux and have you buoy my spirits. If that happens to annoy your brother, then so much the better.” He laughed again. This time Grey scowled at the pair of them. Rose smiled and waved. Archer tucked her hand around his arm and guided her toward the chairs where the others sat enjoying the day, the table before them laden with sandwiches, cakes, scones, and all kinds of preserves, cream, and biscuits. A large pot of tea sat in the center. “What are you grinning at?” Grey demanded as they approached. Archer gave his brother an easy smile, not the least bit intimidated. “Lady Rose has just accepted my invitation for both she and her dear mama to accompany us to the Devane musicale next week.” Grey stiffened. It was the slightest movement, like a blade of grass fighting the breeze, but Rose noticed. She’d wager Archer did too. “How nice,” he replied civilly, but Rose mentally winced at the coolness of his tone. He turned to his mother. “I’m parched. Mama, will you pour?” And he didn’t look at her again.

We need more baskets,” Pandora said triumphantly, entering the hall. The twins, who were clearly having a splendid time, had adorned themselves outlandishly. Cassandra was dressed in a green opera cloak with a jeweled feather ornament affixed to her hair. Pandora had tucked a light blue lace parasol beneath one arm, and a pair of lawn tennis rackets beneath the other, and was wearing a flowery diadem headdress that had slipped partially over one eye. “From the looks of it,” Kathleen said, “you’ve done enough shopping already.” Cassandra looked concerned. “Oh, no, we still have at least eighty departments to visit.” Kathleen couldn’t help glancing at Devon, who was trying, without success, to stifle a grin. It was the first time she had seen him truly smile in days. Enthusiastically the girls lugged the baskets to her and began to set objects on the counter in an unwieldy pile…perfumed soaps, powders, pomades, stockings, books, new corset laces and racks of hairpins, artificial flowers, tins of biscuits, licorice pastilles and barley sweets, a metal mesh tea infuser, hosiery tucked in little netted bags, a set of drawing pencils, and a tiny glass bottle filled with bright red liquid. “What is this?” Kathleen asked, picking up the bottle and viewing it suspiciously. “It’s a beautifier,” Pandora said. “Bloom of Rose,” Cassandra chimed in. Kathleen gasped as she realized what it was. “It’s rouge.” She had never even held a container of rouge before. Setting it on the counter, she said firmly, “No.” “But Kathleen--” “No to rouge,” she said, “now and for all time.” “We need to enhance our complexions,” Pandora protested. “It won’t do any harm,” Cassandra chimed in. “The bottle says that Bloom of Rose is ‘delicate and inoffensive’…It’s written right there, you see?” “The comments you would receive if you wore rouge in public would assuredly not be delicate or inoffensive. People would assume you were a fallen woman. Or worse, an actress.” Pandora turned to Devon. “Lord Trenear, what do you think?” “This is one of those times when it’s best for a man to avoid thinking altogether,” he said hastily.

Kate’s mind was obviously not lodged as firmly in the gutter as his, since she chose to sit in the chair opposite him, even though there was plenty of room in his chair, provided they didn’t mind squeezing next to each other. Even the chair kitty-corner to his would have been better; at least then he could have yanked her up and hauled her onto his lap. If he tried that maneuver where she was seated across the table, he’d have to drag her through the middle of the tea service. Anthony narrowed his eyes as he assessed the situation, trying to guess exactly how much tea would spill on the rug, and then how much it would cost to replace the rug, and then whether he really cared about such a piddling amount of money, anyway . . . “Anthony? Are you listening to me?” He looked up. Kate was resting her arms on her knees as she leaned forward to talk with him. She looked very intent and just a little bit irritated. “Were you?” she persisted. He blinked. “Listening to me?” she ground out. “Oh.” He grinned. “No.” She rolled her eyes but didn’t bother to scold him any further than that. “I was saying that we should have Edwina and her young man over for dinner one night. To see if we think they suit. I have never before seen her so interested in a gentleman, and I do so want her to be happy.” Anthony reached for a biscuit. He was hungry, and he’d pretty much given up on the prospect of getting his wife into his lap. On the other hand, if he managed to clear off the cups and saucers, yanking her across the table might not have such messy consequences . . . He surreptitiously pushed the tray bearing the tea service to the side. “Hmmm?” he grunted, chewing on the biscuit. “Oh, yes, of course. Edwina should be happy.” Kate eyed him suspiciously. “Are you certain you don’t want some tea with that biscuit? I’m not a great aficionado of brandy, but I would imagine that tea would taste better with shortbread.” Actually, Anthony thought, the brandy did quite well with shortbread, but it certainly couldn’t hurt to empty out the teapot a bit, just in case he toppled it over. “Capital idea,” he said, grabbing a teacup and thrusting it toward her. “Tea’s just the thing. Can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it earlier.” “I can’t imagine, either,” she murmured acerbically— if one could murmur in an acerbic manner, and after hearing Kate’s low sarcasm, Anthony rather thought one could. But he just gave her a jovial smile as he reached out and took his teacup from her outstretched hand.

The girl inhaled sharply at this last bit, the word 'father'. They leaned into Azalea's nightgown as Mr. Pudding, fumbling with his great ring of keys, locked the ballroom door with a click-click. Seeing the younger girls start to tear up, he gave them his lamp and promised to send biscuits and tea to their room, nearly crying himself. But he did not unlock the ballroom.

Whatever happens, I must be back in Somerset by Dec 1 when Mrs Shirley Williams comes to address a rally of the Social Democratic party in Bridgwater. Suitably enough, this hellish woman has chosen the local Comprehensive School as her venue. Rotten eggs and cowpats can probably be acquired locally, but stink bombs and more sophisticated devices should be brought with you. Hoax bomb calls and maniacal threatening letters should be addressed to Bridgwater Police Headquarters. Tea and biscuits will be served at halftime.

We shared a family-style bucket of chicken from the Busy Bee; I had three pieces and he had thirteen, along with all the coleslaw, baked beans, six biscuits, and four cans of iced tea." p. 151, 152

Eamonn Carr was coming in with tea on a tray, and what looked like home-made biscuits. Paula took her drink gratefully, but saw that Guy just sipped his and put it down on a well-placed coaster.

UNSAFE Human Foods Below is a list of harmful foods for dogs. This is not a complete list, but a common list of foods known to be harmful to our canine friends. If you are unsure of a food that you wish to add to your dog’s diet, please consult a veterinarian or expert on dog nutrition. Onions: Both onions and garlic contain the toxic ingredient thiosulphate. However, onions are more dangerous than garlic because of this toxin. Many dog biscuits contain trace amounts of garlic, and because of this small amount, there is no threat to the health of your dog. This poison can be toxic in one large dose, or with repeated consumption that builds to the toxic level in the dog’s blood. Chocolate: Contains theobromine, a compound that is a cardiac stimulant and a diuretic. This can be fatal to dogs. Grapes: Contains an unknown toxin that can affect kidney, and in large enough amounts can cause acute kidney failure. Raisins: (Same as above) Most Fruit Pits and Seeds: Contains cyanogenic glycosides, which if consumed can cause cyanide poisoning. The fruits by themselves are okay to consume. Macadamia Nuts: Contains an unknown toxin that can be fatal to dogs. Most Bones: Should not be given (especially chicken bones) because they can splinter and cause a laceration of the digestive system or pose a choking hazard because of the possibility for them to become lodged in your pet’s throat. Potato Peelings and Green Potatoes: Contains oxalates, which can affect the digestive, nervous, and urinary systems. Rhubarb leaves: Contains high amount of oxalates. Broccoli: Broccoli should be avoided, though it is only dangerous in large amounts. Green parts of tomatoes: Contains oxalates, which can affect the digestive, nervous, and urinary systems. Yeast dough: Can produce gas and swell in your pet’s stomach and intestines, possibly leading to a rupture of the digestive system. Coffee and tea: (due to the caffeine) Alcoholic Beverages: Alcohol is very toxic to dogs and can lead to coma or even death. Human Vitamins: Vitamins containing iron are especially dangerous. These vitamins can cause damage to the lining of the digestive system, the kidneys, and liver. Moldy or spoiled foods: There are many possible harmful outcomes from spoiled foods. Persimmons: These can cause intestinal blockage. Raw Eggs: Potential for salmonella. Salt: In large doses can cause an electrolyte imbalance. Mushrooms: Can cause liver and kidney damage. Avocados: Avocado leaves; fruit, seeds, and bark contain a toxin known as persin. The Guatemalan variety that is commonly found in stores appears to be the most problematic. Avocados are known to cause respiratory distress in other animals, but causes less harmful problems in dogs. It is best to avoid feeding them to your dog. Xylitol: This artificial sweetener is not healthy for dogs.

Ginger and lemon biscuits These biscuits are a twist on the traditional spiced Scandinavian Christmas biscuits, and were inspired by my love of honey, ginger and lemon tea – sweet, soothing, spicy and warming. They make a lovely gift and are easily made gluten-free by using rice flour or gluten-free flour. MAKES 20–30 125g salted butter, soft 125g caster sugar 1 medium egg 50ml golden syrup 50g crystallised ginger, chopped 1 tbsp freshly grated root ginger zest and juice of 1 lemon 200g plain flour 1 tsp baking powder ¼ tsp bicarbonate of soda You can use a food processor to make this dough or mix it by hand. Cream the butter and sugar together in a bowl until pale and fluffy. Mix the egg, golden syrup, crystallised ginger, grated ginger, lemon zest and juice together in another bowl or jug, and stir the flour and raising agents together in a third bowl. Alternate between adding wet and dry ingredients in stages, mixing as you go, until the dough comes together. Place in a smaller, clean bowl, cover with clingfilm and refrigerate for 1½–2 hours. Preheat the oven to 190°C/170°C fan/gas mark 5 and line two baking sheets with baking parchment. Use a teaspoon to place little dollops of biscuit mixture on a baking sheet, taking care to space them about 4–5cm apart, so they don’t all merge during baking. Bake on the upper middle shelf for 8–10 minutes and allow to cool on a wire rack. These keep well in an airtight container for up to a couple of weeks. If the stored biscuits start to go soft, reheat them on a wire rack at 150°C/130°C fan/gas mark 2 for 5–10 minutes, then allow to cool completely on the wire rack once out of the oven to crisp them back up. VARIATION Add 50g chopped pistachios in to the biscuit dough before chilling for a nutty version.

Tea and biscuits aren’t as tempting as stories, not for a bookworm

Pa motioned for her to sit at a small table overlooking the wharf. She couldn't read the menu, but he told her most of it, and she ordered fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, white acre peas, and biscuits fluffy as fresh picked cotton. He had fried shrimp, cheese grits, fried "okree," and fried green tomatoes. The waitress put a whole dish of butter pats perched on ice cubes and a basket of cornbread and biscuits on their table, and all the sweet iced tea they could drink. Then they had blackberry cobbler with ice cream for dessert. So full, Kya thought she might get sick, but figured it'd be worth it.

When I judged it to be tea-time I sat on an old stone wall and opened my tin of treacle biscuits. As I ate them I could hear mother banging the kettle on the hob and my brothers rattling their tea-cups. The biscuits tasted sweetly of the honeyed squalor of home – still only a dozen miles away.

Pro tip: “When a property is let, spend £25 on an ‘arrival kit’: a big plastic storage box ready for the day your new tenants move in. In mine, I put toilet rolls, tea, coffee, biscuits, washing-up liquid, toilet cleaner, hand soap, a couple of bottles of wine and a bar of chocolate. It puts you on good terms with the tenant from day one.” –Adrian Bond

Just moo for me,’ Ed said. ‘Maybe a wee Hobnob?’ ‘I only have Rich Tea,’ Myra said. ‘Sorry.’ ‘That’s alright, love.’ To Bob: ‘Cardboard. That’s the sort of biscuits they start dishing out on the lifeboat when they’re done eating the other passengers.

Don't dwell on what isn't here. Dwell on what is. A perfumed breeze, hot tea, rich biscuits, a warm blanket, a purring kitten. And me. That last is the hardest. Focus on being in the moment with myself, comfortable in my own company.

mug of strong tea and gesturing towards a tin of McVitie’s biscuits.

WHAT TO DO WITH YOUR PAST Serve it with lemons and curdled milk with shortbread biscuits make the day gray spots of rain. Make a quilt out of the villains crochet the heroes together in a hat Wear the hat. Use the quilt as a picnic blanket. Bring your friends. Watch the squirrels be tiny monkeys dare-deviling the trees. Exclaim things! Each lemon, sup of tea, cookie is a bite into the future / will digest, exit, and swim. Digest. Exit. Swim. Drink the curdled milk and get sick watch your friends clean up hold your hair back / hat on hand you a tissue. When you wash the vomit out of the villainous quilt each time it gets weaker Picnic often.

During the meal I consume every last bite of my shrimp and grits, relishing the uniquely Southern combinations: tart lemon juice, savory scallions, crisp bacon, and a dash of paprika all mixed in with freshly grated Parmesan and creamy white cheddar. It's been tossed with sautéed wild mushrooms and minced garlic, cayenne pepper, and Gulf shrimp, all atop a bowl of steaming Mississippi Delta stone-cut grits. My belly sings a psalm of thanks with every flavor-punched drop, and that doesn't even count the homemade biscuits baked big as fists and the silver-dollar pickles fried deep with salt. Drown it all together with a swig of syrup-sweet tea, and the name of this country song would be "Welcome Home.

Man, I’m good! Come on, Sandor, you can say it. Who’s the Lord of Awesome?” Sandor gritted his teeth. “I’ll save any compliments for when we’re safely back at Havenfield five minutes early.” Which definitely would’ve been the smart thing for them to do. But Sophie had spotted a cluttered shop and decided that cheering up Keefe was a better use of that extra time. So with Dex’s help at a nearby ATM, she was able to make a very creative withdrawal through her elvin birth fund, and she used that cash to buy all the weird British biscuits that Keefe had requested—plus some called Hobnobs, and some called Custard Creams, and several bars of Cadbury chocolate, and a few boxes of proper English tea. And as they leaped home—with thirty seconds to spare—she couldn’t believe how easy it had been.

Honest. I’m fine,” he said, taking a sip of his tea. There was no danger in that. Unlike biscuits, tea—and all other hot beverages, in fact—was given and received freely, with no conditions implied or inferred. It was widely accepted that only a monster would use tea as a bargaining tool. It just wasn’t done. A cup of tea committed you to nothing and no one. Well, nothing except the obligation to someday return the favour, and that was just common decency.

It felt oddly comforting to be sat together around the Big Board. Even here, seventy miles from home, there was a real sense of familiarity to it. Of camaraderie. Tyler had even enjoyed the ribbing he’d got about the quality of his tea, and the poor selection of biscuits he’d been able to snaffle from CID’s not-so-secret stash

Chase!” Penny waved him in. “Just in time for tea. Do sit down and have a biscuit.” “He’s not getting biscuits,” Nicola said, incensed. She whipped the plate from the table, guarding it. “After what he did to Alex? Not even the burnt ones.

He stopped, because the door had swung open to allow the ingress of a reinforced, heavy-duty tea trolley. Since it was not being propelled by Her, the wizards paid no further attention and settled down to the passing of cups, the handing round of the sugar bowl, the inspection of the quality of the chocolate biscuits with a view to taking more than one’s entitlement and all the other little diversions without which a committee would be a clever device for making worthwhile decisions quickly.

Holly went up to her room, switched on the kettle and made a mug of herbal tea. She never travelled without teabags these days. Orange and cranberry, her favourite flavour. She sent an email to the boss and to Joe, describing her conversation with Robson and the barmaid’s description of the people in the Seahorse. She ate the salad she’d made, and then, guiltily, the packet of biscuits that was on the tray next to the kettle.

It was frightening, really," Bernard had said, bringing a cup of tea to his lips and beckoning for the servant to bring another ginger biscuit. "But marvelous, though, in its own strange way, don't you think?

Willow wondered if it caused resentment: these confident, educated incomers, buying up the nice houses, subtly changing the character of the place. She’d always thought Shetlanders were certain enough of their own culture, hospitable enough, not to mind too much, but now she wasn’t so sure. Wouldn’t it feel like an invasion? She left her bag where it was and wandered down. The baby was sitting in a bouncy chair. He was soft-skinned and content, with downy hair and serious eyes. Willow had seen him the day of his birth and had been so jealous of Rosie that for the first time she’d understood how women could steal newborns from a hospital ward. ‘What did you decide to call him in the end?’ ‘Michael,’ John said. ‘We thought he looked like a Michael.’ Willow drank tea and listened to the couple chat. They offered her a meal, but she made do with a bannock and a slice of cheese and some home-made ginger biscuits. Soon she’d had enough of their company. She said she’d go up to her room; there was no need for them to show her, if it was the same as last time. It was jealousy again that sent her away. She knew that even if Perez had welcomed the news of her pregnancy, they would never have this sort of relationship: tender, calm, unflustered. There would always be something to come between them. Work, or Cassie, or Fran Hunter’s ghost. Her child would never live up to Cassie, in Perez’s mind, and she would never live up to Fran. In the room, she wondered if she should call Perez to find out how the interview with Magnie Riddell had gone. On any previous investigation she would have done that, or she’d have gone round to see him late in the

It was never meant to be revealed that way.” Then what way? Over tea and biscuits?

In August 2020, when he passed, I wrote a micro eulogy for the service in St. Eugene’s Cathedral in Derry: We were looking for a giant and found a man who made all our lives bigger. We were looking for some superpowers and found clarity of thought, kindness, and persistence. We were looking for revolution and found it in parish halls with tea and biscuits and late-night meetings under fluorescence. We were looking for a negotiator who understood that no one wins unless everyone wins and loses something and that peace is the only victory.

Then we settle in the kitchen with a fresh pot of tea, and biscuits, the English cure for all ills.

I wouldn’t want to work in a nursery, because I can’t deal with children. Or bees. Can I offer you some tea, or some biscuits and a diaper?

A neat stack of paper was set to one side, along with an assortment of pens, and the reading lamps were at full glow, merry and sparkling in the gloom. A silver tea service gleamed on a low-lying table between the two leather couches before the grumbling fireplace, steam curling from the arched spout of the kettle. Biscuits and little sandwiches filled the platter beside it, along with a fat pile of napkins that subtly hinted we use them before touching the books.

I was woken early and had breakfast with the guru. We had some spicy Rice Krispies and a spicy biscuit with some really sweet, milky tea. Not the way I normally like it, but I drank it anyway as I didn’t want to offend him. I suppose that is my heart telling me how to act instead of my head again. My arse may get involved later though.

During the afternoons the only thing that seems to hold my interest is baking. I go through my recipe books. Soft-centered biscuits, cakes slathered with icing, cupcakes piled up in pyramids on round plates. Pete doesn't say anything, although every morning he takes out the rubbish bags filled with stale muffins and half-eaten banana loaves. The only thoughts that seem to distract me from babies are those memories of Paris. A gray cold, tall men, black coffee, sweet pastries, Mama laughing, with her hair and scarf streaming behind her. The smell of chocolate and bread.

It was a popular belief in Victorian society that women, with their mercurial natures and lesser brains, could not have the same quality of friendship that men did. Only men could have truly honest and high-minded relationships. Daisy thought that was rubbish. She and the other wallflowers... well, former wallflowers... shared a bond of deep, caring trust. They helped each other, encouraged each other with no hint of competition or jealousy. Daisy loved Annabelle and Evie nearly as much as she did Lillian. She could easily envision them all in their later years, prattling about their grandchildren over tea and biscuits, traveling together as a silver-hair horde of tart-tongued old ladies.

Galanoactin if he still can’t keep anything down. He had some