Tiramisu Quotes

All those other girls are cake...I'm Crème brûlée...Tiramisu, if you will. Just a few notches above.

This is Lovecraft's best terrible story. It is so artificial...and so overblown...and so ludicrous...that it slithers-through tiramisu-rich prose that might as well be heavy metal lyrics ("a wolf-fanged ghost that rode the midnight lightning")-all the way to the summit of high camp.

She turned her tiramisu slab on its side to cut it better. She had nearly forgotten who she was.

Those people who post pictures of their dinner on Facebook, only to be disappointed by the lack of “likes” from friends, are simply trying to appeal to the wrong audience. If there were such a thing as Facebug (Facebook for microbes!), a picture of your dinner would provoke an excited response from millions of users—and shudders of disgust from millions more. The menu changes daily: useful milk digesters contained in a cheese sandwich, armies of Salmonella bacteria hiding in a delicious dish of tiramisu.

Screw the mid-life crisis Go have a mid-life spa day A mid-life quickie A midlife tiramisu But whatever you do DON'T give in to mid-life blues!

Mae’s Tiramisu—for the woman I never got to meet but who raised two amazing men. I hope I follow in your steps by being a fantastic boy-mom.

Oh, so now you’ve got multifaceted deceptions going on? Whipping ourselves up a tomfoolery tiramisu, are we?

While I was at Carlucci I learned how to dust a tiramisu and pair cordials. I learned having a pocket filled with cash is a dangerous thing. I learned that I was getting way too good at a job that was not my life's passion.

And while she read her cards and muttered to herself, I would leaf through my collection of cookery cards, incanting the names of never-tasted dishes like mantras, like the secret formulae of life. Boeuf en daube. Champignons farcis à la grèque. Escalopes à la Reine. Crème caramel. Schokoladentorte. Tiramisu. In the secret kitchen of my imagination I made them all, tested, tasted them, added to my collection of recipes wherever we went, pasted them into my scrapbook like photographs of old friends. They gave weight to my wanderings, the glossy clippings shining out from between the smeary pages like signposts along our erratic path. I bring them out now like long-lost friends. Soupe de tomates à la gasconne, served with fresh basil and a slice of tartelette méridonale, made on biscuit-thin pâte brisée and lush with the flavors of olive oil and anchovy and the rich local tomatoes, garnished with olives and roasted slowly to produce a concentration of flavors that seems almost impossible.

She widens her eyes. “You must be the only one in Trucklewood not to know about the murder. Do you not leave your house? Not Craig Yards, the nephew, but Tobias Yards, the uncle.

She looks bored. “Why does everyone we talk to automatically start feeling guilty? Four nights ago, about quarter past ten-ish, you were seen walking past the vic’s house.

I’m over here in my unit, isolated and alone, eating my terrible tasting food, and I have to look over at that. That looks like the most fun I’ve ever seen in my entire life, and it’s B.S. - excuse my language. I’m just saying that I wash and dry; I’m like a single mother. Look, we all know home-ec is a joke—no offense—it’s just that everyone takes this class to get an A, and it’s bullshit—and I’m sorry. I’m not putting down your profession, but it’s just the way I feel. I don’t want to sit here, all by myself, cooking this shitty food—no offense—and I just think that I don’t need to cook tiramisu. When am I gonna need to cook tiramisu? Am I going to be a chef? No. There’s three weeks left of school, give me a fuckin’ break! I’m sorry for cursing.

Did you know," Rocío greets me, sliding into the chair across from me, "that blood is the perfect substitute for eggs?" I blink. She takes it as an invitation to continue. "Sixty-five grams per egg. Exceedingly similar protein composition." "Interesting." Not. "You could have blood cake. Blood ice cream. Blood meringues. Blood pappardelle. Blood pound cake. Blood omelet or, if you prefer, scrambled blood. Blood tiramisu. Blood quiche-" "I think I got the gist.

On Chicken Parmesan: It was all downhill from there. Eventually, the boneless chicken breast replaced the chicken breast as America’s favorite tasteless meat product, and then boneless skinless chicken breast, and somewhere in between the birth of my ultimate nemesis: The Chicken Patty. How things went quite so far downhill that the patty found its way into ANY Italian food is beyond me, but I can assure you this dish isn’t what anyone back in Italy had in mind when they sent Vito through Ellis Island with an eggplant recipe.

Some people will tell you that Toronto, in the summer, is the nothing more than a cesspool of pollution, garbage, and the smells of a hundred ethnicities competing for top spot in a race won historically by curry, garlic, and the occasional cauldron of boiled cabbage. Take a walk down College Street West, Gerrard Street East, or the Danforth, and you'll see; then, they add—these people, complaining—that the stench is so pervasive, so incorrigible, nor merely for lack of wind, but for the ninety-nine percent humidity, which, after a rainstorm, adds an eradicable bottom-note of sweaty Birkenstocks and the organic tang of decaying plant life. This much is true; there is, however, more to the story. Take a walk down the same streets and you'll find racks of the most stunning saris—red with navy brocade, silver, canary, vermillion and chocolate; marts with lahsun and adrak, pyaz and pudina; windows of gelato, zeppole, tiramisu; dusty smoke shops with patio-bistros; you'll find dove-white statuary of Olympian goddesses, mobs in blue jerseys, primed for the World Cup—and more, still, the compulsory banter of couples who even after forty years can turn foul words into the bawdiest, more unforgettable laughter (and those are just the details). Beyond them is the container, the big canvas brushed with parks and valleys and the interminable shore; a backdrop of ferries and islands, gulls and clouds—sparkles of a million wave-tips as the sun decides which colours to leave on its journey to new days. No, Toronto, in the summer, is the most paradisiacal place in the world.

She had been maimed by an illness that was so far out of fashion it might have been a wartime recipe for pink blancmange made from cornflour when everyone these days ate real chocolate mouse and tiramisu. TB was Spam fritters and two-bar electric fires and mangles and string bags and French knitting and a Bakelite phone in a freezing hall and loose tea and margarine and the black of the newspaper coming off on your fingers and milk in glass bottles and books from Boots Lending library with a hole in the spine where they put the ticker, and doilies and antimacassars and the wireless tuned to the Light Programme. It was outside lavatories and condensation and slum dwellings and no supermarkets. It was tuberculosis, which had died with the end of people drinking nerve tonics and Horlicks.

You never speak to any of us, you don’t come to social events, in fact, you don’t even acknowledge invitations. You barely know our names. When we ask you to sign petitions for the upkeep of the local area, you don’t acknowledge those either. You don’t contribute to the community. Why, may I ask, this sudden interest in a local resident? Anyway, if you must know, the only one I bumped into other than you was that new man, the dishy one, the writer.

Tiramisu for desert.

He had carte blanche to eat whatever he wanted. No amount of broccoli and vitamin D kills ten lung tumors and I know not how many brain tumors. Have the tiramisu.

Name: Blixa, Tiramisu, and Zabaglione Age: 3 Months Re: Don’t adopt us just because you miss your grandfather

Perhaps we are being a bit presumptuous in calling our species “intelligent.” After all, this species has waged numerous inane wars where millions of their own were slaughtered. As a whole, this species spends trillions of hours a year watching insipid television shows. And “intelligent” is not the right name for a species that invented spam e-mails and encourages narcissistic pastimes like Facebook. Nevertheless, over the millennia, this species produced many shining lights that make us worthy of the lofty title: Blaise Pascal, Isaac Newton, David Hume, Marie Curie, Albert Einstein, Arthur Stanley Eddington, Emmy Noether, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Meryl Streep, and, of course, tiramisu.

Mr. Rastinelli had given them the stink eye. He always treated his customers like gold, but on Thursdays he hosted a private, after-hours poker game in the restaurant’s private dining room. Another fifteen minutes and the Sandersons would have had to buy into the game or leave their tiramisu behind. (The tiramisu was good, but nothing like the tiramisu she made. It’s how she’d won Russell over, despite his lack of a sweet tooth. In retrospect, it had been a complete waste of perfectly good mascarpone.)

Tantalizingly, he could see a fragment of hope waving in the distance like a beckoning, large-bosomed siren offering the forbidden, heady tiramisu of freedom and the naughty, rapturous chocolate ice cream of wealth. If he could just avoid being lured onto the dangerous, ball-breaking rocks of retribution, who knew what might be possible?

Chez Mario. Une assiette de mozzarella et tomates, avec câpres, anchois et olives noires. Un plat de spaghetti aux clovisses. Un tiramisu. Le tout arrosé d'un bandol du domaine de Pibarnon.

Blows That Fall on a Child Blows don’t fall. Feathers fall, and are dropped from towers. Leaves fall. Dictionaries fall from towers— the speed of their fall accelerates, and the rate of the acceleration accelerates. What falls is something let go of, something gravity is hauling to it, to tiramisu it— dessert that says pull me to you. The liver and lights of the body that the blow strikes are not magnets, the blow is neither drawn to its objects nor floated down from its source— a blow is driven, by an engine, it is the expression of a heart.

I had a dream where I was in a place that served steak and mashed potatoes and the soup! The pasta soup was heavenly even better than my mother’s homemade recipe. Every spoonful of the soup reminded me of the sun. The mashed potatoes were so smooth that they could slide down my gullet. The steak was medium-rare, my favorite, and every bite reminded me of the steak my mom made but it was one hundred and one times better.  And there was also iced tea and every sip of it felt refreshing like a cold, winter morning with the sun shining merrily and my mom and I throwing snowballs at each other. I  ate and drank until I could eat no more. I felt as if my stomach was about to combust. But then in came the tiramisu. It was better than anything I had ever tasted. The rich smell of coffee wafted up from it. It reminded me of the coffee shop my mom went to when I was little. Despite the fact that my stomach was about to explode I managed to fit in three more slices of tiramisu before I could eat no more. But then came the Ice cream. It was my favorite flavor, mango. The ice cream was silky and sweet. It was like I was on a sunny June morning, a ray of sunlight shining in my face. The sensation intensified as mango juice dribbled down my chin like sunlight itself. I managed six scoops before I was sure my belly would explode. Every moment of eating the ice cream was sunsational. Finally came the float. It was vanilla ice cream on top of some Fanta even though my mom insisted root beer was one hundred times better. It tasted amazing. It was like the early spring making our ice crack in the pond on which my mother and I go ice skating every winter. It was happy but also sad at the same time as if my old life called back for me.

The feast is family-style, of course. Every six-person section of the table has its own set of identical dishes: garlicky roasted chicken with potatoes, a platter of fat sausages and peppers, rigatoni with a spicy meat sauce, linguine al olio, braised broccoli rabe, and shrimp scampi. This is on top of the endless parade of appetizers that everyone has been wolfing down all afternoon: antipasto platters piled with cheeses and charcuterie, fried arancini, hot spinach and artichoke dip, meatball sliders. I can't begin to know how anyone will touch the insane dessert buffet... I counted twelve different types of cookies, freshly stuffed cannoli, zeppole, pizzelles, a huge vat of tiramisu, and my favorite, Teresa's mom's lobster tails, sort of a crispy, zillion-layered pastry cone filled with chocolate custard and whipped cream.

It is an inescapable fact that the Great British Pudding is made of flour and water. In other words, our sweet culinary heritage is based on little more than glue. Sure, our puddings are sweetened with jam, or currants, or treacle, or syrup, or honey, or chocolate, or apples, but at their heart and soul is glue – something that cannot be said for a French crème brulée or an Italian tiramisu, or even a New York cheesecake.

Think about cuisine: Most probably, your great-grandparents never encountered a market offering Chinese dumplings, Bombay lime pickle, lemongrass curry, tiramisu, and gnocci, but these foods are now an integral part of the modern world.

She put so much love and magic into her baking. I bet you all had your favorite-" Kat tries to swallow her tears but she can't. "Pistachio cream croissants!" Noa shouts out. Kat blinks, scanning the crowd for the perpetrator and sees Noa looking up at her, grinning. Kat nods. "My favorite too." She looks out at the congregation again, blinking back her tears. "Zucchini and caramelized onion pizza!" someone else shouts. Kat sniffs, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "Tiramisu cheesecake!" "Vanilla and elderflower brownies!" "Cinnamon and nutmeg biscuits!" "Spiced chocolate cake!" Kat starts to smile. She looks out at the congregation, at their happy, memory-filled faces, the taste of Cosima's baking still on their tongues, and feels her heart begin to lift. "Passion fruit and pear cannoli!" "Chocolate and pistachio cream cupcakes!" shouts Amandine. "Dough twists dipped in Nutella!" Heloise calls out.

When we bring our sin to the Lord, does He remove it as far as the east is from the west?’ Of course, Sandy and I agreed that He did. ‘So,’ he asked us. ‘Why do you two insist on looking for it?

My mum Surya broke into tears and said, That’s terribly rude (she always sounded more British when she was telling you how you had hurt her feelings

There are a lot of things someone creative can do on their own. Lace knitting. Reading regency romances that always end happily. Creating macabre cakes (which I do for a living). Watching back-to-back episodes of Killing Eve. Taking endless woodsy walks. Baking cakes and tarts, eating them by myself while doing some of the above-mentioned

(Though you’re too polite to ask.) Kind of, but I don’t mind. I really don’t. People put up with a lot of bullshit to avoid loneliness, especially women. Mediocre sex. Boring boyfriends. Making friends with people who barely like you, much less care about you. I’d say it’s much better to be alone than be with people and still feel lonely.

Being an arty sort, my aunt had moved to Trucklewood a year ago, hoping to fit smoothly into the self-proclaimed bohemian community, supposedly made up of artists, young families and aging couples that were always away on cruises.

Craig is one of them: works in the city, in finance, goes to the pub every evening after work and on holiday once a year, has Netflix subscriptions, is never late paying his bills, gets his annual health check-up done on time, complains about Brexit, the changeable weather and how he doesn’t work out enough, and jokes that train delays make us, Britain, no better than a third world country.

The man can read me like a book. It’s most definitely better to avoid him in the future. Who knows the kinds of things that’ll pop out of me if I stick around? Much better to make myself scarce and never see the man – or his eyes, or his arms – again. I turn to walk away, run, if possible.

can’t help wondering if she would have died if I had visited her more, seen more of her in the last few years.

Has it occurred to them that a long string of flimsy yellow tape isn’t the most effective way of keeping people out of places?

She rolls her eyes. “Will you quit the idea that everyone vaguely brown is in love with you? And anyway, even if I were in love with you, I’m on duty. And you’re now one of the top two suspects.

Mysteries for middle grade-ish. Though I’m hurt that you haven’t googled me. You’ve had nearly twelve hours.

Tobias ate caviar almost on a daily basis. He handpicked his Champagne from grower estates in southern France that cut it with honeysuckle and hazelnuts and cherries, and he drank it with Benedictine. His hand lotions were tailor made for him with saffron – do you know

She took me right away. Yes, I had loved her. With a fierceness that still leaves me shaken sometimes when I smell her herbs in a forgotten corner of her house. But they all left me.

But in baking, I could escape all that. I could be quiet and still and myself and no one cared what I did or said, I had to answer to no one and no one could turn away from me.

They don’t. But you have the opportunity. The best one of the lot, for obvious reasons.

The half-brown thing may have been okay, especially in an area like Primrose Hill where there was a rapidly growing population of wealthy Indian people, and increasingly, mixed children too. But the twitching, the anxiety that was visible to all, the shaking, the hiding – I was a marked girl before I uttered my first word.

And it was all coming out of Tallulah’s brain, because the girl gang from Hades was all hair and no braincells.

You know, you’re the unfriendliest person this side of the Empire State Building, and now all of a sudden, you’re everyone’s best friend. I don’t get it.

get everything I need delivered. Even that is too much human contact for me on most days. I’m all for drones making deliveries. I’d invest money in the enterprise if I ever thought about things like investments and shares and dividends, whatever they are.

It’s better to be needy than to die alone,” she says in a huff before she walks off. Her words make me catch my breath. It’s better to be needy than to die alone. I stare after her.

know how you people make your money, you take advantage of other people’s pain. I know how it works. This went on for nearly an hour.

Why didn’t I visit her more often? And why was I haranguing her about how nice she was? It was like something visceral in me couldn’t stand it, though, watching her talk like that. It was unbearable to see her being nice to someone who seemed to have not a stitch of kindness for her in return.

Auntie Meera is playing on my mind. Her loneliness, her unrelenting politeness. Tobias’s death is hovering there too. What held the two deaths together? Or am I just imagining that?

A Bellatrix Lestrange cake with crazy hair and murderous eyes. (Just to be clear, I’ve tried to make ones that don’t look like Helena Bonham Carter – not because I don’t love the woman, I do, you can’t not, but because, let’s face it, the Harry Potter books are the real deal, the films aren’t, but people look gut-wrenchingly disappointed when I do that, so I stick to the film version of the character

The impatience and anger that was always there when Brendan so much as looked at his daughter. God, the disgust on his face, that was the hardest to bear. I stopped myself from slapping him in the face so many times.

What’s the point getting an education—both of them qualified, successful corporate journalists—if you don’t have a clue how to love your child?

Ow! I remember that about you,” he says, wriggling inside his shirt collar again. “You don’t have to turn every little thing a man says into an opportunity for a social revolution. A man can’t eat his toast in peace when that happens. You don’t need to take a radical position on everything.” “What other positions did you like to take?” Branwell murmurs.

want to explain to her, I want to say that when I mention her weight, to me, I’m stating a fact as I see it, I’m not judging her, but she’s never believed me when I’ve said that, so I don’t say it now. “I’m happy you have someone,” I say.

The book is advocating group sex and masturbation, which hardly comes as a surprise after what I saw the night before. It’s the tone and the language that makes me curse loud and hard throughout. The book goes on and on.

People are getting more and more distant from one another. What with social media and technology. It leads us to feel alienated. It leads us to cut away from one another. It results in more depression—

I take a breath to brace myself, so I don’t say something impatient. “You can eat what you want, Tallulah. No one has the right to say anything about it.

If I forgave my parents, what would be left of me? Of the person I’d built brick by brick over the years since they’d gone from my life? Of the person I’d vowed to be?

He liked wounded things. But especially ones that had no time to feel sorry for themselves.

Well, you English are so squeamish about details. What’s the biggie? Anyway, I did think he’d met someone recently.

rub my forehead. There are more secrets flying about this village than balls in Wimbledon.

There is nothing whatsoever to talk about. I never do awkward exes. That’s for other people. I get over things pretty quickly. Especially when it’s not that important in the first place.

Men are good at compartmentalizing. They don’t always show their feelings.

Not so, my policy. When I vas hiding from the Russians, I learned to think of every man, vooman and child as guilty, until you prove that they are innocent, which most of the time, you could not. So.” I look severely at her. “That’s a lovely philosophy.

Of course not, Arya,” he says, half reproachfully. “You want to live. Despite your childhood, despite your loneliness, you want to live. I would never help anyone who wanted to live. Surely you understand that.

People who do and say nice things, who step aside to let others pass, the ones who open doors and thank people, who smile and act as if everything is fine.

I’m now, at the age of twenty-seven, the person I’ve wanted to be since I was eight and left to live with my Auntie Meera, dropped off by my parents like a limp quiche that no one wanted to buy at the church bake sale, discarded like a wet nappy.

Harper knew Wayne Storr must've told the kitchen staff to go all out with this dinner, because she couldn't believe the quality of every course. Seared scallops with charred scallions, slow-cooked lamb shoulder with fennel ricotta, grass-fed rib eye with polenta and salsa verde, finished with a tiramisu that made her eyes roll back in her head. At least, that's what it felt like, and if Manny's rapturous expression was any indication, he liked it too. "That is categorically the best meal I've ever had." He patted his stomach and groaned. "And I'm not going to eat for the next week, so I'm stuffed." "Me too." But she knew a good way to burn off the calories, and she couldn't wait any longer. While the food may have been delicious, watching Manny eat had been torture. His lips wrapping around a scallop, his tongue flicking out to capture a dab of salsa verde on his lip, the small, satisfied groan as he spooned the final scoop of tiramisu into his mouth. He'd driven her slowly but surely crazy. It seemed like the entire meal had been one giant exercise in foreplay, and she'd been patient long enough. Time for dessert. In her case, greed was good.

They're matcha tiramisu yeast donuts, fried to perfection and filled with matcha mascarpone cream and topped with a matcha glaze that took me a long time to get right.

Tonight's lesson was a breadcrumb cake, and the idea that so many Italian desserts were less about being impressive---as so many French recipes were---than about being resourceful. "After all," I said, "tiramisu is just cookies dipped in coffee and liqueur, layered with custard." For the breadcrumb cake, I walked them through how to make the breadcrumbs. "There's no sense in buying breadcrumbs, not in that quantity." We sliced the crusts off of the bread together, toasted the slices lightly, and ran the bread through the food processor. Afterward, we grated the dark chocolate, peeled and sliced the pears, cracked eggs, and measured cream. The thick batter came together quickly, and we placed them into the ovens. While the cakes baked, I walked them through the pasta fritta alla Siracusa, the angel-hair pasta twirls fried in a shallow amount of oil. We boiled up the pasta, then stirred together honey and candied orange before chopping pistachios and adding some cinnamon. One by one, they dropped the knotted pasta into the oil and cooked them on both sides. After draining them, we drizzled the honey mixture over the top, followed by a sprinkle of the pistachios and cinnamon. The process of frying the pasta bundles, one by one, kept everyone busy until the breadcrumb cakes finished baking.

There's tiramisu for dessert. "Homemade?" Bree checked the fridge. She hadn't eaten a real meal in days. Of course it's homemade. My Italian grandmother would rise from her grave and swat me with a wooden spoon if I served store-bought.

Séb and I explored the beautiful neighborhood of l'Île Saint-Louis, eating savory crêpes made of buckwheat and filled with creamy goat cheese, crunchy arugula, and juicy tomatoes at one of the cafés, me doing my best to savor the textures. Lunch was followed by the famed Berthillon sorbets and ice creams, the latter of which we ate on the banks of the Seine, Séb drooling over the richness of the flavors. Considering they had over seventy parfums, we'd both found it hard to settle on one. Séb, the adventurer, took café au whisky with another scoop of tiramisu. I'd ended up taking abricot and framboise, always loving how apricot mixed with raspberries, and wanting something cool on this scorcher of a day.

There were more important things in her life. Like cheesecake and tiramisu.

Tiramisu is een recept voor de late avonduren.

We’re not just strippers,” Tiramisu continues. “We are talented, intelligent, righteous dancers working what we’ve got to get to where we want to be.

Tiramisu Layer Cake Per Wikipedia, Tiramisu is an Italian dessert consisting of layers of sponge cake soaked in coffee and brandy or liqueur. It’s filled with mascarpone cheese and topped with a dusting of powdered chocolate!

Andy liked to juxtapose contradictory flavors. Call it the cuisine of shock and awe. He craved both the treacly and the brackish and, if at all possible, one right after the other. It captivated him how the savory enhanced the sweet. He adored the way the piquant stung his tongue, especially when he could comfort his palate immediately with a bite of the insipid or the zestless. He salt and peppered his cantaloupe, though it had been three years since he had tasted any. He would drizzle honey on broccoli. He once put tabasco sauce on a glazed donut. Sifting through the garbage behind an Italian restaurant a week earlier, he scarfed down a slice of moldy tiramisu with half a tin of anchovies dumped on top.