Towel Gift Quotes

She’d rinsed and dried the romaine lettuce with paper towels.

When she opened my present—a set of linen tea towels, screen-printed with the handwritten recipes of my mother’s cookies and cakes and pies she loved most—she burst into tears and hugged me, saying that it was the most personal, thoughtful gift she’d received, and that she would use them every day.

The poetry of the new year is problematically punctual. An impeccable guest who arrives on time when you are running frantically behind schedule. Catching you precisely at that awkward stage of housecleaning when the contents of closet and cupboard are strewn across the room and there is no sensible place left to sit down. No, you haven’t had a chance to change the guest room towels, your clothes or your habits. It is at this stage that you begin to stammer out apologies and resolutions. The visitor fixes you with a gaze that breaks like dawn over your clutter and chagrin. 'What a beautiful life,' murmurs your guest, pressing an oddly shaped package into your hands. Gladness rises in the heart like a cloud of hummingbirds. Always the same, unpredictable, utterly original gift. You consider the paradox of that as you hold it between your palms. Like freshly kneaded dough: this brand new day.

I’m excited to go to Matt’s parents’ house for Christmas, but I wish he’d sprung it on me a little earlier, like maybe before all the stores closed. I would have liked to bring his mom something: a candle, a tea towel—I don’t know. I’ve never had a boyfriend, therefore I’ve never had to impress a boyfriend’s mom, so I’m just going off of what I think Reese Witherspoon or Joanna Gaines would do, and they’d sure as shit bring a gift for Mrs. Russell.

The kids helped keep me together as well. One day they came in from playing after dinner, and I told them I was just completely exhausted by work and everything else. I said I’d take a shower as soon as I finished up; then we’d read and get ready for bed. They warmed up some towels in the dryer while I was showering and had them waiting for me when I was done. They made some hot coffee--not really understanding that coffee before bed isn’t the best strategy. But it was just the way I like it, and waiting on the bed stand. They turned down the bedcovers and even fluffed my pillows. Most of the time, their gifts are unintentional. Angel recently decided that, since the Tooth Fairy is so nice, someone should be nice to her. My daughter wrote a little note and left it under her pillow with some coins and her tooth. Right? The Tooth Fairy was very taken with that, and wrote a note back. “I’m not allowed to take money from the children I visit,” she wrote. “But I was so grateful. Thank you.” Then there was the time the kids were rummaging through one of Chris’s closets and discovered the Christmas Elf. Now everyone knows that the Christmas Elf only appears on Christmas Eve. He stays for a short while as part of holiday cheer, then magically disappears for the rest of the year. “What was he doing here!” they said, very concerned, as they brought the little elf to me. “And in Daddy’s closet!” I called on the special brain cells parents get when they give birth. “He must have missed Daddy so much that he got special permission to come down and hang out in his stuff. I wonder how long he’ll be with us?” Just until I could find another hiding place, of course. What? Evidence that Santa Claus doesn’t exist, you say? Keep it to yourself. In this house, we believe.

Slave, my hands are sticky. Come, wash them. Bring the perfumed water." Passia waved at me with a finger slick with honey. She was radiant, lying on the couch next to Helene. Both were dressed in new stolae that Aelia had gifted them for the holiday. I grinned and rushed forward with the basin and a towel. "Permission to speak," I asked her as I took her sticky hand in mine. She smirked. "Permission granted." I slowly ran the damp towel across each slender finger. I kept my voice low so only she could hear. "Later, my dear Domina, I would be delighted to wash you in private." She raised an eyebrow at me. "I think you will have to prove yourself first, boy." I bowed in front of her, my head on the tiles. "I will do anything you require, Domina." "Good. Now fetch me some more honey fritters. And you will clean my hands again, when I call for you." I winked at her. "Yes, Domina. Anything for you." That night our lovemaking tasted sweeter than all the honey in Iberia.

I received an interesting call from my accountant when I was in Paris,” I said in an effort to distract myself from our disturbing proximity. “One hundred thousand dollars charged to my Amex in one day, including ten grand on flowers. Care to explain?” “You gave me a black Amex, I used it,” Vivian said with an elegant shrug. “What can I say? I like flowers. And shoes.” Translation: You were an asshole before you left, and I took it out on your bank account. A subtle but petty act of revenge. Good for her. There was no one more irritating than someone who didn’t stand up for herself. “Clearly,” I said, trying not to breathe too deep so her scent didn’t envelop me completely. “And the towels?” “They were a gift from my mother.” Of course they were. “Let me know in advance the next time you leave for a month,” she said. “I want time to plan a party, redecorate the living room, maybe come up with a robust shopping list. It’s amazing how much you can do with no spending limit.

I’d better make a list of all the things that make me feel good. Lists save lives. They keep our memories alive, as Umberto Eco says in The Infinity of Lists. Here goes: Laura’s voice message letting me know she’s at an LGBT+ rights demo like she’d tell me she was popping down to the shops, and warning me not to pick up if her boyfriend calls; he’s looking for her, and fretting because he can’t find her, and anyway he ‘doesn’t even know the difference between gay and straight’ Raffaella’s voice messages and her joy when she receives our books Maicol tearing through the cobbled streets of Lucignana, drunk on life My great-niece Rebecca joining the bookshop family and the certainty her cynicism will blossom into something completely unexpected My father’s existence The coffee I’m about to have with Tessa, who’s on her way to us on her motorbike with a box full of bookmarks, our official bookmarks she’s been gifting us since that day after the fire, with a quote from her mother Lynn Emanuele Trevi and Giovanni Giovannetti absconding from the literary conference in Lucca, later found smoking weed in a car in Piazza San Michele by a security guard, who happened to be the writer Vincenzo Pardini, so he let them go Ernesto and Mum cuddling on the sofa Daniele’s Barbara and Maurizio’s Barbara Ricchi e Poveri Donatella being sure Romano fancies her My mother trying to escape her hospital bed as soon as I look the other way Tina’s mother Mike quickly wrapping a towel around his waist as I walk into his garden and Mike leaving Brighton with two large boxes of tea stashed in his boot, concocting a story for the customs officers The anglers reading Louise Glück and Lawrence Ferlinghetti on the Segone The words I only ever hear in Lucignana: lollers and slackies and ‘bumming down’ to pee My own continued, miraculous existence.

Holy is the dish and drain The soap and sink, and the cup and plate And the warm wool socks, and cold white tile Showerheads and good dry towels And frying eggs sound like psalms With a bit of salt measured in my palm It’s all a part of a sacrament As holy as a day is spent Holy is the busy street And cars that boom with passion’s beat And the check out girl, counting change And the hands that shook my hands today And hymns of geese fly overhead And stretch their wings like their parents did Blessed be the dog, that runs in her sleep To catch that wild and elusive thing Holy is the familiar room And the quiet moments in the afternoon And folding sheets like folding hands To pray as only laundry can I’m letting go of all I fear Like autumn leaves of earth and air For summer came and summer went As holy as a day is spent Holy is the place I stand To give whatever small good I can And the empty page, and the open book Redemption everywhere I look Unknowingly we slow our pace In the shade of unexpected grace And with grateful smiles and sad lament As holy as a day is spent And morning light sings “Providence” As holy as a day is spent

The famous ritual of Jesus washing the feet of his male disciples (John 13 : 1–11). After taking his clothes off (yes, he strips) and tying a towel around his waist, Jesus does something that only slaves and women did in his culture, something that “real men” never did: he washes other peoples’ feet. More provocatively still, it is this unmanly or womanly act, he teaches, that signals both his own divinity and the way he wants his own disciples to live. As Jennings has it, “Jesus’s ‘divine’ identity thus is expressed in his disregard for the most intimately enforced institutions of worldly society: gender role expectations.” Not everyone, of course, is pleased with such a queer act: “Jesus stripping naked and washing the feet of his friends,” Jennings reminds us, is “something that Peter at least regards as quite unseemly.” Dale Martin makes a very similar point: although “Jesus allows a woman to wash his feet (and we biblical scholars— who know our Hebrew—recognize the hint [foot penis]), when it is his turn, he takes his clothes off, wraps a towel around his waist, and washes the feet of his male disciples, again taking time out for a special seduction of Peter.” Modern readers, then, may be blind to the gendered and sexual meanings of such acts, but the original participants certainly were not, nor are our contemporary gnostic scholars.

work-worn, on a gingham towel draped over the cupboard. “All of them stillborn.” I smother a sigh with a smile, weak and resigned. He takes it regardless. “Yeah …” He too smiles soft, a hand letting

Perhaps she could do something nice for Mama instead of buying her things. She might see if she could keep the house tidied for her or find out one of the farm tasks that Mama didn’t love and do it for her. One thing was for sure: Elizabeth had all she wanted just being there with Mama. Maybe being with each other was gift enough. Later that day, when Elizabeth and Mama arrived at Beatrice’s house for her party, the door opened, and instead of the warm, arm-stretched hello Elizabeth had gotten as a child, a middle-aged woman stood in front of them. The woman had mousy hair swept into an updo, eyes that almost disappeared when she smiled, and a hunter-green corduroy dress with Christmas trees printed all over it. Her gaze fluttering over to Elizabeth, she beckoned them inside. “I’m Ella, Ray’s wife,” she told Elizabeth. “Nice to meet you,” Elizabeth said as Ella beamed at her over her shoulder, while her mother swung the gift bag with the kitchen dish and towel set she’d gotten for Beatrice by her side. Ella ushered them down the narrow hallway of the house to the kitchen that smelled of sugar and butter. The long rectangular farmhouse table was covered in Christmas cupcakes on pedestals, all of them decorated with different green and red icing shapes, assortments of holiday cookies, and platters of food. Ray was perusing the fare, pinching a few crackers with cheese, a paper plate in his weathered hand.

Perhaps she stood in the street attracted by the crowd, and, as she listened to our Saviour’s talk, it seemed to hold her fast. She had never heard a man speak after that fashion, and when he spoke of abounding mercy, and the willingness of God to accept as many as would come to him, then the tears began to follow each other down her check; and when she listened again to that meek and lowly preacher, and heard him tell of the Father in heaven who would receive prodigals and press them to his loving bosom, then her heart was fairly broken, she relinquished her evil traffic, she became a new woman, desirous of better things, anxious to be freed from sin. But she was greatly agitated in her heart with the question, could she, would she, be really forgiven ? Would such pardoning love as she had heard of reach even to her? She hoped so, and was in a measure comforted. Her faith grew, and with it an ardent love. The Spirit of God still wrought with her till she enjoyed a feeble hope, a gleam of confidence; she believed that Jesus of Nazareth was the Messiah , that he had appeared on earth to forgive sins, and she rested on him for the forgiveness of her sins, and longed for an opportunity to do him homage, and if possible to win a word direct from his mouth... and I have already derived such benefit from him that I love him better than all besides; I love him as my own soul... Now, when she came to the door, the Saviour was reclining at his meat, according to the Oriental custom, and his feet were towards the door; for the Pharisee had but little respect for Christ , and had not given him the best and innermost place at the feast ; but there he lay with his uncovered feet towards the door, and the woman, almost unperceived, came close to him, and, as she looked and saw that the Pharisee had refused him the ordinary courtesy of washing his feet, and that they were all stained and travel-worn with Lis long journeys of love, she began to weep, and the tears fell in such plenteous showers that they even washed his feet. Here was holy water of a true sort. The crystal of penitence falling in drops, each one as precious as a diamond. Never were feet bedewed with a more precious water than those penitent eyes showered forth. Then, unbinding those luxurious tresses, which had been for her the devil’s nets in which to entangle souls, she wiped the sacred feet therewith. Surely she thought that her chief adornment, the crown and glory of her womanhood, was all too worthless a thing to do service to the lowest and meanest part of the Son of God. That which once was her vanity now was humbled and yet exalted to the lowest office; she made her eyes a ewer and her locks a towel. “Never,” says bishop Hall, “was any hair so preferred as this ; how I envy those locks that were graced with the touch of those sacred feet.” There a sweet temptation overtook her, “I will even kiss those feet, I will humbly pay reverence to those blessed limbs.” She spake not a word, but how eloquent were her actions ! better even than psalms and hymns were these acts of devotion. Then she bethought her of that alabaster box containing perfumed oil with which, like most Eastern women, she was wont to anoint herself for the pleasure of the smell and for the increase of her beauty, and now, opening it, she pours out the costliest thing she has upon his blessed feet. Not a word, I say, came from her; and, brethren, we would prefer a single speechless lover of Jesus, who acted as she did, to ten thousand noisy talkers who have no gifts, no heart, no tears. As for the Master, he remained quietly acquiescent, saying nothing, but all the while drinking in her love, and letting his poor weary heart find sweet solace in the gratitude of one who once was a sinner, but who was to be such no more.

I’m beginning to realize I shouldn’t have stayed away from Eversby Priory for so long,” she heard him say grimly. “The entire household is running amok.” Unable to restrain herself any longer, Kathleen went to the open gap in the doorway and glared at him. “You were the one who hired the plumbers!” she hissed. “The plumbers are the least of it. Someone needs to take the situation in hand.” “If you’re foolish enough to imagine you could take me in hand--” “Oh, I’d begin with you,” he assured her feelingly. Kathleen would have delivered a scathing reply, but her teeth had begun to chatter. Although the Turkish towel had absorbed some of the moisture from her clothes, they were clammy. Seeing her discomfort, Devon turned and surveyed the room, obviously hunting for something to cover her. Although his back was turned, she knew the precise moment that he spotted the shawl on the fireplace chair. When he spoke, his tone had changed. “You didn’t dye it.” “Give that to me.” Kathleen thrust her arm through the doorway. Devon picked it up. A slow smile crossed his face. “Do you wear it often?” “Hand me my shawl, please.” Devon brought it to her, deliberately taking his time. He should have been mortified by his indecent state of undress, but he seemed entirely comfortable, the great shameless peacock. As soon as the shawl was within reach, Kathleen snatched it from him. Casting aside her damp towel, she pulled the shawl around herself. The garment was comforting and familiar, the soft wool warming her instantly. “I couldn’t bring myself to ruin it,” she said grudgingly. She was tempted to tell him that even though the gift had been inappropriate…the truth was, she loved it. There were days when she wasn’t certain whether the gloomy widow’s weeds were reflecting her melancholy mood or causing it, and when she pulled the brilliant shawl over her shoulders, she felt instantly better. No gift had ever pleased her as much. She couldn’t tell him that, but she wanted to. “You look beautiful in those colors, Kathleen.” His voice was low and soft. She felt her face prickle. “Don’t use my first name.” “By all means,” Devon mocked, glancing down at his towel-clad form, “let’s be formal.

As soon as the shawl was within reach, Kathleen snatched it from him. Casting aside her damp towel, she pulled the shawl around herself. The garment was comforting and familiar, the soft wool warming her instantly. “I couldn’t bring myself to ruin it,” she said grudgingly. She was tempted to tell him that even though the gift had been inappropriate…the truth was, she loved it. There were days when she wasn’t certain whether the gloomy widow’s weeds were reflecting her melancholy mood or causing it, and when she pulled the brilliant shawl over her shoulders, she felt instantly better. No gift had ever pleased her as much. She couldn’t tell him that, but she wanted to.

By taking his wife’s criticism seriously, the husband might feel he is losing his identity, becoming a Christian codependent, mindlessly trying to be good. He is not. He is simply following his Master, who “rose from supper . . . laid aside his outer garments, and taking a towel, tied it around his waist. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was wrapped around him” (John 13:4-5). Jesus’ love is so physical. Our love must be as physical as his. The husband is not “under his wife’s thumb”; he is entering into Jesus’ life. The husband can’t believe the gospel unless he is also becoming the gospel. In other words, once you’ve learned that God loves you, you need to extend his love to others. Otherwise, the love of God sours. By extending grace to his wife, the husband is being drawn into the life of the Son. He will become Christlike. The husband can’t leave a vacuum in his heart either. He must replace his critical spirit with a thankful spirit. One of the best ways of doing that is writing out on a card or in a prayer notebook short phrases of how he is thankful for her. By thanking God daily for specific things about his wife, he will begin to see her for who she is—a gift.

She’d rinsed and dried the romaine lettuce with paper towels. She had a large square wooden bowl rubbed with oil and with freshly cut garlic. The smell of the garlic was tantalizing. Now she broke the lettuce into crisp bite-sized pieces, and she tossed the pieces in olive oil till they were glistening. There was quite a pile of these bits of lettuce, glistening. She gave the wooden spoons to Reuben and asked him to toss the lettuce slowly. Then she put the finely chopped green onions in and the herbs, taking out pinches of each herb—oregano, thyme, basil—and rubbing each pinch between her hands as she sprinkled it over the salad. The herbs clung perfectly to the glistening leaves. Then she added the wine vinegar and Reuben tossed more and then she served up this salad with sliced avocados and thin sliced tomatoes, and soft warm French bread from the oven, and they ate it together.

with a basin and a towel of fine Holland cloth. Yet it is not known how often, or how thoroughly, people actually washed themselves. Elizabeth’s father, Edward IV, had his head, hands, and feet washed every Saturday, which suggests there was a difference between the ideal and the reality. The rich did take baths fairly often, using a wooden tub lined with cloth and covered with a canopy. The bather sat on a bed of sponges, which were also used to wash her with herbs, rosewater, and soap, and was attended by servants who spread mats for her to stand on and who stood ready with towels. Toothpicks and cloths were used to clean and buff teeth, and Elizabeth’s attendants would have tidied her hair with an ivory comb. All the Queen’s ladies were expected to be expert needlewomen, as much of their time was spent working with costly materials and threads of silk and gold, embroidering altar cloths, hangings, bedding, and garments, or sewing clothing such as fine shirts. These might be given as New Year’s gifts. Elizabeth Lock was the Queen’s silkwoman, and also made items for the King. At Christmas 1502, Elizabeth paid her for “certain bonnets, frontlets, and other stuff of her occupation for her own wearing.”45 Like many aristocratic women, Elizabeth enjoyed embroidery. She employed a

He is an unyielding warrior. A powerful man who does not throw in the towel until he wins. To him, surrender is not an option.

They also stocked a range of gifts that were all crime-related, including the Agatha Christie tea towel May had used to wipe her hands. Other novelties included a Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass, Midsomer Murders mugs and T-shirts, Cluedo jigsaw puzzles and a box of assorted chocolates marked ‘POISONED’, a tribute to the great novel by Anthony Berkeley.